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Authors: Jeff Klima
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matter, too high for us to reach safely without a ladder.
Exasperated, I said, "I got this," and stepped up the two feet of the raised brick lip of the fireplace. Holding on to the oak mantel with one hand so that I could hang off the edge of the fireplace and extend upward, I reached out over the carpet toward the ten-foot ceiling, with my free hand gripping my brush.
Stretching my left arm as far as it would go, I could just barely reach the ceiling. Scrubbing at the patches of brain, I rolled them into tight cocoons from the friction. Stucco dust dropped from the scrubbed areas overhead, and I blinked once while continuing my work, until as I opened my eyes, I felt the gentle, cold splat of something soft connect with the naked orb of my right eye.
Automatically, I blinked again, but it was still there. Dropping down, I reached my latex glove toward my eye but then thought better of it and stripped the glove off quickly. Trickles of sweat ebbed from my pale fingers as I shook loose the feeling of the powder resin from the glove. Using my thumb and middle finger like fleshy tweezers, I managed to extract what was undeniably a hunk of melon-colored brain that had become stuck to my eyeball. I stared at it, incredulous—praying the sweet little old lady with a table full of medicine vials didn't have AIDS—and then dropped it into the trash bag with its friends, Dirk staring all the while.
"I guess we should wear goggles from now on," he reasoned matter-of-factly. I couldn't decide how I should have reacted, so I just rolled with it good-naturedly. We were "professionals" after all, and this sometimes happened to professionals, right?
Bagging up the rest of the mess, we threw some black trash liners over the carpeting and once more tried to reason Martin into letting us take it.
"No, no…I'll throw newspaper over it," he maintained. Shrugging, we once more turned on our blood-detection flashlights, letting the intense ultraviolet purple beams wash over the area, showing Martin there was no blood left. "Good job, guys," he said softly. "Really nice work."
Hoisting the recliner into the back of the truck at 12:30 a.m., along with the bags and the little table, I was glad he didn't let us take the carpeting after all. I was sweaty, exhausted, and repulsed, and my new shirt hung wet and limp around my skin. Driving home with the blood-soaked, chunky recliner sticking out of the truck bed like a gleaming beacon, I was surprised that we escaped cop detection. Dirk being a sheriff or not, there had to be something not OSHAcompliant and illegal about our method of biohazard transportation.
The two of us were tired, so Dirk decided to leave the recliner and bags in the truck to deal with later, and let me go home. Soaked with sweat and dusty from the Riverside experience, I pointed my little red car in the direction of the frat house. Kerry and Chris were eagerly waiting for me on the front lawn when I walked up slowly, stumbling, dehydrated, and exhausted.
Kerry had taken Chris to the game in my place, introducing him accidentally throughout the night to her parent's seatmates as "her brothers' boyfriend." The Ducks won, but that story paled in comparison to my own, which I gladly regaled my listeners with, complete with photos taken specifically for this moment on my cell phone.
I hadn't made enough money to pay rent that month, much less my credit cards, but in the eyes of my doubters, I was vindicated for the moment at least.
CHAPTER 5
the minister and the stairway to heaven
If Jesus Christ came back to Earth today, the last thing he'd be is a Christian.
—Mark Twain
Vindication doesn't buy what money does. All vindication ever bought anyone was a little freedom. And I had too much freedom—so much, in fact, that my bills still weren't getting paid. Sure, I'd thrown small piles of cash in all of my creditors' directions, enough to
Exasperated, I said, "I got this," and stepped up the two feet of the raised brick lip of the fireplace. Holding on to the oak mantel with one hand so that I could hang off the edge of the fireplace and extend upward, I reached out over the carpet toward the ten-foot ceiling, with my free hand gripping my brush.
Stretching my left arm as far as it would go, I could just barely reach the ceiling. Scrubbing at the patches of brain, I rolled them into tight cocoons from the friction. Stucco dust dropped from the scrubbed areas overhead, and I blinked once while continuing my work, until as I opened my eyes, I felt the gentle, cold splat of something soft connect with the naked orb of my right eye.
Automatically, I blinked again, but it was still there. Dropping down, I reached my latex glove toward my eye but then thought better of it and stripped the glove off quickly. Trickles of sweat ebbed from my pale fingers as I shook loose the feeling of the powder resin from the glove. Using my thumb and middle finger like fleshy tweezers, I managed to extract what was undeniably a hunk of melon-colored brain that had become stuck to my eyeball. I stared at it, incredulous—praying the sweet little old lady with a table full of medicine vials didn't have AIDS—and then dropped it into the trash bag with its friends, Dirk staring all the while.
"I guess we should wear goggles from now on," he reasoned matter-of-factly. I couldn't decide how I should have reacted, so I just rolled with it good-naturedly. We were "professionals" after all, and this sometimes happened to professionals, right?
Bagging up the rest of the mess, we threw some black trash liners over the carpeting and once more tried to reason Martin into letting us take it.
"No, no…I'll throw newspaper over it," he maintained. Shrugging, we once more turned on our blood-detection flashlights, letting the intense ultraviolet purple beams wash over the area, showing Martin there was no blood left. "Good job, guys," he said softly. "Really nice work."
Hoisting the recliner into the back of the truck at 12:30 a.m., along with the bags and the little table, I was glad he didn't let us take the carpeting after all. I was sweaty, exhausted, and repulsed, and my new shirt hung wet and limp around my skin. Driving home with the blood-soaked, chunky recliner sticking out of the truck bed like a gleaming beacon, I was surprised that we escaped cop detection. Dirk being a sheriff or not, there had to be something not OSHAcompliant and illegal about our method of biohazard transportation.
The two of us were tired, so Dirk decided to leave the recliner and bags in the truck to deal with later, and let me go home. Soaked with sweat and dusty from the Riverside experience, I pointed my little red car in the direction of the frat house. Kerry and Chris were eagerly waiting for me on the front lawn when I walked up slowly, stumbling, dehydrated, and exhausted.
Kerry had taken Chris to the game in my place, introducing him accidentally throughout the night to her parent's seatmates as "her brothers' boyfriend." The Ducks won, but that story paled in comparison to my own, which I gladly regaled my listeners with, complete with photos taken specifically for this moment on my cell phone.
I hadn't made enough money to pay rent that month, much less my credit cards, but in the eyes of my doubters, I was vindicated for the moment at least.
CHAPTER 5
the minister and the stairway to heaven
If Jesus Christ came back to Earth today, the last thing he'd be is a Christian.
—Mark Twain
Vindication doesn't buy what money does. All vindication ever bought anyone was a little freedom. And I had too much freedom—so much, in fact, that my bills still weren't getting paid. Sure, I'd thrown small piles of cash in all of my creditors' directions, enough to
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