The New Guy

by djr

“There it is,” Valerie says and pulls over.  I already know it’s not the one we got the call about—this is the wrong location on Route 313 and we got a call about a coyote and what is lying out there in the road is a raccoon—but she’ll figure it out soon enough.  Don’t matter, we have to bag the racoon anyway.  Might as well be now.  She parks the truck on the side of County Route 313.  Two lanes, fifty-five mph, but nobody drives that slow around here.  Ronnie and Trevor, our state troopers, don’t feel much like ticketing unless you’re doing eighty or you’re drunk.  Most times they don’t even have their radar gun switched on.  Besides, not many cars run the 313 on any given day ‘cept maybe during the Pumpkin Festival over in Liberty County.

We get out and walk out to the carcass.  Valerie says, “Oh, wait.  This ain’t it, Cal.”

I take a breath and say, “No, Valerie.  It ain’t.”

“Call me Val!  Y’sound like my Grandmaw.” 

“I’ll be damned if I have everyone referring to us as Cal and Val.  Like we’re some weirdo comedy duo.”  At the garage I’m already hearing comments about Cal and his Gal Pal.

“Comedy duo?  That’ll never happen.”  She puts her gloves on.  “You ain’t funny,” then she goes to the truck for a shovel and a bag. 

“Get a big bag, joker.”  Big bags are for large dogs and messy small deer.  Full size deer and elk don’t get bagged.  Hell, we can’t even lift them in the truck.  We bring out the front loader and the dumper for them or the rare cow.  This raccoon is small, but he’s been spread out like deviled ham and he’s now completely stiff.

Valerie returns with a small bag.  I don’t say anything.  She’ll have to learn these things like I did—by making a lot of mistakes.  I scoop the carcass in the shovel and hold it up and let her try to wrestle it into the bag.  She looks up at me and says, “I better get a big bag.”

I nod. 

Forty years I’ve been doing this job.  My career is twice as old as Valerie and I have milk in my fridge that’s been on the job longer than her.  But she’s a nice enough kid.  I am to train her as my understudy.  I’ve had four of them over the years.  None seem to last very long.  They quickly transfer out to other County DPW departments.  They don’t mind scraping up squirrels or raccoons or possums.  They can even handle the deer calls we get and we get a lot of those.  But they almost all begin looking at the Jobs Board after their first dog pickup.  I’ve been dealing with Mr. Death so long he’s part of the job.  My ride-along.  Big death and little death.  Human’s are, of course, for the police and EMS crews.  Animals are mine.  It takes a certain temperament to make these calls, but that’s what the job is.  Roadkill on county roads.  A dead animal is a driving hazard and can stink up the place.  A skunk, if that bladder leaks, can smell for nearly two miles.   We pick ‘em all up:  racoons, coyotes, deer, squirrels, birds, cats (lots of cats!).  Some of them are still hanging on, but that’s a story for another day.  Maybe never.  Actually, the worst, if you haven’t guessed by now, are dogs.

Most been hit by cars and are out on the road.  But we do get calls from people for a pickup from their home.  Not all counties provide that service.  We do.  Valerie has never been on one of those calls.  I’ve been on too many.  Before we head out to the coyote, we have a home visit.

She pulls us into the long driveway.  I give her instructions.  “Don’t say nothin’.”  She’s about to interrupt me, but I stop her.  “Just follow my lead.”  She can tell by my demeanor I mean business.  We get out of the truck and I hand her a large bag and a small bag.  She stuffs them in her pocket.  I shake my head.  “Fold them up nice.  Makes ‘em look official.”

“Official?  They’re garbage bags.”

I give her the sidelook.  She huffs and rolls her eyes but folds them neatly.

“And once the animal is in the bag don’t twist up and hold it like trash.  It ain’t roadkill.  We’re going to gently place the animal in the bag, then fold over the edges and take the animal out to the truck holding it carefully like the precious family pet it is.”

“Really?”

“Have you ever owned a dog?” I look at her incredulously.

She shakes her head.  “Allergic.”

“Any pets?”

“Parrot.  He could talk.”

“I can only imagine what a kid like you taught him to say.”

“He could say a lot of things, but his favorites were, ‘Rock your body’, ‘I'll tell you what I want, what I really, really want’, and ‘Hey, big boy, show me your willie,’ but I didn’t teach him that.  I got him when he was six.  Had a previous owner who died.”

“Show me your willie?”

“Uh huh.  I think he was English.”

I just shake my head. 

“I was right,” she deadpans.  “You’re not funny.”

“Mm hmm.  Let’s go.”  We walk up to the door.  She reaches up to bang on the door, I smack her hand away.  I take a deep breath and let it out.  Look at her.  Then I knock gently.

A crocheted old lady answers. 

…