Disposing Gloria

Now they call you Prince Charming
Can't speak a word when you're full of 'ludes
Say you'll be all right come tomorrow
But tomorrow might not be here for you[1]

Disposing Gloria

The stench of Ms. Thebolt—Gloria if you will—had gotten to be distressing; and by the way, she deserved it after all the people and careers she had destroyed; slow, awful, painful deaths into obscurity and oblivion with her mere opinion and bullshit commentary.  She could make or break a career with her large mouth and word processor.  But, she won't have the chance to ruin Candy's or anyone else's—not now, not ever.  Once a powerful figure, now just a pile of rotting flesh and bone, stinking up my living room.

I considered my options: chop her up into small pieces; put them into freezer bags, and eat her over the next year; or place the body in the bathtub, pour lime all over it and hopefully it will eventually disintegrate; maybe take a chainsaw to her and send her down the garbage disposal . . . I stopped.  Eating her and all the fat intake would just do more damage to my already high cholesterol levels; there was only one tub in the house and I'd be reduced to bathing in the kitchen sink, besides the chainsaw method would make more of a mess than I already had.

I also did not have a prior criminal record or affiliation with the mob.  It wasn't like I could call some Scarface wannabe to remove the body, put it on a boat, and take it 20 miles out to sea and feed her to the sharks—I was a filmmaker, with a deadline for Christ sakes, perhaps bordering on insanity, but I wasn't crazy enough to get caught . . . At least I thought.

In my delirium I searched for answers. What should I do? I had some sharp knifes, but this calls for a surgical saw and they don't carry them at your local Home Depot. Well, yes they do, but they're called by the rather malevolent name of a hacksaw, I contemplated.  It would take some time. I figured I could cut Gloria into six pieces: remove her head, then the arms, and then the legs, leaving the torso.  But the torso is pretty bulky.  I got out a calculator.  I guessed she weighed in at about 315.  Lets do the math, I estimated: the head about 15 pounds, the arms about 25 pounds each, and the legs probably 40.  So that's; one head at 15 plus arms at 25 pounds times two, that's 15 plus 50, plus two legs at 40 pounds apiece equals 80 plus 50 equals 130 pounds.  She is approximately 315 pounds minus arms, legs and head at 130 equals 185 pounds.  Jesus! I thought, that's still a lot of weight.  How the hell am I going to get rid of that huge-ass torso? 

I thought for a moment . . . I'll gut her.  I'd seen it done on the only occasion my father had actually shot a deer (a doe by the way). And I think I could successfully remove all of Gloria's organs reducing the weight immensely. But what then? I looked down at the small white garbage bags I had tried to stuff Gloria's feet in earlier. They only reached her shins. Hmmm, an idea!  First I needed a test.

I was working on my edit when I heard the shifting gears of a garbage truck in the distance.  I got up from my computer and walked to the front window.  The sun had not risen yet and a muggy blue-gray mist hung low surrounding the orange burning street lamp at the foot of my yard. I heard the sound of air brakes down the street and through the far left corner of my front window I could see a yellow flashing light raking the neighbor's houses, as the front cab of a large garbage truck was coming to a stop. At the opposite side of the truck, I could see a black man wearing a reflective vest as he came from behind the vehicle and grabbed one of the neighbor's garbage cans.  The truck's engine roared as it moved forward and now I could see a second yellow-vested black man wearing a wool cap. He approached from this side of the truck.  The man on the far side—across the street—grabbed the neighbor's cans as the truck pulled in front of him blocking him from my view.  The man with the wool cap was heading towards my garbage cans as the truck's engine again thundered sending the vehicle diagonally forward across the road towards the front of my house.  I had one can sitting near my mailbox as the second man approached it and removed the lid flinging it like Frisbee about 20 feet.

Damn! I thought. That son of a bitch threw my lid into my neighbor's yard. Again! And for a moment, I considered going out and tearing him a new ass about me repeatedly having to go to someone else’s yard to pick up my fucking garbage can lid. But, just as quickly, reconsidered due to the contents of the trash I had placed in my neighbor Mrs. Bulleti's, garbage can three hours earlier. The truck pulled beside him as he emptied the small plastic bag of paper waste from my office into the rear cavity of the truck.

I felt apprehensive as the other man was making his way to Mrs. Bulleti's house across the street.  The truck moved diagonally across the road to the two trashcans she had placed out the night before. It stopped: its rear end a few feet from the garbage man across the street.  He pulled the lid off the first can and tossed it to the side.  No reaction. . . Good, nothing unusual, I thought.  He grabbed the second can and tossed the lid.  Did he pull back from the smell? I wasn't sure.  Did it smell like Gloria's rotting head or one of her arms, I questioned—my mind racing, my heart pounding.  He tossed the contents of the can into the truck as the man with the hat—the Frisbee flinging asshole—made his way to the right rear of the truck. 

He reached out to a lever and pulled it.  The engine wailed as a large hydraulic metal scoop reached forward encasing the waste and pulling it into the belly of the truck.  The two men jumped on the back of the vehicle as it pulled away and turned north on Grand Lane.  A sign above the blackened trash opening at the rear of the truck read, "Waste Pros"—and underneath—"God Bless America.” I smiled, yes! I thought: God bless this country where your garbage is collected on Tuesdays . . . And on Thursday—when I would send the legs, and then again the torso on the following Tuesday. My plan was working. I sat down. I needed to complete my edit. I felt lucky being able to do what I was doing—completing a film that is. I didn't want to loose this; it had been such a long road . . .

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SEE OTHER CHAPTERS of "DEATH DOESN'T COME EASY" TO THE RIGHT UNDER BLOG ARCHIVES . . . or just move on with your life. It may be simpler that way....

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[1] Ronnie Van Zant & Allen Collins – That Smell Lynard Skynard