SPECIALIST

The dead man's blood was all over my face, and for a small fraction of a moment it felt like time had stopped entirely. Grusso's eyes were wide and round white bulbs behind the slight glare of the plastic faceshield, his hands --- each grasping a pair of operating scissors --- stuck out like little broken bird wings.
Next to him, the brand new nursing tech was frantically trying to rip her mask off, her eyes like rescue-helicopter spotlights, wildly searching for a trashcan to puke in.
And, of course, there was the dead man.
When the hospital had hired me, it under the conditions that i would work on call at any time, any day of the week; the only reason they had even interviewed me was because my mother worked in the insurance department and had literally saved them millions of dollars.
With robotic friendliness she inquired about my experience as a shipping clerk for the Navy, and about the time i spent overseas in Asia. She of course commented on the proffesionalism of my mother ---everyone always did--- and then neatly shuffled my papers and leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs.
"You'll have to bag dead bodies, you know."
I nodded gravely.
When my mother came home several days before, excitedly waving the job application for the 'N-U Specialist', i had no idea what it was or what it meant.
"Its a special job," said my mother, throwing her purse down. "I mean, its even called a Specialist."
"What's N-U stand for?"
"Nursing Unit."
"What would i do?"
She explained it to me, in great detail, telling me all about the Inter-department liason work, messenger runs, outpatient clinic and pharmacy pickups, transporting patients from one floor to another...it was a long list, and at the very end of it came the words 'Bagging the dead bodies."
I shrugged, thinking it would be interesting enough; i needed a job, and it paid well, especially for someone who dropped out of college after studying two years of fine art.
And now the interviewer was making sure i knew what i was getting into.
"Its very common, you know," she said, her monotone voice and sharply defined crossed legs bringing to mind a character from an Ayn Rand novel. "This hospital is very large: lots of floors. Lots of patients."
"I understand."
I hadnt fully understood.
The first 'post-mortem' job i did was with Grusso (as were all the jobs; we were the only two dayshift specialists in the hospital). We systematically put on the gowns, the gloves, the surgical face masks and goggles; Grusso even went so far as to put a faceshield over his mask and goggles, probably to protect the thick black beard that he wore over his weathered face.
"Oh shit," he said, a hint of an eastern european accent in his deep voice. "I forgot the thing, stay here." he motioned to the dead patient on the bed. "Make sure she doesnt get up and walk around."
I looked down at the dead woman, and then back at him, but he had already left the room, closing the door behind him.
It was awkward, being alone in there for a few minutes, but when Grusso returned we slowly and simply followed the procedures.
Sometimes there were snags.
Once, a nursing student from Eastern insisted on coming into the room with us to 'observe'; after a few moments she had turned pale, and as soon as i opened my mouth to tell her to sit down she threw up all over her own faceplate.
Another time, very late at night, the deceased patient suddenly twitched, his lifeless arm jolting upwards at the elbow as we went to fold it over his chest. Grusso screamed (it sounded more like the bark of a vicious dog), and i literally jumped back, tripping over a chair and ending up on the floor as Grusso laughed.
"It happens all the time," he said, the Russian accent very noticebale. "The twitching. Natural reaction."
"Jesus Christ, man," i said, struggling to my feet. "You never told me that?"
"I thought you knew, sorry."
But none of it compared to the dead man's blood in the face.
It was very early. I had just arrived to work and was socializing with the Surgical staff in their break room. It wasn't supposed to be a particularly busy day; some inter department phonecalls, restocking the medrooms on the General Admission floors, and taking a group of newly hired employees on a detailed tour of the hospital. Grusso was somewhere in the North Tower, helping the phlebotomists with a hard stick.
My beeper went off, the code said 'PMD', which stood for 'Post Mortem; Directly', meaning i had to get there immediately. I finished my coffee and met Grusso, who was already gowning up, outside the room.
"We got to hurry," he said, putting the surgical mask over his face. "I have lot to do."
"Yup."
"This is Jessica," he said, motioning to a very pretty blonde girl who was also gowning up a few feet away. "She is brand new tech. She is going to assist us."
"Alright." I nodded at her. "You're new?"
"Yeah," she said, blushing. "It's my second day."
"Oh, great, this will be a good experience."
