It's Life, and Life Only

“If my thought dreams could be seen

They’d probably put my head in a guillotine

But it’s alright, Ma, it’s life, and life only.”

Bob Dylan

“Dead is a term for the living, ask any corpse.” Doctor Loveseller strode down the narrow halls with his back to his interns, who were scribbling hurriedly in their yellow legal pads. He talked to the sterilized air in front of him; air that grew staler the farther he walked. The more corners he turned the more white washed walls appeared before him where the neon lights clung and created a bluish tint of color around him. Words came out. They died in front of him. But his interns continued to scratch out notes, so he continued to talk.

“Why do we need a term for the dead? Because we are pathetic beings, to simple minded to even comprehend the nature of that which we are labeling.” Dr. Loveseller paused in his speech, and grappled with a pen that had sprung loose from the pocket protector of his lab coat. “Death is not something the living can ever grasp and yet we are directly linked to it, obsessed with a thing that we cannot control. Perhaps this lack of control, and this lack of knowledge, is what stimulate such an avid fascination, but it is hard to tell.”

The scratching continued the sound sifted through the grey tufts of age inside Dr. Lovesellers ears. He continued.

“I don’t believe the dead have a term for us. This is a non-symmetrical fascination, where the dead, or the dead corpses as I refer to them, have no say and are apathetic toward us and we, the living corpses have too much to say and are overly enthusiastic.” He clipped the pen back to his pocket. His pocket was safe again.

The scratching stopped and so did Dr. Loveseller. He turned to see his interns pressed against the glass of the nursery, pushing their cheeks into flattened distortions, like kids choosing toys from a toy store window. Dr. Loveseller cleared his throat and strode toward them, looking at their legal pads that were hanging by their sides.

“Excuse me everyone, I don’t believe this is our stopping point,” said Dr. Loveseller. “Actually, this could not be more opposite. You are seeing life at its most innocent beginnings, and I will show you life at its most insincere end.”

His interns sulked for a moment, slowly pealing their faces from the now fogged glass. Dr. Loveseller eyed the babies behind it, bound in pink and blue blankets, according to their sex. He watched as they lay in their beds, opening and closing the minute fingers that protruded from their bulging hands. What they grasped for he did not know, but one baby sat at the far left of the front row of cribs. His white blanket popped, distinguishing him from the rest, and a tag hung from his toe that held what Dr. Loveseller assumed was only a last name: Alexander.

“Why does that Alexander kid have a white blanket? Is he something special? A governmental experiment gone wrong?” asked intern number nine.

Dr. Lovesellers gaze did not waver from the child as he answered, “Government gone wrong is a redundant phrase number nine. Let’s get moving; the dead wait for no man.”

The door of the morgue was heavy and securely locked, a door meant for maximum security prisons or an ammunitions depot. It was an anchor to hold the dead in place, and it scared Dr. Loveseller. He had janitors keys, keys that had no room to slide on the oversized key ring and keys that stuck together leaving Dr. Loveseller to fumble outside of doors for considerable amounts of time. The key to the impregnable door slipped out of his hand as he attempted to stick it into the keyhole. He chattered.

“Don’t know why we need such a big door for such…accommodating guests.” No scratching followed this statement.

The door responded to Dr. Lovesellers incessant turns, inching open to reveal nothing but black.

“Is there any way to skip this part of the internship? I think we should practice on each other, not on real bodies,” said intern number 10. His cheeks reddened and his lips attempted to run away from the red as they formed a frown.

Dr. Loveseller reached his arm into the morgue where it was sliced off at the elbow by the darkness. “Intern number 10, I don’t much care what you think, but if it would bring you some grotesque form of pleasure to carve up one of your peers stomachs to exam their digested food from yesterdays lunch, please do so. Let’s take a vote for who wishes to be dead corpse number one.” Dr. Loveseller animatedly searched the room for a hand, holding his own mottled hand to his forehead, scanning the horizon for volunteers. Intern 10’s peers all scribbled in their legal pads, ignoring him. Dr. Loveseller wondered what they could possibly be writing. Note to self, don’t be an idiot.

Dull blue lights illuminated the stairwell of the morgue, and Dr. Loveseller led his 15 interns down the metal staircase to the center of the room. He stood by a sleek, gleaming table. It exuded the aura of coldness, the medicinal frigidity of a doctor’s stethoscope before he has warmed it up by means of a good-natured huff. Dr. Lovegood felt the chilliness as he stood with his back to his interns, looking at his dulled features in the polished metal. He looked older. The table had absorbed the death seeping from the dead corpses it usually held, and Dr. Loveseller could see that death distorting his face. His interns stared at their surroundings, moving their heads on a swivel while maintaining a grip on their pens, in case Dr. Loveseller began talking. They were statues in a graveyard, observant statues.

