Train Wreck Girl

by Sean Carswell

  I lifted the dead lady’s feet. Bart ripped another fart. I started giggling again.

  Someone knocked on the door again. “What’s taking so long?”

  “We’re almost done in here,” Bart said.

  We wrapped the body bag around the lady, zipped her up, strapped her into the gurney, and started wheeling her toward the door. I was laughing the whole time. Bart was, too. The murmur of voices came through the door. Just as we got to the door, Bart said, “Okay. You’ve got to pull it together.”

  I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. A quick burst of breathless giggles slid out. I took another deep breath. Okay. Composed. I looked at Bart. He’d stopped laughing. He wasn’t even smiling. I took another deep breath.

  “Ready to go outside?” Bart whispered.

  I nodded.

  “Here we go.” Bart put one hand on the doorknob, lifted one foot off the ground, and ripped another fart.

  “Goddamn it,” I whispered, giggling again. Bart, at this point, was doubled over. Someone knocked. I couldn’t take it.

  All I could think was that someone outside might actually have hope that this old blue corpse might breath again, and the longer we sat in here, the more hope that someone got. The more I thought about this, the worse I felt, and the worse I felt, the more I laughed. It was crazy. I reached over and punched Bart in the arm. Not hard. Just enough to let him know that we had to get out of there. Bart nodded and stood straight up. I started taking deep breaths again. I resolved to avoid looking at Bart until we were out of that nursing home.

  Bart grabbed the doorknob again. “Ready?” he asked.

  I nodded. He opened the door. We wheeled the corpse out.

  I didn’t say a word to anyone until I got to the van, and by then I felt all right.

  We hauled the corpse over to the Medical Examiner’s office, dropped the van off at Space Coast, picked up Bart’s car, and headed home. It was just after five-thirty in the morning. By this point, Bart had farted again and again enough times to make it an old joke. The giggles had passed. I kept my window down and mostly ignored him.

  “Jobs like this are gravy,” Bart said. “They’re almost as good as the nights when we don’t have to pick up anyone.”

  I nodded, but I was already done thinking about it. The sun was just beyond the horizon, about to rise but not quite there yet. I didn’t have a whole lot to do at Duane’s metal shop that day. I wasn’t due in until eight or so. I figured I’d get back to Cocoa Beach and join the dawn patrol out there on the ocean. I hadn’t seen the sun rise while surfing in a long time. This would be a good morning for that.

  Bart kept talking about the job. “It can’t all be fart jokes,” he said. “Some nights, you see some fucked up shit.”

  “I bet,” I said, but really, my mind was on surfing. Not on farts; not on dead people. I had no idea what I’d signed myself up for.

  18

  A Holiday in the Past

  ITINERARY FOR RECONCILIATION

  6:47 P.M. You’ll once again have a crush on Helen. You’ll want to go see her at her bar, but you know from experience that the worst way to try to hook up with a bartender is to sit at her bar every night and drool over her. Pace yourself.

  6:48 P.M. There will be no food in your apartment. Helen serves food. You haven’t been to Duke’s in two weeks. Decide it’ll be okay to go there now.

  6:49 P.M. Give your bike a quick once over. You rescued the bike from someone else’s trash. It’s a beach cruiser. You had to replace the bearings and the chain, but everything else seems okay. Still, check the brakes before leaving.

  7:01 P.M. Take a stool at Duke’s. All the regulars will be there. Wonder briefly if you look like just another in this row of lonely guys, just another barnacle stuck to a barstool. Tell yourself, I’m different. Tell yourself: my brother—who was really my whole family—died four months ago and my girlfriend—who, sure, was my ex-girlfriend, technically, but still—died just over two months ago. I’m in mourning. The last thing I need now is another relationship.

  7:02 P.M. Tell yourself, besides, I’m not just any other guy. I’m Helen’s ex-boyfriend. Decide that makes matters worse. Say hello to Helen. Order food without looking at a menu. Order water to go with your food.

  7:14 P.M. The bar will start to fill up. Don’t pay much attention to this.

  7:21 P.M. Start eating your dinner. A surfer-looking guy about your age will sit next to you at the bar. You will recognize him, but you won’t remember his name.

  7:25 P.M. Helen will introduce you to the guy. His name is Benji Clarke. You went to high school with him. You and Benji will both have a moment where you’re like, oh shit, I didn’t realize that was you.

