"Yippy Dog and Yellow Tape"
It was the animal control who found her bloody, lifeless body first. I can see it now- a neighbor, whose life is obviously in the shitter, gets peeved at even the slightest interruption from her day time television. There’s a dog’s outside. One of those yippy types. And boy is it yipping. One would think it was trying to conjure a storm, or have a full scale conversation with a not yet visible moon. But then again, maybe it was simply yipping relentlessly because its leash was caught around a dead woman’s wrist. I think that’d make anyone yip. Thus, out of panic, disgust, hunger, or… yes, possibly worry for its now stone cold owner, (but I have to interject ‘worry’ is added for balance of possibility not plausibility) the dog was barking.
So here comes pimple pocked Marco, dog restrainer ready in hand, worrying about his girlfriend who was probably at the exact moment he was to snag some little Fido, snagging a quickie with one of the debate team geeks behind the Science building at St. John’s High School. He rounds the corner and freezes. If you’ve seen a deer in your headlights (moments before impact naturally) then you have seen Marco. If not, try to picture it anyway. The phrase, deer in the headlights, though typically referenced to four legged furry roadside splatter, is a perfect image for our poor canine snatcher, Marco. And at moments like these, there seems to be a common response that I wouldn’t be surprised to hear even the about- to- be- hit deer utter under its muzzle as well,
“Oh… my… God…”
Marco can’t help but stare. Hell, wouldn’t you? I’ve never seen a dead body- well, a fresh dead body, the kind covered in blood and in unnatural positions. The prepared in the casket ones just don’t count, though I have seen those. It’s like mom’s homemade cookies verse the store bought packaged ones. There’s just no comparison. So Marco sees this mom’s homemade dead body lying there, and can do no more than stare. Mind blank, eyes focused, moment completely surreal. Surreal… that’s the word Marco’s therapist would later help him discover to explain his exact emotion at this precise moment. But for now we’ll beat him to the punch. Then, just like a punch, Marco’s reality comes crashing down. And what does he do? Pukes. Everywhere. He has the wits to try and turn his head and aim towards the bushes, but the result is reminiscent of a sprinkler. A spray that arcs as it turns. But no rainbows in this sun filtered stream. Chunks from Tomboy’s double chili dog, yes, rainbows, no. Maybe next time Marco will rethink his pre-work food selection. But at this moment it’s the last thing on his mind. It would have, I’m sure, been the last thing on his boss’ mind too, if it hadn’t been for the stench of mashed up chili spice that entered his nostrils. Oh, and the sound of Marco trying desperately to shove his colon out of his mouth. And of course, the dog yipping, like background music on this delicious party. All combined, Mr. Fanterbe is compelled to step out of the truck, again calling upon the Lord (our God).
“What in God’s name is going on?”
Without Jesus or a holy man nearby, not much of anything is going on in His name, Mr. Fanterbe. He hikes up the pants that have a hard time fighting the force of the oversized gut pushing down in the front and the lack of ass to hold ‘um up in the rear. Rear… haha. Not funny… anyway. Poor pants.
As Mr. Fanterbe rounds the corner, the full extent of the smell hits him like a jet plane. A 747. The cargo type. It’s a mix of dog shit (yes, even dogs with dead owners still need to relieve themselves), Marco’s bile, and an almost fresh dead body. It takes all of his will power to hold his own vomit in, but his eyes do begin to water. And, like a broken record, there it is again:
“Oh… my… God...”
Mr. Fanterbe spins more gracefully than an elephant performing ballet and rushes back to the truck. Barley able to speak for fear chunks might slide out and onto the 2-way radio, Mr. Fanterbe calls in for backup… but upon realizing he’s only animal control, reneges his statement and changes it to:
“Send the God damn cops! We’ve got a dead body! On the corner of 27th and Bell!”
Then he rushes out again (poor pants), towards Marco, whom he abruptly grabs under the armpits and all but carries him outstretched from his own body, like one would a urinating infant, back towards the truck. By this point, Marco’s lunch, breakfast and dinner from the night before, as well as the thought of dinner later on that night, are out on the sidewalk and in the bushes. He’s mostly dry heaving now, which, as his stomach could tell you, is actually even worse. Mr. Fanterbe opens the passenger door of the big white van and shoves Marco in, like over packing a suitcase. Grace or comfort was neither the consideration for Marco or the Chuck Taylor’s you just HAD to bring on your trip. He rushes to the back, extracts a towel, and then gets in his own side of the van, flinging the towel on Marco in a manner that says “Boy, fix yourself.” Mr. Fanterbe probably would have said that had he been able to speak. His mouth was watering profusely, begging to please be allowed to vomit. Mr. Fanterbe was a tough one though. He wasn’t going to give in.
