Sherman is dead.

      Sherman was only thirty-two years old. Just one year older then me. 

      Light rainfall against a soggy grey twilight backdrop. A few degenerate types were huddled outside the squatty ʻSection 8ʼ apartment complex somewhere off of Portland Rd. 

      When we get the phone call, weʼre given the address and a name and thatʼs it. Ready for anything, we walked into the place of death. The Chief Medical Examiner for all of Marion County and a young cop were attempting to de-cypher the labels on a number of prescription bottles. Four empty 22 0z. cans of ʻWiredʼ alcoholic energy drinks were lined up in a row near the deceased who was covered by an old blanket on an old sofa. No blood, exhale.

       I saw an American flag in a specially made wooden box with a glass lid hanging on the 

wall next to a small photo of a in a military uniform embracing his newlywed wife. 

      I think she was one of the females standing outside in the rain on the sidewalk. 

      The apartment was a mess. Lots of video games and dirty dishes everywhere. There 

was a certain familiar smell, kind of sweet and rotten at the same time. It reminds me of 

when I was a teenage drug addict and I would end up in places like this one. I could 

have easily ended up just like poor Sherman. 

      The deceased is showing signs of rigor mortis. We get his bent legs up on the gurney 

and hoist the rest of him over onto the plastic sheet. The smell of a dead manʼs shit 

overwhelms the taste of my trident gum. 

      The ʻdoor ajarʼ indicator in the white van is malfunctioning. The beeping tone engages at  

random. Is poor Sherman trying to communicate with us? (*my ink pen rolled six inches 

to itʼs right, southward, just as I typed the decedentʼs name in that last sentence. 

Coincidence?) The superstitious are not cut out for this line of work. 

      We get back to the funeral home in good time. Only about forty minutes have passed 

since I first stepped off my front porch. I know the drill by now. I get Sherman out of the 

van; I unlock the fridge; I place a name tag on Shermanʼs ankle; I slide his rigid body 

onto a cold metal shelf; I uncover his head; look at this lifeless strangerʼs face and offer 

my sympathies; then I take hold of his neck and lift his head, placing a styrofoam block 

underneath to avoid ʻpoolingʼ; I write the decendentʼs name on a dry erase board under 

the space labeled ʻLeft Middleʼ; I get the gurney prepped for itʼs next passenger and 

slide it back into the van. I make it home with enough time to write this, watch the 

Blazers game, take a shower and relax. 

      Poor Sherman was still rigid and cold somewhere in the back of my mind.