Dr. Loveseller lifted his eyes and began talking again, “I’m going to move to our first specimen and if I can exhort you to feel one way, if I can convince you to adopt one way of thought, it would be that of indifference. Remember, these are not people. They are not the woman in the grocery store with the kids that keep grabbing at the candy. They are not the kindly old lady at the supermarket who can always spot you a few cents if you are short. These are anatomical, corporal carcasses, void of feeling. Now, let us begin.” Dr. Loveseller moved mechanically to his right where he opened the first freezer door. It hissed and let some cold air leak from the insides; the frozen breaths of the corpses spilled into the room.

“This is Mr.,” Dr. Loveseller bent to see the tag hanging from the toe, “Alexander, who wants a shot at him?”

“Ponce, I swear if you don’t get a doctor in here in the next few seconds, I will show you the pain of childbirth after we get home.” Ponce swallowed, sending his Adams apple into spasms of fear.

“Ok, I’m off to get a doctor. Right now, going to find one. You want a soda while I’m out, root beer maybe?” Ponce’s wife screamed at him, no coherent words, just a wail that made the old man in the bed next to her roll over on his side and turn Maury up to 38 on the television in the corner. Ponce bolted, leaving the hinged doors swinging behind him. He assumed that scream was a no on the root beer. White coats fluttered around him, extracting pens from their lab coats and handing files to industrious secretaries who leaned their phones against their shoulders and shot courtesy smiles at any doctor who approached them. Ponce approached a doctor who was peeling off a pair of slimy rubber gloves and muttering over his shoulder to a nurse who scribbled on a notepad.

“Chum, what sort of name is that for a child. What if he isn’t very nice? His whole life will be dictated by irony. To be honest I’m not sure what people are thinking Nurse Andrews. Hell, I wouldn’t name my dog chum.”

“Excuse me doc, I need your help, my wife is having a baby see…”

The Doctor interrupted, “Sir, are you Bugs Bunny?”

“No, I don’t believe so doc. That’s a silly thing to ask I think.”

“I just wanted to make sure, because if you call me doc one more time I will be forced to deduce that you are indeed Bugs Bunny and will therefore defer you to a veterinarian.” The Doctor threw his greasy gloves into a garbage can and crossed his arms. Ponce stared at him, his brain slowly deciding where the conversation could go.

“I’m sorry, Doctor…” Ponce squinted at the doctors name badge, “Leslie?” He looked up to see that Doctor Leslie’s face had twisted at the pronunciation of his name.

“Yes, Leslie. I’m aware it is not a male name, but my mother was hoping for a girl. Show me where you wife is.” Ponce led Doctor Leslie to his room, where his wife was sweating and cursing, which was dovetailed nicely by the incessant beeps of censoring being emitted from the TV in the corner, where Maury was still attempting to console an outraged teenager.

“Hello Mrs. Alexander, I’m Doctor Leslie. I can see that you are having contractions here, so I think we should get this started.” Mrs. Alexander gave a huff of agreement and immediately returned to pursing her lips and dropping her eyebrows in pain.

“Honey, I’m right here if you need me,” said Ponce from across the room. Mrs. Alexander waved him away, her face grew pale and the sweat beads clung to her pallid skin just above her eyebrows. Ponce watched as his wife’s arms flailed about, causing the lines on the monitor above her bed to mimic her arms movements as they moved erratically up and down, the beeps of the machines making the air of the room nervous.

“Mr. Alexander, I’m afraid you need to wait on the other side of this curtain. You don’t appear a man that has a strong stomach. Don’t worry, everything will be fine.” Dr. Leslie slid the curtain shut, and Ponce found himself at the foot of the old mans bed, leaning on the end of the mattress, watching Maury.

“Having a baby, hey boy?” The old man had flipped over on his back with surprising agility, muting the TV in the same motion.

Ponce hesitated and then replied, “Yes, in a few minutes. I’m not sure what it will be though.”

“Most likely a damn baby I would say, boy. Unless you been getting into some wild stuff. You into that wild stuff, boy?

“No, nothing like that. I just meant that I didn’t know if the baby would be a boy or a girl. I’m not into anything weird,” said Ponce.

The old mans bushy eyebrows crawled into an arc over his sharp eyes. “I’m not going to congratulate you boy, cause I learned something about life after I had my kids; he who isn’t busy being born, is busy dying. And that’s the God’s honest truth.” The old man rolled onto his side and unmuted the television. Ponce turned to the TV and let his mind mull over the last statement. He was busy dying?

“Mr. Alexander, could I see you in the hall please?” Doctor Leslie had stuck his head from the other side of the curtain. Ponce’s thoughts remained with the old man, but he reluctantly rose and followed the Doctor outside.