Soon there’s sirens. Oh my there sure are a lot of them. Ambulance too. I hope they all brought some gas masks. Marco can’t see what’s going on; his face is in the towel. Mr. Fanterbe can’t either, there’s a ring of important uniformed people dashing about, obscuring his view. And yet the dog hasn’t stopped barking. Yip Yip Yip. I’m still here! Oh my God people! I’m still attached to a dead woman!
“Um, you Mr. Fanterbe?” A young wet behind the ears cop asks Mr. Fanterbe, who has graciously opened his door just the slightest crack.
Head nod.
“Look sir, we’re gonna have to ask you, and your um… associate… some questions about all this…”
Head nod.
“But, um, first… do you think you could uh, secure the animal?”
Mr. Fanterbe stares at him. No head nod. But his boots nod in their own way, they swing down to find pavement and soon Mr. Fanterbe shares Marco’s moment of surreal. He goes through the motions of ropin’ and chokin’ that damn yippy dog and shoving him in the back of the truck, trying all along to not glance at the large white blood covered blob on the sidewalk. Now, from the outside, the yipping is muffled; but on the inside? Oh how perfect the acoustics!
The three of them sit there for a bit longer. Two in silence, one in yippiness. Marco looks down at his puke stained uniform shirt. He doesn’t care at this moment if his girlfriend has banged everyone on the debate team. All he can think about is how mad his mom’s going to be when he shows her this stain. Mr. Fanterbe is wondering if dog’s can be put on trial for murder. But in the back of their minds, both are also wondering, “can you really bleed that much from your head?”
Mr. Fanterbe and Marco are sent away after names and numbers are exchanged and dower faced promises are made about future contact. The medical workers hoist the still (somehow) bleeding body onto a gurney and cover it with a white sheet. In my personal and professional opinion, a white sheet is not only too cliché but it’s also highly improbable; especially when there’s blood to be dealt with. Black would be far more logical, or a deep Navy blue. But, what do I really know…
A few hours later the cops go home. Not long after the crowd of neighbors wander away too. Even the grumpy lady whose show was interrupted in the first place eventually returns to her drab life. At least she’ll feel good tonight. She did her part for society. She helped solve a murder mystery! Or at least that’s the thought that dances around in her little not- so- pretty head; never mind the lack of both foul play and mystery in this case. All that remains is the yellow tape. And some white chalk. I didn’t think they actually used chalk for body outlines. I was wrong. I also was wrong to assume that the moon can’t illuminate more clearly than the sun.
As I stood behind the yellow tape, try as I might I couldn’t help but marvel at the way the now dried blood still glistened a deep crimson in the moon’s thoughtful rays. I couldn’t tell you how long I’ve stood here. I do know that the day time television segments are long dead and gone… until tomorrow anyway. I looked down at my own skin… bathed in white, a lot like the color I’m sure my mother was as she lay in the morgue. The only difference, I suppose, was that I still had my clothes on…
So here comes pimple pocked Marco, dog restrainer ready in hand, worrying about his girlfriend who was probably at the exact moment he was to snag some little Fido, snagging a quickie with one of the debate team geeks behind the Science building at St. John’s High School. He rounds the corner and freezes. If you’ve seen a deer in your headlights (moments before impact naturally) then you have seen Marco. If not, try to picture it anyway. The phrase, deer in the headlights, though typically referenced to four legged furry roadside splatter, is a perfect image for our poor canine snatcher, Marco. And at moments like these, there seems to be a common response that I wouldn’t be surprised to hear even the about- to- be- hit deer utter under its muzzle as well,
“Oh… my… God…”
Marco can’t help but stare. Hell, wouldn’t you? I’ve never seen a dead body- well, a fresh dead body, the kind covered in blood and in unnatural positions. The prepared in the casket ones just don’t count, though I have seen those. It’s like mom’s homemade cookies verse the store bought packaged ones. There’s just no comparison. So Marco sees this mom’s homemade dead body lying there, and can do no more than stare. Mind blank, eyes focused, moment completely surreal. Surreal… that’s the word Marco’s therapist would later help him discover to explain his exact emotion at this precise moment. But for now we’ll beat him to the punch. Then, just like a punch, Marco’s reality comes crashing down. And what does he do? Pukes. Everywhere. He has the wits to try and turn his head and aim towards the bushes, but the result is reminiscent of a sprinkler. A spray that arcs as it turns. But no rainbows in this sun filtered stream. Chunks from Tomboy’s double chili dog, yes, rainbows, no. Maybe next time Marco will rethink his pre-work food selection. But at this moment it’s the last thing on his mind. It would have, I’m sure, been the last thing on his boss’ mind too, if it hadn’t been for the stench of mashed up chili spice that entered his nostrils. Oh, and the sound of Marco trying desperately to shove his colon out of his mouth. And of course, the dog yipping, like background music on this delicious party. All combined, Mr. Fanterbe is compelled to step out of the truck, again calling upon the Lord (our God).
“What in God’s name is going on?”
