Line of Work
Joseph Dickerson
Joseph Dickerson lives in Gainesville, Florida, where he works as a bicycle mechanic and an English tutor. He holds a BA in English from the University of Florida. When not writing stories, he enjoys creating ambient music, and bicycling.
Scott chooses Jon and I, ending a two-day drought of acquaintanceship. It’s us on the back together, side-by-side. There are only a few others, indicating an uncomplicated assignment. We’re only supposed to work one gig. One and done. Scott is either seeing hard times or avoiding them. He gives a good wipe after each job though.
I appreciate the extension—I enjoy the work.
So, it’s me and Jon, side-by-side.
Jon: They went overboard with the salve.
Me: Lucia prepped this one, she’s got a heavy scoop.
Jon: Heavy scoop, heavy scoop.
Matthew: What’s going on over there?
Matthew is over on the hip. He’s duller than the rest of us. Always gives the assignment an abrasive jolt.
Jon: Don’t worry about it, Snub.
Matthew: C’mon, quit calling me that.
Jon: Snubby-boy, Snubby-boy.
Megan: Stop teasing, Jon. He can’t help it.
And he really can’t. With a mildly drunken hand, Scott had sent Matthew headfirst into a wristwatch on his very first assignment. It had dulled him. Megan is working the inner-left knee, across from Susan, her friend-till-the-end-but-maybe-with-like-unhealthy-severity, who is on the inner-right knee.
Stice: Mrrrphf! Mrrrphf phrmm grrt.
Stice always winds up on the head, it seems. Always in the brush. It is egregiously thick this time.
Me: We can’t understand Stice, we still can’t understand.
Stice: Hrrrmpht.
Matthew: I don’t want to be called that again you guys. I’ll flip.
Jon: Flippy-boy, flippy-boy.
Karen: Hey, everyone.
Karen doesn’t speak up much on an assignment. She’s over on the wrist. Her voice strikes the air like a timid ball-peen hammer.
Matthew: Stop it!
Jon: Stoppy-boy, stoppy-boy.
Susan: Jon cut it out!
I saw Tim assigned to the heel before all this—the isolation zone. I’m grateful for the absence of his ranting, a freight train that has declined its tracks. I’ve never been assigned the heel myself, though Jon assures me it’s dead quiet.
Karen: Hey. Listen to me.
Stice: Lrrrpht! Lrrrpht rrrphrtr!
Me: Stice, I’m telling you man, we just cannot make it out.
Stice: Lrrrrrrrrrpht!
Karen: HEY.
All: …
Megan and Susan: Yes?
Jon: Yyyeeees?
Karen: There’s like, no pulse coming from this guy’s wrist.
Me: What do you mean?
Karen: It’s completely still over here. Have you all noticed anything unusual?
Matthew: I was a little surprised that he didn’t jolt when I landed.
Megan: I thought he was just an easy sleeper.
Susan: I also thought he was an easy sleeper.
Jon: I, too, with my splendiferous compadres, thought this fellow was an easy sleeper.
Susan: Shut it, Jon.
Jon: What?
Karen: Guys, stop. I think we’ve got a big problem here.
And we do. Because despite one and done being sort of our predetermined mantra, we, Scott’s cohort, have come to enjoy the prolonged experience. We are colleagues, partners, explorers (in a sense), and I want to continue! No matter the regulations.
Matthew: What problem, Karen?
Karen: Do you really think Scott is going to reuse us from a corpse?
Silence.
Megan: It seems unlikely.
Me: Quite unlikely.
Matthew: Maybe—
Stice: Nrrrrt. Nrrrrt mrrb.
Matthew: What?
Stice: Nrrrrt mrrb!
Karen: Even Scott wouldn’t be so stingy.
Me: Well, what do we do?
Again, silence.
Karen: Well there’s only one thing we can do, quite literally.
Megan: No.
Susan: No way!
Stice: Rrrrrrgly?
Matthew: What?
Jon: Yes!
Me: Are you sure?
