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The Morgueby Tom Hanslits
Copyright 2000 All rights reserved
Jason Tidwell stood near the coffee machine fishing for quarters in his suit pants. He was sure that he'd find at least three or four. They were very elusive, jingling each time he reached into his pocket; still he kept coming up empty handed.
The main corridor was alive with activity. The hustle and commotion of the hospital's routine kept him close to the wall and out of the flow of foot traffic. Jason had come to visit a sick friend at the hospital. It was one of his employees. His business was more like a family than boss and employee. Everyone got along and he had accumulated a tidy sum for all of his effort. He was far from a millionaire, but he would not suffer financially when he retired.
The location of the coffee machine struck him as peculiar. It stood a silent sentinel at the entrance to the solitary route that ended at the morgue. It left him with the impression of a tunnel, gently sloping downward to its hidden end. He peered anxiously down the dimly lit passage while his fingers danced nervously at the edges of the elusive quarters.
Checking his watch, for distraction, he decided that it was time to head upstairs and start his visit. He could hear Jack saying, "Hello J. T., you didn't have to come by just for me. Now I'm embarrassed." The image was so clear that it was as if Jack were speaking the words while he stood there in front of the coffee machine.
Jason's wife chided him before he left, "Now Tiddy," she said. "I'd go with you if I felt better. You don't stay long. Jack's gonna need his rest. You be quick and for heaven's sake, be polite. None of that rough shop talk." She was always embarrassed by off color language. A smile crossed his face as he recalled the sweet and sincere look on her face. He loved that look. He loved her.
Stepping away from the coffee machine, he started across the hall to read the hospital directory. He'd not taken two steps when an orderly pushing a gurney came briskly around the corner and practically knocked him off of his feet.
Quick reflexes had him flat against the wall and out of harms way. Perturbed, but unharmed, he glared at the orderly's back as it disappeared into the shadows. Some people were just plain inconsiderate. They never excused or pardoned themselves for anything that they said or did. Shaking his head, he straightened his disheveled suit.
An eerie metallic noise radiated from the wheels of the gurney as it was pushed down the hall; absorbed into the darkness without a trace. The orderly's footfalls echoed flatly as the noise they made vanished into the shadows as well. Like the light, it was consumed by the darkness. The length of the hallway slowly came into focus as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. Minutes passed, uncounted, as he stared into the unknown.
The scene was cold and grotesque. The walls were dark and smooth, covered with ceramic tile. Uninterrupted by doors or cross-halls, they loomed up to the darkened ceiling. There were three dim, naked bulbs suspended from the ceiling, each trapped in a wire cage. Shadows from the wire enclosures appeared as webs holding in the light. They cast a glow that ended before the next light could reach beyond the encroaching darkness. There were three separate and distinct circles of light. Together, they managed to cast enough light to navigate safely to the unseen end of the passage.
The shadow effect was disturbing when you pondered what lay at the end of the hall. The last room any person would occupy - while still on this earth - sat waiting patiently for it's next guest. The stainless steel doors hung like two vultures waiting to engulf the final remains of any who passed this way. A shiver wracked his body at the terrible thought.
As morbid as it might have been, he stood transfixed by the gloom and despair of the scene. He stared for what seemed to be an eternity; a chill passed through his soul. It was only then that he noticed that the orderly had left the door ajar.
J. T., with furtive darting glances, looked to see if any one was watching. Completely forgetting about the coffee, or his friend, he proceeded down the hallway. One by one, the lights passed overhead as the light from each bulb came and went like a passing storm. The end of the hall drew closer. His footsteps grew slower.
Indecision marked his progress. Should he go through with it? He'd never seen the inside of a morgue. It was not something that you spend your life wishing that you could do; yet morbid curiosity drew him relentlessly onward. Barely inching down the hall now, progress was almost nil. He was five feet from the open door and struggling to return to the coffee machine. Every effort was expended in the attempt to return to the light and security of people.
Still his feet moved forward. They had gained control of his brain somehow. No matter how he struggled, he pressed forward. He was beginning to panic. The muscles in his chest constricted as he dragged air into his lungs, each breath tormenting his throat.
He watched as his hand grasped the handle of the door and yanked it open. It was surreal. He envisioned the door creaking slowly open and he would peer inside. Instead he found the door flung wide and himself standing before the contents of the morgue.
The fear subsided as he realized that nothing was coming after him. A monster lurking in the shadows, behind the autopsy table, was not attacking him. He felt more than a little foolish for all of his fear.
Taking stock of the room, now that he had regained some composure, he began to relax even more. The paraphernalia necessary to conduct an autopsy were neatly stored behind glass front cabinets. The room itself was painted a very ugly light green. It reminded him of the color of aluminum siding from back in the fifties. He hated that color then, and now in this setting, he hated it even more.
In all of the sterile tidiness of the room, he noticed that there was a brown paper grocery sack on the end of the table, next to the feet of the occupant. It had something hastily scrawled across the side. He could see the end of the writing where it wrapped around the crease that formed one edge. Slowly he opened the sack to inspect its contents. Once open, he found clothes and other personal effects haphazardly crammed into it.
"That's terrible," he said out loud. "A person spends their entire life working, providing and whatever else just to conclude in this fashion. There has to be more to it than this." Examining all that he'd ever done and everyone that he had ever helped, he made a mental tally of his life.
Memories cascaded into clarity. Many were of the early years of his business and how he and his wife struggled to maintain a family life that was evenly balanced between the demands of business and the children. Seldom did an opportunity go by that he didn't express how proud he was of how his kids turned out. He was proud of his wife and their marriage. There was so much to be thankful for.
Standing at the end of the table, he was washed by the realization that no matter how rich or poor you were in life, it all boiled down to that brown paper bag. That was the sum total of a lifetime of accomplishments. He rolled the top of the bag closed and reverently squared it to the corner of the table. At least now the name so shabbily scrawled on the bag could be seen, even if not read.
Turning his gaze to the body shrouded by the stark white sheet, he inched over to the head of the table. Slowly his hand moved to the hem of the sheet. Watching - emotionally detached - as his hand gripped the edge of that stark white linen and as it lifted the protective cover only wishing to pay a moment of respect to a soul whose life's accomplishments were now reduced to a paper sack with something resembling a name, hastily scribbled on one side.
The sheet drew back and he convulsed at the sight. A shriek tore from his throat and terror suffocated the sound. Alone in the sterile, bleak solitude of the morgue, he collapsed to the cold stone floor and wept bitterly.
He had looked deeply into the blank, lifeless eyes of the man on the table and it was his own face that he beheld.
fini