Without Jesus or a holy man nearby, not much of anything is going on in His name, Mr. Fanterbe. He hikes up the pants that have a hard time fighting the force of the oversized gut pushing down in the front and the lack of ass to hold ‘um up in the rear. Rear… haha. Not funny… anyway. Poor pants.
As Mr. Fanterbe rounds the corner, the full extent of the smell hits him like a jet plane. A 747. The cargo type. It’s a mix of dog shit (yes, even dogs with dead owners still need to relieve themselves), Marco’s bile, and an almost fresh dead body. It takes all of his will power to hold his own vomit in, but his eyes do begin to water. And, like a broken record, there it is again:
“Oh… my… God...”
Mr. Fanterbe spins more gracefully than an elephant performing ballet and rushes back to the truck. Barley able to speak for fear chunks might slide out and onto the 2-way radio, Mr. Fanterbe calls in for backup… but upon realizing he’s only animal control, reneges his statement and changes it to:
“Send the God damn cops! We’ve got a dead body! On the corner of 27th and Bell!”
Then he rushes out again (poor pants), towards Marco, whom he abruptly grabs under the armpits and all but carries him outstretched from his own body, like one would a urinating infant, back towards the truck. By this point, Marco’s lunch, breakfast and dinner from the night before, as well as the thought of dinner later on that night, are out on the sidewalk and in the bushes. He’s mostly dry heaving now, which, as his stomach could tell you, is actually even worse. Mr. Fanterbe opens the passenger door of the big white van and shoves Marco in, like over packing a suitcase. Grace or comfort was neither the consideration for Marco or the Chuck Taylor’s you just HAD to bring on your trip. He rushes to the back, extracts a towel, and then gets in his own side of the van, flinging the towel on Marco in a manner that says “Boy, fix yourself.” Mr. Fanterbe probably would have said that had he been able to speak. His mouth was watering profusely, begging to please be allowed to vomit. Mr. Fanterbe was a tough one though. He wasn’t going to give in.
Soon there’s sirens. Oh my there sure are a lot of them. Ambulance too. I hope they all brought some gas masks. Marco can’t see what’s going on; his face is in the towel. Mr. Fanterbe can’t either, there’s a ring of important uniformed people dashing about, obscuring his view. And yet the dog hasn’t stopped barking. Yip Yip Yip. I’m still here! Oh my God people! I’m still attached to a dead woman!
“Um, you Mr. Fanterbe?” A young wet behind the ears cop asks Mr. Fanterbe, who has graciously opened his door just the slightest crack.
Head nod.
“Look sir, we’re gonna have to ask you, and your um… associate… some questions about all this…”
Head nod.
“But, um, first… do you think you could uh, secure the animal?”
Mr. Fanterbe stares at him. No head nod. But his boots nod in their own way, they swing down to find pavement and soon Mr. Fanterbe shares Marco’s moment of surreal. He goes through the motions of ropin’ and chokin’ that damn yippy dog and shoving him in the back of the truck, trying all along to not glance at the large white blood covered blob on the sidewalk. Now, from the outside, the yipping is muffled; but on the inside? Oh how perfect the acoustics!
The three of them sit there for a bit longer. Two in silence, one in yippiness. Marco looks down at his puke stained uniform shirt. He doesn’t care at this moment if his girlfriend has banged everyone on the debate team. All he can think about is how mad his mom’s going to be when he shows her this stain. Mr. Fanterbe is wondering if dog’s can be put on trial for murder. But in the back of their minds, both are also wondering, “can you really bleed that much from your head?”
Mr. Fanterbe and Marco are sent away after names and numbers are exchanged and dower faced promises are made about future contact. The medical workers hoist the still (somehow) bleeding body onto a gurney and cover it with a white sheet. In my personal and professional opinion, a white sheet is not only too cliché but it’s also highly improbable; especially when there’s blood to be dealt with. Black would be far more logical, or a deep Navy blue. But, what do I really know…
A few hours later the cops go home. Not long after the crowd of neighbors wander away too. Even the grumpy lady whose show was interrupted in the first place eventually returns to her drab life. At least she’ll feel good tonight. She did her part for society. She helped solve a murder mystery! Or at least that’s the thought that dances around in her little not- so- pretty head; never mind the lack of both foul play and mystery in this case. All that remains is the yellow tape. And some white chalk. I didn’t think they actually used chalk for body outlines. I was wrong. I also was wrong to assume that the moon can’t illuminate more clearly than the sun.
As I stood behind the yellow tape, try as I might I couldn’t help but marvel at the way the now dried blood still glistened a deep crimson in the moon’s thoughtful rays. I couldn’t tell you how long I’ve stood here. I do know that the day time television segments are long dead and gone… until tomorrow anyway. I looked down at my own skin… bathed in white, a lot like the color I’m sure my mother was as she lay in the morgue. The only difference, I suppose, was that I still had my clothes on…