December 6

Twenty-four Doors: Christmas Eve at the Crematorium

Crayon, Bic pen, colored pencil on an index card.

Without cost you have received; without cost you are to give.

I am sure it is hyperbole to say there is an infinite number of ways one can spend their Christmas Eve.

Because infinite is impossible.

So, there is a finite number of ways one can spend their Christmas Eve.

Finite, meaning a calculable number, but by no means a small number.

I know for myself, I have been all up and down the entire Christmas Eve spectrum. From Irish pubs and singing,

To a bedside in some deplorable hospice.

This year, however, falls into the rarer end of finite. This year, I found myself at a crematorium.

This circumstance, admittedly, is at least partially of my doing. Capitalism holds some fault, but that is a different kind of story altogether. Regardless, Here I am on Christmas Eve. For the most part, this whole thing has been mundane given the—connotation—of the work. It is light duty, some minor clerical sorting, and a few other skills I needed to add to the old repertoire.

The actual human remnants are contained and handled by others. I do not leave at the end of the day covered in human ash. That would be a violation of that vague sense of dignity in death. Well, we offer dignity to those who can afford it.

Anyway, I think the correct vernacular here is that I am—front of house. But, as with all things, this description tends to shift over time. Tonight, there was a skeleton crew: a technician who had become too jaded over time, and me.

Let’s call the technician Dr. Cratchit. Not because that was his name, but because Dr. Dickens would be too on the nose.

Dr. Cratchit was the bumbling effigy of a burnt-out academic.

Imagine a doctor—but with a worse bedside manner than most doctors. Disposing bodies was his entire life’s work. He was like a garbage man but for corpses.

I am sure he thought himself above that description. I am sure he thought himself quite practical and intelligent

—I thought him neither—

I felt suspicious when I saw his name set for such an auspicious date. Parts of me tried to convince myself that maybe I’d been wrong about the good Doc, that my observations and assumptions might have been off. Sometimes, familiarity has a way of softening a person’s resolve.

I arrived for my late shift tonight as the sun was going down. I was prepared to fumble around some terrible carpets and bump into ill-conceived holiday decorations. Dr. Cratchit had another plan in mind for the night. He wanted to clear out some of the unclaimed remains that had accumulated during the year.

I found out, through some personal experiences, that this is a regular practice for crematoriums. If ashes are not paid for, after an allotted time, they are disposed of. Now, some might clutch their pearls and think this is unconscionable, but I point to my above comment about capitalism.

It happens.

Sometimes it is poverty-driven. Sometimes people outlive everyone who ever really loved them.

Dying is expensive. Your third cousin, who you haven’t seen since a BBQ in 1992, couldn’t give a shit where you, or your remains, are deposited.

If you think they are forking over thousands of dollars, think again.

It might sound callous, because it is.

Over the years, this has become a tradition for Dr. Cratchit. When most people are enjoying mulled wine and the company of loved ones, the good doctor here is dumping human remains into a trash bin. I am sure there are some regulations about the disposal of these remains, but aside from the pop-up audit, how would any agency ever know? Additionally, any oversight agency would certainly not be performing these audits on Christmas Eve. So, I’ll give it to Doc here. He had a plan. Only his plan was moored in modern scientific hubris; it didn’t account for me, and my undeath.

Remember that whole Irish Pub to hospice comment?

The pub was three years ago with my wife.

The hospice was also with my wife—two years ago.

Last year, I couldn’t pay for her ashes, and Doc dumped them in the trash.

It was too much for me, losing her, and losing her again.

So, I taped my eviction notice over my face like some white trash Daoist. I put a shotgun under my nose and pulled the trigger with my big toe. I decorated the walls of that shithole apartment with my holly jolly thinky parts.

Of course, none of this beyond-the-grave revenge was the plan. I was looking for the total lights-out situation.

Imagine my surprise.

Once I got used to my new state of being, I began toying with the idea of a revenge plot.

Trust me, things get boring quickly.

I was kind in my life. Not perfect, but kind. They say, Kindness is golden, but that kind of gold doesn’t pay the bills. It was thrilling to see how much I could do with my new form. I was enamored with the level of apparition I was. I think some of the classic descriptions apply.

I am not all-powerful; I cannot haunt without effort.

I think poltergeist would suffice as a descriptor. I refer to myself as a poltergeist in my own mind. I can work up enough emotion to manipulate physical objects.

Can you believe that most modern cremation machines operate via a touch screen?

Neither could I.

I thought it would be a lever or crank. I might be basing most of this on things I have seen in movies or on TV. You would think with those high temperatures, there would be some complexity to it.

I am sure there is when using it for conventional purposes, but what I needed it for didn’t require any degree or special skills.

Doctor Cratchit was mostly unaware of my presence over the last several months. He knew that certain events seemed off, but he was a man of science. Ghosts and their sort were a fairytale to him. Those are always the best kind of antagonists in tales such as this.

I relished in his certainty.

His look of horror and agony right before the flames melted his face was priceless. The shock and dismay were—delectable.

I won’t go so far as to say all this was worth it, but considering all my pain, it was surprisingly worth it—adjacent.

After the screaming stopped, I was expecting to float away or disappear, but I didn’t.

I waited.

The boys of the NYPD choir sang Galway Bay.

Nothing further happened.

There was no release or happily ever after. I guess I have more revenge to seek. Old Doc Cratchit wasn’t the final boss.

I’ll have to pay a few more people a visit.

I wonder who owns this crematorium?

Who owns the business of death?

I wonder what they are doing for Christmas Eve next year?

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December 7 Drew Valdez

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