Graveyard Shift

Always have smokes in yer pocket, or patrol car, even
if you don’t smoke or work graveyard shift.

One whiff of Kevin Sheldon revealed to my nicotine
stained sinuses HeriKeri had been performed, shotgun
no less. All graveyard shifters can spot that unique
bouquet of gun smoke and medium rare cannibal menu
meats. The infectious smell of hominid expiration and
decay attracts our kind to the villages, repulses
normals. Preamble of today’s duties will break even a
fossilized heart.

Me and Columbo often wondered how Wallace and Troxell
processed multiple decades of wholesale cadaver bait,
yet we ain’t never seen ‘em puke. I seen Octuck heave
a buncha times, little fucker can lob gut bombs
further than he can pee. See, Patrick was really
upset over the death of 3 boys.

Funny thing; when you pull boys out of the cooler,
your senses falsely tell you that they’re still
amongst the living, aside from the stillness. Clear
skin, good color, healthy smell, and open eyes, yet no
chest compressions or mouth to mouth is gonna change
the fact that these perfectly healthy little boys are
never gonna run and play again, they’s dead. That SR
(service request) sure got to Octuck.

Fetching submerged children is a day’s work that
rightfully repulses normals. Nice thing about drowned
kids, they ain’t all soiled or broken, plus, they
smell real clean, strange. Clean deceased is a reason
to celebrate, ya don’t gotta go back home, change into
clean clothes, and show yer kids the cool brains and
poop on yer uniform. Reason graveyard shifters carry
cigarettes and matches, is by offering a smoke, a chap
can establish a conversationally and chemically agreeable
singularity with his uniformed comrades, but,
only after they’re done blowin’ chunks.

Ghastly aromas bring back fond fucking memories, and
painful lessons in life. Bloated floaters always
remind high mileage souls of the smell of the old jail
in Kotzebue. Best way to collapse these huge human
fart balloons is put a round up through ‘em.
Buckwheats works, but you’ll be needin’ a shower, and
a ride home, in someone else’s goddamn car. Fuck you,
it ain’t that far a walk from the base, chunkin’ up
native food ain’t ridin’ in my car.

Ya see, you can learn a lot from a dummy, more
importantly, this dimphuck learned a lot from a bunch
of sickFuck cops. You can also learn how men from the
FAZ have been deprived of an emotional outlet when
these blessed soldiers volunteer to repair
overwhelming inhuman, yet aboriginal trauma.

Normals don’t know how goddamn violent rural Alaska
is. Did you know that with simple farm tools, Rwandan
murder rates tripled the Nazis best daily averages, in
the context of homicidal mayhem, take my word for it,
fucking Eskimos can hold their own.

Ya see, after a particularly violent shift, God’s
children spend the mornings healing but not weeping
very often, at the KPD off site MercBar somewhere in
the 400 block sipping solvents and inhaling aromatic
hydrocarbons. If you call that rational emoting,
think again. Years of acutely violent shifts are
eventually accumulated and shouldered by our coworkers
in public safety. Doubt me? Take a look at Waller,
Westlake, or Garroutte, those boys’ll never be fucking
healthy again. Fuck it; I’m a chatty motherfucker,
ain't I?

I’m also gonna take a shot at appreciating, maybe
examining, but not lightening the load carried by our
uniformed comrades. Pretty tough to watch a soldier
contain such misery, we also know from experience,
that the poor lad will never drink it off his mind.
Dead but clean children and pretty girls with most of
their face and head never leave their flat they’re
renting in yer head. We may empathize and assist in
the grieving process with the parents of dead
children, but I’m betting you’re all clueless how to
soothe the injured souls of bush medics and village
cops.

I’m usually cool as a motherfucker in any duty, most the
time that is. The only thing that chokes me up is
seeing another soldier weep. Crying women only
fucking irritate the piss outa me, but seeing old cops
and medics with runny eyes pert near always evokes a
shitfit of quease and worry outa me, wrecks my whole
fucking shift. Graveyard shift mates.

History paints a shallow and under estimated picture
of masculine sensitivity.

As an older brother, it’s common to bandage scrapes
and cuts, hold hands and wipe tears off our little
bros, and pray we don’t get in trouble, but what does
a chap do for broken comrades unable to adjust to
trauma duty?

About a hunnert years ago, me and Columbo walked in on
Wallace, Troxell, and Octuck, upset, red and runny
eyes, smoking trembling cigarettes. Previous shift,
those boys pulled a wrecked Bessie out of a wrecked
car. This really pretty Eskimo girl suffered from
IMIS (Inupiaq motor inversion syndrome). Everytime us
reservation retards race for Team Bacardi, it’s SOP
protocol to flip yer car and collapse the saturated
craniums of mostly healthy Eskimo girls. Poor thing
lived the trip to MMC, with most of her brains and
face. Trox can explain the really gory details, over
11 bourbons.

Ya see, it’s a secret code; we ain’t supposed to be
there in the squad room, cuz 20 years ago, we were
rookies. What’s expected during moments like these,
is that I drop me smokes and get back to central
dispatch, leave the upset fossils be. Fuck all.
Ya’ll owe them gents a few more than 11 bourbons.

Next shift, remember to allow our best mates the
unsolicited yet automatically granted privacy to shed
tears by themselves. In uniform, but alone. These
old cops merely served as the send off party for lots
of lonesome folk whose horrific mistakes caused them
to catch an earlier train. Ya see, you don’t need a
structurally integral body, them boys always know yer
destination, and dutifully help you there.

Fuck all, don’t matter how much the TroxFuck or
Wallace have had to drink, they’s Alaska’s best limb
retrievers and lifesavers. Fuck all.

Like I said, a good way to score points with yer
coworkers is always have a smoke on hand. Trust me,
it’ll take a few decades, but you’ll learn this burden
becomes really fucking heavy, something that we’ve all
covertly acknowledged; yet never discussed.

Ya see, north of 70 lat, we keep our injuries to
ourselves. Something we share ‘round these parts.

Karl.