Second Life. Paul Griner

      They weren’t new rules, but they’d never been posted when I’d worked there, and they were probably posted now because of me. I’d never been disrespectful, had never taken photos of myself with the newly dead or nicknamed the cadavers (Beef Jerky had been a favorite, though The Admiral wasn’t far behind, given all the naval tattoos we saw), and I wasn’t much for music, but of course I’d seen all of that, and more. It all looked bad, especially in the reports that came out, made sensational for the news, and a lot of it was—there was no positive way to spin the photo of a morgue attendant using a cadaver’s penis pump to give the corpse a stiffie—but a lot of it had to do with a different way of teaching. Medical students and morgue workers, we’d all been brought up old school, which meant a certain callousness toward the dead, as a way to get past normal squeamishness. It wasn’t easy slicing open an abdomen or cracking ribs to get at the lungs or cutting the skin of the forehead to fold back a face, and for a long time, the best way to go from this side of the curtain to the other was to make the leap with some disdain.

      Now, though, anatomy courses focused on more reverential treatment of the dead, or most did, and that seemed to have taken hold here; everything was in order when I came in, though the years of underfunding had taken an obvious toll: the light still dim and unflattering (missing bulbs, flickering fluorescents), old machinery and ancient tools, dull, dented surgical stands, cabinet doors that wouldn’t close or lacked handles, poor ventilation, and an autoclave that wheezed rather than hummed and that seemed to have been recently repaired by a blind man with access only to clothes hangers and electrical tape. A single attendant stood with his back to me at one of the tables, his bobbing brown head bent over some specimen.

      A foot, which looked recently harvested, the skin still pink and taut.

      Headphones on, he was partway through a dissection, repeating aloud a memory aid, so engrossed in his work that he didn’t notice me until I was right beside him, at which point he looked up and pulled his headphones from his ears and said hello. Late twenties and tired; probably a med student. Behind him, on another table, a donated body was in the process of being embalmed. That there was only one body made sense; summer was always a slower time in morgues, and for some unknown reason, donations peaked in winter.

      The corpse lay on a metal table, shaved and washed, a centrifuge pumping pink embalming fluid into the carotid artery through a long narrow tube, the tube taped to the neck so the pressure wouldn’t blow it out. The right side of the body was already noticeably pinker, the skin beginning to blister. About half of the requisite three gallons had already been pumped in, but the veins of the hand were bulging, a bad sign, as it meant the fluid was being injected at too high a pressure and the attendant not paying attention; he should have been massaging the body throughout the process, pushing the blood out, allowing the embalming solution to flow in, otherwise the eyes might pop and the body become impossible to work on later. I didn’t waste time pointing that out, simply lowered the volume on the centrifuge and opened the jugular drain tube to release the fluids, which jetted out at first, then settled to a more steady burble as they made their way down the channel cut into the table.

      His glance went to my chest, not to check me out, but in search of a name tag, because of his inattention and because a skeletal specimen was next to the foot he was working on, which wasn’t allowed. No doubt at four AM he hadn’t expected anyone else in the lab, and if I was someone important—a doctor, say—he might catch hell for his double fouls: lack of care for a corpse and placing the specimen too close to flesh.

      A nonexistent name tag didn’t really tell him anything, but that I knew my way around the embalming process did; he slid a muslin sheet over the bones and smiled at me and said hello again.

      Hi, Amed, I said, reading his name tag. Elena. Didn’t mean to startle you. You look like you were caught stealing candy, I said, taking advantage of his discomfort. Without a word I picked up the injector gun from the corpse’s stomach and lay it where it belonged with the other tools on a different tray; his third strike. Respect, respect, respect, I thought, knowing he’d had it drilled into him. Always treat the corpse with respect and be aware that family members might walk in at any point, which meant, among other things, not leaving tools on the body. Of course all of us had listened to the same sort of lecture and taken it to heart and then forgotten all about it as we became inured to death, or overwhelmed by work.

      No, he said, and flushed quickly. It’s just that I wasn’t expecting anyone.

      Sure, I said. Odd time. I let that hang a minute, and then gave him an out. That a recent amputation?

      He smiled, unable to help himself. Yes. I was just trying to figure something out. There’s a structure I’ve seen twice now in anatomy lab, and I wanted to look at it on my own. With his scalpel he pulled back one of the muscles and peered inside.

      Hard to, when you’re sharing with your tablemates, I said. Let me guess. Motorcycle accident?

      Yes. He smiled again, impressed. How’d you know?

      It’s the same in most trauma centers, I said, not wanting to give too much away. He’d no doubt heard about the scandal, which had started local and quickly gone national: Reddit, Twitter, even CNN; if you Googled me it’s all that came up. Besides, it was better that he be off balance. The less he knew, the more likely it was that I could get what I wanted. So I slid the muslin sheet back and picked up the specimen. Blood on the navicular bone. Without saying anything, I sponged it off and dried it and put it back on the central table, where it was supposed to be handled.

      So, I said. You down here often?

      Once or twice a week. He swallowed. It helps me pick up stuff that I don’t get in the labs. I want to get better.

      You’re going to, I said. I’ll bet you’re the only one in your class who’s doing this, right? Just try to keep things in their proper place, I said, and patted the specimen. It’s important.

      I know, he said, and nodded. His words started to tumble out. It’s just that I got caught up in it and the foot stuff is so complex and I don’t know. I mean, I do, I shouldn’t have, but it just sort of . . . happened.

      That’s okay, I said. But I have to ask, you’ve heard about what happened here a few years ago?

      He looked horrified and his glance flashed to the cadaver being embalmed, the veins of which were no longer bulging. The embalming fluid was moving smoothly now through the corpse, steadily pinking it. The selling of body parts? he said. I didn’t have anything to do with that. I wasn’t even in school then. Well, I was in school, but not anatomy classes.

      Of course not, I said. It’s not then that I’m worried about.

      It took a moment for him to understand what I was saying, and during the lag the voice on his iPhone droned on, Posterior tibial vein, tibial nerve, and then the air conditioning kicked in and the rush of air seemed to make things click for him.

      No, wait, you’ve got it all wrong, he said. He put down the scalpel as if holding it might somehow indict him and stepped away from the table. I’m not selling anything here. I’m studying. It’s all science, I swear.

      I’m sure, I said, and touched his forearm. Just like the janitor, he needed reassurance. It would be pretty hard to sell body parts out of here now, I’ll bet.

      I wouldn’t know.

      No, I didn’t think you would. I squeezed, letting him know I was on his side. I complimented him on the job he’d done washing the cadaver, on inserting the eye caps and making the mouth look natural, on moisturizing the lips and eyelids, then decided it was time to get to my point before he either relaxed or became belligerently defensive. But what about the bodies? I said. Whole cadavers? Do you see them coming and going when you’re here?

      Well, he paused, looked at the table, turned the scalpel over, and aligned it with the Metzenbaum scissors. Sure, but I mean, they come and go all the time. People who die, the autopsies, the funeral home workers who come and get them.

      And the willed bodies, the ones donated to our med school? The surplus ones