  7:26 P.M. Say to Benji, “Are you still surfing?”

  Benji will laugh and say, “Now and then.”

  There will seem to be some joke that you’re not getting. There is. Benji surfs professionally. In fact, he’s one of the top surfers in the world. He was a close runner up to world champion two years earlier. He’s back in town to sponsor a surfing contest. It’s been in all the papers. You didn’t notice any of this, partly because you’ve spent so much time since high school drunk or high or both. Partly because you never paid much attention to pro surfing. Partly because you see reading newspapers as tantamount to weed eating.

  Helen will explain some of this to you. She’ll tell you about Benji being a pro and second in the world and sponsoring the contest. This will make you especially happy when…

  7:27 P.M. Benji will say, “I’m still pissed off that you beat me in that Easter contest back in 1986.” Shrug and say, “It was a fluke.”

  7:45 P.M. As you finish your dinner, you will notice the bar is now packed. Helen will be so busy you can’t get her attention to pay her and leave. Shaggy will be losing his mind in the kitchen. Benji and his crew from the surf contest will take up half of the dining area. The other half of the dining area will be full of guys from a local longboarding club who just happened to pick this night and this bar to have their annual party. They’ll all be so excited to meet Benji Clarke that chaos will ensue.

  7:46 P.M. Recognize that only two people are working in this packed bar and restaurant. Decide to help Helen and Shaggy.

  7:47 P.M. Actually get up to help Helen and Shaggy. Bus your own plate. Walk behind the bar. Gently touch Helen in the small of the back and say, “I’ll wait tables. You take care of the bar.”

  Helen’s eyes will not be able to focus on anything. Stray hairs will be stuck to the sweat on her forehead. She’ll take a deep breath and nod. This will be your only indication that she understands. Pick up a pad near the cash register. Walk into the kitchen and say to Shaggy, “Tell me the table numbers and where to run the food.” Shaggy will point to a diagram on the kitchen wall. It shows which table in the restaurant adheres to which table number. It’s all pretty logical.

  Shaggy will say, “Take the lau lau, chicken katsu, and kalua pig to table seven.”

  You’ve waited a lot of tables in your life. It’s all old hat to you. You pick up the three plates, double check with the diagram, and run the food.

  7:48 P.M. On the way back to the kitchen, take food and drink orders from three tables. Treat them as if they are all one table, getting all the orders before going back to the kitchen.

  7:49 P.M. Run food. Take orders. Pass the orders on to Shaggy. Get drinks yourself from behind the bar. Write everything down on the pad. Let Helen ring up the tickets when the time comes. Bus tables when people finish. Get extra sauces from the refrigerator. When the wheelchair dude shows up, treat him like any other customer. Take his order. Bring him his food. Keep his water glass full. Help Shaggy with the dishes when they pile up too high. Refill Helen’s ice. Make more iced tea. Switch out the syrup once on the soda gun. Keep your hands clean. Continue to do these things for the next hour. You’ll get the same frazzled look as Helen and Shaggy, but no one will lose their mind.

  8:49 P.M. You’ll like this fr
azzled feeling. You haven’t been in the weeds like this for a few months. You haven’t waited tables for a few years, but since you no longer do it every day, it’s kinda fun. It’s like taking a holiday in your own past. You’ll feel like everything is working out okay. Food service will slow down. Your duties will gradually switch to running drinks and collecting money and cleaning up.

  9:32 P.M. The crowd won’t really thin out, but they’ll stop ordering food. This rush will be over. Helen and Shaggy will have things under control. It’s almost time for you to head home, anyway.

  9:33 P.M. Helen will say, “You saved my fucking ass. Your dinner’s on me.” When she looks away, put the tips you made that night into Helen’s tip jar. Shaggy will see you do this. Put your forefinger in front of your lips in a universal symbol of, keep your mouth shut, Shaggy.

  9:34 P.M. You have to get home to be on call for your night job. Explain this to Helen briefly. Wave goodbye to Shaggy. Walk to the door.

  9:35 P.M. Helen will call out to you, “You’re my hero, Danny McGregor.” Start glowing.

  11:17 P.M. Your pager will go off. Things will turn nasty that quickly.