Karen is insinuating movement. Not a specific procedure, just plain movement. It’s true: we are capable of movement; it is rigid and uncomplicated, but movement nonetheless. A little umph, is all it takes. It’s only possible while in contact with an assignment. And the movements don’t take us far due to the nature of our work. It happens only so often—the culprit grows antsy, ignores self-reason, and performs a movement. It’s always an older colleague (one and done). The danger is in the assignment’s reaction. Though cheap and sometimes drunk, Scott is precise, Scott is gentle. It takes a nuanced hand to use our talents. A smidge to the left, a muscle. A smidge to the right, a tendon (I don’t really know which is what and what is where, that’s Scott’s expertise). Point is, a little jostle is all it takes to give the assignment a pinch, wherever we are placed. Things are especially fragile on the back.
Which is the danger in movement.
How it goes: The assignment rings a bell that was placed in the hand before Scott’s exit. Scott is summoned. The assignment says, The one in my lower back kills, man. Scott removes. Scott tosses in the biowaste bin because he had better not let the assignment know of his private recycling process.
I’ve seen Jason go. I’ve seen Lydia go.
Hence our hesitation.
Karen: What choice do we have?
Stice: Errph Errgrrrth.
Matthew: We could not do…the thing…and hope for the best?
Megan: I won’t do it!
Susan: I can’t do it!
Jon: Let’s all at once!
Karen: Come on, everyone, it’s our only chance. On three. One—
Me: Uh oh…
Karen: Two—
Stice: Lrrrth drrrrth irrrth!
Karen: Three!
It happens. The anxious anticipation of a countdown persuades us all. We move. We jiggle and dance. We pull this way and that, sticking all over the assignment’s sensitivities. He doesn’t budge. We go high, we go low. We go left, we go right. Matthew even does a little twist, which I find admirable. Not a trace of poise is seen in Jon, the clown, the riot, who flails all over. Karen is methodical—up down up down. Megan and Susan are in perfect harmony, making circular motions like a cone in the quiet air. I can’t see what Stice is doing—probably his best effort, which I’m certain is phenomenal. I am unsure of what Tim is up to; he is still isolated on the heel.
I move around at my own pace, enjoying the slight breeze as I lean to and fro.
The movement peters out after some time. I can’t be sure about the others but for me, out of exhaustion. It seems the same for Matthew, who wheezes over on the hip, perhaps at a concerning volume. Everyone is panting a little, even Stice’s muffled breaths escape the brush.
Jon: Great show everyone!
Megan: Did it work?
Stice: Krrrtfph?
Karen: Nothing. No pulse.
Me: Shit.
Matthew: Uhhh…
Jon wiggles.
Megan: So, now what?
Just then, the complimentary double-knock on the door, followed by Scott’s craning head through the jamb, which says, as it always does, How are the needles sticking, and of course the corpse doesn’t respond because it is a corpse. Scott says he’ll give the assignment a couple more minutes to wakey-wakey because they need the room for yet another assignment. He recedes and closes the door.
Me: Shit. Shit. Shit.
Stice: Irttthdrrrd!
Me: Stice, buddy, you’ve gotta stop with the interjections.
Karen: Well, that was my plan. Who’s next?
Jon waggles.
Matthew: I have an idea—
Jon: An idea! From Snub!
Matthew: Quit it!
Megan: Jon, really—
Susan: Of all times—
Megan: Please, leave him be.
Me: Buddy, now may not be the time for fooling around.
Jon: What’s a better time for fooling? We’re all kaput anyway. Defunct.
Silence.
Jon bounces up and down. He adds some side-to-side flailing.
Karen: It’s not going to happen, Jon.
Jon: Yeah duh, Karen—it seems we’re all out of moves though. I intend to move till the end.
He continues to flail.
Matthew: You know what, I’m with Jon.
Jon: That’s—Matt, buddy. That’s the sharpest thing you’ve ever said, my man.
Matthew blushes. He twirls.
Megan: Screw it!
She jiggles, and Susan jaggles.
Karen remains still through it, stoic over on the wrist.
I do a twist of my own.
Two knocks and the door, followed by Scott’s head through the jamb, and the, It’s time, Lawrence (so the assignment’s name is Lawrence), and as expected, the corpse is withholding. A bit louder this time, Lawrence, the appointment is over. Nada. Scott walks over and puts a hand on Lawrence’s bicep and gives it a squeeze. No response. Scott claps in Lawrence’s ear.
Stice, disturbed, says: Errrrrpfh!