We went into the room, quietly and carefully, as if he was just sleeping and we could wake him. The room smelled like swollen dead flesh; sort of a fish-gone-sour smell mixed with too many roses. Several days before he passed, the patient had developed gangrene in his left foot, which had rapidly morphed into nothing more than dying chunk of skin, charred jet-fuel black, unwanted but hanging around like an uninvited dinner guest. Even under the surgical masks the smell was hard to take.
The patient was partially reclined in his bed, his dead face frozen in a partial grin, his eyes open.
I glanced at Jessica, who unfolded the body bag with a soft dread in her eyes, like someone who is desperatley trying to focus on anything else.
"You sure you're ok?" i said.
"Mmhhm," she said quietly.
We started.
The IVs came gently, without any resistance, slippery and coated with clotted blood and muckk. Jessica, underneath her faceplate, was gagging as she tagged the patients foot.
"You need to go if its too gross," said Grusso.
"I'm ok," she said, her face putrid and pale. "It smells so awful,"
"Ok, we roll him over," he said to me. "You pull out nephrostomy tube."
Jessica cringed as she grabbed his legs, and Grusso counted to three and they rolled the stiffening body onto its side.
"Oh, he shit himself," i said. At some point the patient had defacated, probably in the seconds after he took his last breath. A whole new wave of stench floated up to nostril-level directly, thick and nauseating and piercing the walls of our facemasks. I never wore a faceplate; it was sealed at the bottom and your breath fogged up the shield, making everything hot and uncomfortable, and extrememly claustrophobic. Instead i wore just the surgical mask and a pair of operation goggles, although even that was uncomfortable. The smell in this room was bad enough to make me instantly regret only wearing the mask.
"Pull the tube, Jake."
"Got it," i said, my gloved fingers grasping the nephrostomy tube, which dissapeared into a tiny incision into the dead mans back, feeding directly into his now defunct kidneys. The tube was taped twice over with medical tape, and i used the snips to cut the tape, placing the strips and cutters on the bedside table.
Jessica coughed inside her faceplate, a circle of foggy breath temporarily blocking her face.
I gently tugged at the tube.

It didnt move.
I tugged a tad bit harder.
Still nothing.
"The tube is not coming," i said softly, once again tugging, although gently. I looked up at Grusso. "Should i cut it?"
"No," he said. "Jessica can you tell me why we cant cut the tube?"
"Because ..." She coughed again. "It violates procedure?"
"Yes, obviously. Correct." He nodded at the incision. "Jake, pull the tube harder."
So i pulled it harder.
The end of the tube slipped right out this, quick and eager for fresh air, releasing a disgusting, dark mix of clotty blood and urine that spouted directly into my face.
"Oh FUCK!" i yelled. The blood continued to spout out in little surges, making squishy squirting sounds, like when you cant get your foot out of the mud. I managed to move my arm over, the blue gown catching the brunt of the bloody brown second and third spouts.
But i could feel the bloody discharge on my face; huge spashes covered my goggles.
Next to Grusso, Jessica began throwing up into a small trashcan, heaving and gagging and spitting. Simultaneously, Grusso pointed at the wound and started yelling at me.
"GET YOUR HANDS OVER THAT! GET PRESSURE ON THAT!"
In a frantic motion i clamped both my hands over the tiny incision that was spraying blood all over me, having a slightly difficult time even seeing out of my blood stained goggled.
"Its on my fucking face," i said calmy, applying pressure to the dead man's wound.
"Its ok," said Grusso, his voice loud and fierce, almost growling as he still held the dead man on his stiff side. "You got goggles on." He glanced at Jessice, doubled over the tiny trash can. "Jessica," he said politley. "Kindly leave the room,"
"What if it got up underneath my fucking eyes, Grusso?!"
"Then you have to go to ER, but after. We finish here first,"
Jessica practically ran out of the room, still clutching the trash can.
We managed to get the dead man into the body bag, his blood juice drying on my sleeves and face mask, splattered all over my goggles like a video game, while i cursed under my breath and Grusso started to chuckle.
"How many times, i tell you to where faceplate?"
I removed the goggles and the facemask and inspected myself in the small mirror that hung over the sink.
There was blood on my eyelid.