  19

  Dead Guy All Over It

  The first thing I had to do was drag Bart’s drunk ass out of a bar. This was actually part of the plan. First light bulb that went off in Bart’s head when I said I wanted to work with him picking up stiffs must’ve been: cool; if Danny can drive me to Space Coast and drive the van, I can get as drunk as I want.

  Bart had been drinking a lot more since I started driving us to get the dead bodies.

  He was in Sullivan’s. He had his pager, too. He was supposed to come outside as soon as the pager went off. Still, I had to park Bart’s car, go inside, and get him.

  Sullivan’s was as packed as Duke’s had been. I noticed some of the crowd from Duke’s had filtered down. A DJ worked on weekends. Spinning the same songs he’d been spinning for a decade, more or less. Mostly disco. It was like he was the musical embodiment of the guy who tells a joke so many times that it goes from funny to ridiculous to funny again. Or, at least the disco at Sully’s had gone through various stages of funny to ridiculous to funnier to more ridiculous and so on. And where was Bart? Getting down on the dance floor.

  He was flanked by two young women. He was dancing with them, but they didn’t seem to be dancing with him. He was that drunk. I paved my way through the dance floor, grabbed Bart by the ear, and tugged enough so that he knew he really had to go. He followed my trail off the dance floor. He chugged the last of his beer.

  When we got to the door, I worried for a second that Bart would make a run for it. Go back for the two broads on the dance floor. I turned to make sure he didn’t. As I did this, I caught a glimpse of her at the bar. Summer dress. Mary Janes. Bangs cut high up her forehead. Still lean. Still looking peaceful. Drinking wine. Sophie.

  I thought my mind was playing tricks on me. Sophie waved. I looked at Bart. Bart waved back. I waved, too. Then I pulled Bart out of the bar.

  We got into Bart’s car and headed for Rockledge to pick up the van. “You see me with those two girls?” Bart asked. “Out on the dance floor?”

  “Yes I did,” I said.

  “Aww, man, I was in there. Did you see that?”

  “You’re the mack.”

  “Shit,” Bart said. “Hell of a time for someone to die.” Bart fumbled through his glove compartment. Down in the bottom of it, beneath the registration and sunglasses and map and rolling papers and lighter was a cassette tape. He pulled it out and put it in the stereo.

  At first, I didn’t believe my ears. A few notes played. I looked at Bart. He was dancing in his seat. My ears weren’t lying. My punk rock buddy was playing the Saturday Night Fever soundtrack. Not only was he playing it, but he owned it. What kind of crazy shit was this?

  I tried to ignore it as we drove out of Cocoa Beach. I wanted to think, anyway. I wanted to think, what the fuck was Sophie doing in Sullivan’s? Where did she come from? Bart told me she’d moved back to Atlanta to live with her mom. What was she doing in Cocoa Beach? She didn’t have family down here. Except for her dad. That’s right. Her dad moved down to Orlando when he finally decided that Atlanta wasn’t big enough for him and Sophie’s mom. A move I guess I could relate to. So he lives in Orlando now. That’s pretty close. She could be visiting her dad and decide to come to the beach for a weekend. It could have nothing to do with me. And I guess this would be a good time to visit family. Spring. Right around Easter, maybe. Was that it? Was this Easter weekend? I asked Bart, “Hey, Travolta, when’s Easter?”

  “Last Sunday,” Bart said.

  Oh shit, I thought. He’s right. But that was okay. Last weekend would be close enough. It would make enough sense for me to relax about Sophie being in town. It could possibly be a coincidence. Nothing to do with me. Sophie comes down to visit her dad for Easter and visits Cocoa Beach the next weekend. Easy enough.

  And it only bugged me because I happened to see Sophie on the exact same night when it seemed like I may have a chance with Helen again. It felt like that DJ was spinning my life, letting it go from funny to ridiculous and back again. All the while, still playing the same old tunes.

  By now, I was driving across Merritt Island. Bart had his window down. His hand was out the window, snaking up and down in the wind. He started calling out the names of all the places we passed. “Wal-Mart. McDonald’s. Applebee’s. Steak and Shake. Outback. AMC Theaters. Barnes & Noble. Toys R Us. Blockbuster. Circuit City. Chili’s.” And so on. This stretch of Merritt Island was Generic Town, USA. I noticed this every time we drove to Space Coast to pick up the van. I never said anything about it. I knew it bugged Bart, though. He said, “Remember when we were always talking about the meaning of life?”

