Looking back, I guess it was only a matter of time before I hit The Wall at New Job.
So far, I have learnt that I can handle death, that I can handle violence, that I can handle bodies, body parts and even body fluids (as long as I'm wearing gloves). It's a little on the Earthy Side, but if I grit my teeth I can do it.
I can handle most things.
But not everything.
What I cannot handle, I have recently discovered, is decomposition.
A girl's gotta draw the line somewhere.
Confronted by a body that's several days old, unrefridgerated and rapidly becoming gelatinous, and then expected to physically bag said remains, I will not cry, carry on, or run screaming in the opposite direction. I will do what any normal, reasonable person would do, under the circumstances.
I will gag, uncontrollably.
Uncontrollably enough to affect my concentration, rendering me as good as a man short.
The Boss went easy on me afterwards, and I didn't exactly get into trouble. I was gently but flatly informed that I wasn't cut out for Crime Scene Work and would have to be found Other Duties to do, instead. Constitutional Tolerance for the bagging of rotting flesh is not something that can be learned - you can either do it or you can't, apparently - and an employee hurling onto the lounge room carpet (which I didn't do, but it was close) is not a Good Look for The Company. The Boss is nothing if not professional. In my defense, if I had hurled, I wouldn't have been alone. Everyone in the room but him was Dangerously Green.
After considering my demotion for approximately 0.3333 seconds (recurring), I could barely conceal my relief. I never signed on to do zombie work, and did suspect it was going to be a problem. But it comes with the territory. You deal with it as you find it. Personally, give me nice, clean, refridgerated bodies, in bags, that I can trot around from pillar to post, patting them gently on the head in blessing as I send them on their way (I am a yogi, after all). I like driving. Driving doesn't give me zombie nightmares, or leave me unable to eat, or have me washing myself like Lady Macbeth for fucking days after.
I'm still frightened that he'll change his mind and I'll have to go through it all again. And that the next one will be weeks old instead of days. In which case they'll have to lay me out on the spare stretcher and slide me into slot #2 to get me home, because I'll be out like a light, for sure.
And then I will go get a job in a cafe for half the money. I promise.
In other news, The Creative Genius is on fire at the moment (creatively speaking), winning art prizes and bringing home work that actually distracts me, momentarily, from the B-grade horror flick currently playing on the big screen of my imagination.
I'd be lost without her.