One afternoon I found myself watching a documentary about an ex-cop turned entrepreneur. It seems he found a societal need that wasn’t being met and seized the opportunity. And so began his trauma and crime scene clean-up career. The one hour special followed him and his crew on three different assignments and outlined the circumstances surrounding each. The first was the home of an elderly woman who had been beaten to death in her bedroom by a robber. Her family was going to sell the house once the cleaning was complete. The second I don’t recall. The third was a black man named Dwayne in his 40’s who lay dead on his bed for weeks before anyone realized it was death they were smelling. His death.
Dwayne’s family disowned him upon learning he had AIDS, and so he was all alone. Alone, dying and too sick to care for himself let alone his apartment. So newspapers had piled up in some corners, trash had piled up in others. The refrigerator was open and roach-infested, dishes were stacked high in the sink and on the counters and his clothes were strewn about. The ex-cop began the daunting task of cleaning this mess that had been Dwayne’s so called life. Left and right he tossed Dwayne’s belongings into garbage bags and hauled away any evidence that Dwayne had ever existed. An old photo album revealed a healthier happier time in Dwayne’s life. The camera focused in on orange-tinted family pictures depicting Dwayne’s family as they were in the 70’s wearing their Sunday best before they decided Dwayne wasn’t worth the risk or embarrassment or hassle. Then, poof, the album was gone, the apartment was restored to a gleaming white and the credits rolled. May Dwayne rest in peace.
Marc is in Las Vegas this week visiting his friend Andrew, a wheeler-dealer type who grows medical marijuana and has all new porcelain teeth that he paid for with some cash but mostly by trading jewelry and services. So, I’m occupying my time with non-stop internet surfing, blog hopping, and reading weird but true news blurbs while slowly going bonkers from boredom. I haven’t heard from my family in weeks, haven’t received a single phone call from anyone–not even a telemarketer, and the only email I got was from myself reminding me to take out the trash before I go to work tomorrow.
Need I say it? I’m in a funk. I’ve envisioned myself having a terrible accident and lying in my own filth while Paquita eats my flesh to stay alive until Marc gets home. Then he’ll hire the ex-cop to clean my waste and toss my old photos. I’ll see Dwayne at the bottom of some dumpster and wonder if it would be inappropriate to ask him for his autograph.
Or maybe I’ll take Paquita for a walk so I can bask in the wake of her mass appeal.