  I said, “Yeah.”

  Bart didn’t say anything. The Saturday Night Fever soundtrack danced on. We drove past another dozen or so chains.

  I said, “Why’d you bring that up?”

  “I was just looking at all these joints along this strip here. And I was thinking, you know, about the meaning of life and why we’re here and where we’re headed right now. To pick up dead people. And I was thinking, because we’re always sad when people die. But how bad is death, really, if all it cheats you out of is another shitty meal at Applebee’s or another crappy movie rental at Blockbuster? It’s not so sad then, is it? If all you were gonna do on your last day on Earth was go shopping at Wal-Mart, then, shit, you might as well die a day earlier, right?”

  I saw my opportunity here and I went with it. “Exactly,” I said. “It’s like, if all you’re gonna do is listen to the Saturday Night Fever soundtrack one more time, what’s the point?”

  Bart gave me the dirtiest look I’d ever seen him give me. I smiled. He ejected his tape and threw it out the window. I immediately felt guilty. We didn’t say anything again until we picked up the van.

  The dispatcher at Space Coast said two things to me when I picked up the van and got our instructions. She said, “Bart needs to sober up.” Which was true, but I wasn’t gonna let on that I agreed. She also said, “You got a nasty one tonight.”

  Bart and I climbed into the van. I drove to the Merritt Island Airport.

  It was pretty obvious where the bodies were. Two fire trucks were parked in the field west of the runway. A cop car was there, too. Red and blue lights swirled around, bouncing off the remains of a plane. I parked the van next to the fire trucks, got out, and walked to the back of the van. I started to unlatch the gurney but Bart said, “No.” He grabbed two body bags and handed one to me. “Those wheels will just get stuck in the grass. We’ll use these,” he said.

  The plane and the bodies inside it were about twenty yards across a field, west of the runway. The door to the plane was open. The grass surrounding it was black, moist, spongy. Outside the cockpit was all charred metal and flakes of burnt paint. It was a small plane. A two seater. The body of the pilot leaned on the controls. He was black. Not brow
n like an African. Crispy black. Burnt.

  Bart and I walked up to the plane together. Bart said, “Remember when you were in high school and you’d walk into the locker room and that smell of ass would just hit you?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “Well, now it’s the smell of death.”

  And Bart was a pro at this, or at least his timing was perfect, because as soon as he finished saying this, that sweet, rotten stink slapped me in the nose. The kind of stink that seems to glue itself to your nose and esophagus and lungs and just keep stinking. I nearly puked right there in the wet grass by the plane.

  Bart watched me gag and smiled.

  “Don’t you fucking fart,” I said. “It smells bad enough as it is.”

  Bart laughed a little. We kept walking toward the plane. Bart reached into the pocket of his plaid bermudas and grabbed a handkerchief. “You’ll learn to carry one of these,” he said.

  I lifted the collar of my T-shirt up over my nose. It didn’t do much good. The stench of smoked plane and charred flesh was too strong.

  There were two bodies in the plane. A pilot and a passenger. Bart took his body bag around to the passenger side. I worked on the pilot.

  I grabbed the his arm. It felt like a burnt turkey leg. Like something you were planning on serving, but you left it in the oven too long. I pulled on his arm, but he hardly budged. I made a rookie mistake. I put my foot up on the edge of the plane, got a good hold on the arm, and yanked with all my might. The arm popped right out of the socket. The arm and I flew ass backwards into the wet grass outside the plane. Water seeped through my t-shirt. I got back to my feet and looked at the arm. Cooked meat and tendon stuck out of the shoulder. I put the arm in the body bag and went back for more.

  Bart was on the other side of the plane. He couldn’t budge the passenger. He said to me, “Don’t take him apart piece by piece.”

  I gave Bart my best no-shit look, then turned my attention back to the pilot. I had no idea how to get this bastard out. His skin seemed to have fused to the leather of the seat. And it wasn’t that I was squeamish about touching him. I wasn’t. A few days on this job and you realize that there’s a big difference between dead people you know and dead people you don’t know. Dead people you don’t know don’t have a history for you. They come with no baggage. It’s easy to accept their mortality. They’re just the corpse in front of you. Part of the job.