The macerating corpse in the tub
The midnight embalming and the padunk, padunk of the suction trocar
The inexhaustible resourcefulness of the suicides
The camp counselor whose horse got hit on the Interboro and the cop who wanted to shoot it like they do in the movies
The shit, blood, and vomit on my hands
The nursing-home slumlords
The bedsores with the dry, white, bare bones poking right through
The children with the cigarette burns
The endless tears of the families
The lost friends
The lost sleep
The lost imagination
The lost hope
Do you promise I’ll forget about working at St. John’s, Pete.
Okay, Pete. As long as you promise.
Acknowledgments
To Barbara: My infinite thanks and love. So glad we met.
To Emily, Sally, and Charlotte: For the gift of being there to let me take my mind off myself. Thanks, kids.
To James Patterson: I once read that artists are selfish. Not you. You Funny that way.
To Jessie Burnett Tidwell: Thanks for all those stories, Grandma. You sure could tell a tale.
About the Author
Mike Scardino is a native of Elmhurst, Queens. In order to pay for college, he worked on a New York City ambulance as a teenager, which led to his decision not to pursue medicine as a career. Mike eventually found his way into advertising, where his ambulance experience proved to be an unexpectedly useful fit. He is married to the woman he met on his third day at college. They have three daughters. He lives in South Carolina.
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