Scott takes Lawrence’s pulse just as he did prior to our insertion, a part of the routine. Scott’s hand on Lawrence’s wrist—it occurs to me that the initial pulse-check indicates a tight precision in Lawrence’s transition to corpse, because if the pulse was M.I.A. before the insertion process Scott would have dealt with it however he is about to deal with it now, and Matthew, dull Matthew, had said Lawrence didn’t jolt during his insertion, which happens roughly every single time. What I’m getting at is that Lawrence entered corpsehood sometime after the preparatory pulse-check and before Matthew’s insertion, who was third I believe, a timespan of 15-30 seconds—a marvelous and maddening window, as the corpsing must have occurred sometime within it, however it was he exited life. If it had happened 15-30 seconds earlier, we would not have been inserted or be faced with probable demise.
We face it, though.
And, as expected, the pulse comes back no good.
Karen: Here we go, everyone.
Jon: It was a fun one.
Scott does this sort of simultaneous gasp and squeal—an impressive display. He steps to the door, then a step back. Again, to the door. Now back, unable to discern the proper action. He waves his hands all over and around the body, without touching it, trying to get it to rise, somehow, and mutters, Oh, god, it’s okay, it’s okay, to himself, which is just totally in his character. Out the door he goes, probably to call someone equipped to deal with corpses, and shouts for Lucia to dispose of the needles, likely referring to the lot still in the Tupperware container that would encourage sterilization-related questions toward Scott via whoever the corpse-handlers might be.
Lucia enters, the daft and scoop-heavy Lucia, without a trace of urgency, and, uh oh, oh, shit shit shit, begins removing us. Either she is confused by Scott’s order or I am, because it seems improper to tamper with Lawrence pre-corpsehandling. She does so anyway, not recognizing the corpse at hand. It seems our definite fate approaches only sooner than expected. She is as cumbersome with us as she is during extraction on the anticorpses.
She plucks Megan.
Megan: This is it!
She plucks Susan.
Susan: Here we go!
Matthew next, who whimpers.
Jon.
Jon: Bring it, Heavy-scoop.
She plucks me, though I remain silent, a bit terrified I must admit. Karen follows, who does the same, for her own reasons.
Now Stice.
Stice: Finally! Finally, I can articulate, I can be heard! The horror of being unheard. Friends, I am feeling much better. Excellent work today, even if on a deceased. I’m sure he would have been at ease. Dare I say, I think he is.
And finally, way down from the heel, the excluded Tim.
Tim:Holyshityouguys!Guysguys,listentome!Thisisbadthisisverybad,we aregoingtogetdisposedofforgood!Thisassignmentisdead,he’sdead!He’sfuckn gdeadforreal,IcouldtellbecauseItriedticklingthebottomofhisfoot,whichIadmi tisnotveryprofessional,butitgetsboringdownthereallalone,andwhenItriedhe didn’tmoveandthenItriedmoreandthenIgotrealroughwithitandohshityougu yshe’sdeadandwe’renextandfuckyouknowwhatweneedtodorightweneedtof uckingjabLuciarightnowweneedtojabherwitheverythingwehavebecauseloo kshe’swalkingtowardthebiowastebinthatsheneverwalkstowardinsteadofthe tupperwareandfuckwehavetodoitnowit’stheonlychancewehave!
Whoa. We all look back and forth at each other, in a collective attempt to comprehend.
Tim’s breathless panic encourages our preference to live (though I’m floored that he did the movement out of plain boredom down there). Lucia clutches us in her blocky hands, harder than Scott’s delicate touch ever would, and there’s just enough reach to the skin of her hand to give a little, umph, and as I give the umph, my colleagues do the same. Again, we dance, we bounce, we wiggle and waggle, and we poke the shit out of Lucia’s moisturized hand, who bellows Ouch, damnit, and drops us.
And we hurdle to the floor. As we spin and tumble and slice through the air, we catch glimpses of one another, of the fine points who wound up coming out of the Tupperware container to aid Lawrence the corpse with his back pain and sleepless nights, neither of which will be a problem anymore. We see each other, and I feel an acute pride. I see brief images of my colleagues hurdling and think them all to be wonderful, because look at us in the air. We did this. And we sprinkle about the tile floor, scattered and seemingly miles apart. Lucia picks us up one-by-one with caution, grabbing our pointless sides, and tosses us into the biowaste bin, again, one-by-one. In here it’s dark and quiet and, though it seems alright, I don’t feel much like speaking—not even a little.
Issue 10.1