“We managed to deliver your baby Mr. Alexander, a healthy boy.”

“That’s great, that is exactly what my wife wanted. It’s always better for me if she gets what she wants.”

Doctor Leslie forced a smile, “Yes, well, unfortunately you r wife did not survive the delivery. She was too weak. There was nothing we could do. I’m sorry Mr. Alexander.”

“Now as you can see, interns, Mr. Alexander’s neck was broken in several places just a matter of hours ago. The police squad believes it to be suicide and by the breaks in the spine I would have to agree with them. Good for us though, this way you can work with some fresh meat. Nothing like fresh meat.” Dr. Loveseller’s interns chuckled and scribbled in their legal pads.

“Interns one through five stay with this body, sharpen you r scalpels, I’m going to show the remaining interns their body.” Dr. Loveseller walked a few yards to the next freezer, which he opened in the same fashion as before, letting the cold puffs of smoke envelop his interns.

“This is Robert Lee, an interesting case. This piece of scum shot an old lady at the grocery store and then shot himself. You can see the bullet entry on his forehead. Cowardly, just cowardly. I never thought that operating a morgue would bring such satisfaction, but carving up dirt like this is almost like a duty I do to society, an act of heroism even.” Interns six through ten nodded while scribbling in their legal pads.

The beeps filled the store and became branded in the minds of the workers as the day slowly progressed. They were somewhat comforting, the beeps, like a steady beep of a healthy patients heart monitor in the hospital. Lee put a hand through the hair on the side of his head, his line empty of customers and the top of his head empty of hair. He cherished the few hairs that hung wistfully on the sides of his head like NASCAR fans watching the bare track of his scalp from the stands. The clock on the wall had its hands stuck on 4:28, but Lee looked at his wristwatch where the hands were gratifyingly more accommodating with a time of 4:31. Lee damned the consequences and flicked his lines light out; number four was closed for 15 minutes, get over it people.

Lee strolled over to the machine to clock out, wringing his hands in anticipation and momentarily forgetting how to clock out.

“Anxious to get your hands on them scratch off’s Lee? I won me fifty bucks yesterday and that was with the Bingo card, using no Bonus squares mind you.” Lee’s fellow employee Randall said with a somewhat appropriated sense of accomplishment.

“Well I’ll be damned,” said Lee. “No bonuses you say, and Bingo is a tough one. I’m gonna get me a stack of Jackpots today, I got the apartment rent due this month.” Randall laughed but Lee slunk away, ashamed of the correctness of his last statement. Randall yelled after him, “Don’t think you can do what’s never been done Lee, you can’t.”

Lee fed numerous one and five dollar bills into the instant lotto machine next to the sliding doors of the store. He looked at the sign that set atop the machine: Play the Lotto; You’re Guaranteed to Have Fun. Lee sniffed, and bent down to pick up his ten cards from the slot.

Lee ventured out to his car and left the door ajar while he scratched off his tickets with an expert’s exactitude, only blowing the remaining debris off the card once he had seen if he had won. Each card revealed no major prizes, a measly one dollar winner and a free card prize, nothing to pay his rent. He threw the majority of the cards onto the floor, which already contained stacks of scratch-offs and lottery tickets, with numbers circled and hi-lighted. Lee attempted to close the door of his car several times before finally getting the warped metal to click. Piece of junk, too bad he would soon have to live out of it.

People were hurriedly running out of the store, Lee couldn’t get anyone to stop and tell him what the rush was all about. It was early, too early, so the only people shopping were elderly ladies and business men picking up a paper. Lee walked through the sliding doors and saw a masked man with a pistol standing by the Lotto machine. His heart skipped, he clasped his two winning lottery tickets and crept toward what he assumed to be a robber. Things seemed to happen, not in slow motion but in regular time, where Lee was someone other than himself, a better man perhaps. He kicked the back of the robber’s legs and punched the back of his head, which sent the robber to his knees quickly. Lee grabbed the dropped pistol and pointed it at another robber who was holding Janice, the older lady who ran register number one in the mornings, in a choke hold with a gun pressed to the back of her head.

“Let her go please, I don’t want to shoot anyone,” Lee said, the gun shaking in his hands. The robber shot the old lady in the back and shot Lee in the leg. Lee dropped, holding his leg, pain filling his mind and ears. The store now empty of customers, the robber had no problem dragging Lee over to the dead cashier. The masked robber put Lee’s hand to the trigger of the pistol, the barrel pressed snugly against his own forehead, and with the help of the robber Lee ended his own life. The Lotto tickets lay next to Lee, never to be cashed.

“Interns, prepare your knives. Let’s see what these carcasses have to show us about anatomy. Maybe you will actually learn something valuable.” Dr. Loveseller clanged two lustrous knives together as he finished talking. “Carve these bastards up.”