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Encounters of the Kid KindLife With A Man |
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© 2002 Carole Moore |
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The happiest man in the world The happiest man I know makes his living picking dead animals off the
road. I don't know what his real name is – everyone just calls him Henry – could be his first or last name. Either way, it seems to suit him just fine. Henry has worked for the city for years, one of the crew who
spends the day driving around city streets, removing objects from the road. Many times these objects were possums or raccoons or domestic animals who turned an error in judgment into a lifetime commitment. Henry's
been doing this for years and seems quite satisfied with his life. He has more job security than anyone in city government: No one wants to do what Henry does. And he works outside, which suits him just fine because
even when the weather's abysmal, Henry prefers the outdoors. He likes the big truck in which he and his partner ride. And he particularly loves the moment when he climbs out of the truck and, grabbing his pitchfork and
shovel, with a theatricality worthy of great musicians, scoops up what was left of Fido or Fluffy and deposits him in the back of the truck. Henry's favorite part of this performance takes place when there's a lot of
traffic on the road and the unfortunate squashee happens to have met its demise at an intersection. That means Henry can jump out of the truck and retrieve the tools of his profession while his partner tosses a few
traffic cones around the unfortunate animal so Henry can recover it without worrying about joining it in perpetuity. Henry wields his shovel and pitchfork with grace and control, making certain to cover all his bases
like a figure skater in an Olympic competition. There are certain things that simply have to be done: the dismount, a loud banging of the two instruments together when he first draws them to ensure they are free of
debris, the approach and, of course, the execution. Henry has two tools from which to choose. Those who've watched him perform over the years sense he favors the pitchfork. I think Henry likes it because it takes
more finesse to pick up a splintered opossum with one than with a shovel. Anyone can simply shovel up a dead animal, of course, but only a maestro manages to scoop one up with a pitchfork. Every day, I and others who
work in the area where Henry reigns as supreme collector of expired biology, watch with cautious fascination as Henry makes his rounds, looking for new challenges. If he finds one, most of us duck back to our work
rather than watch – only those sitting in cars obstructed by neon orange traffic cones are bound to witness the entire performance. Henry is quite a showman and one day I witnessed what had to be his finest working
moment. It was a glorious spring day and I was having coffee with two colleagues in a fast food place located near our office. It was a perfect location for Henry inasmuch as vantage was concerned: right in front of
a major intersection. In addition to my friends and myself, there was a large group of middle-aged men and women – about 15 of them – and several other customers scattered throughout the restaurant. Suddenly, Henry's
large truck lurched into the restaurant's parking lot and out popped Henry, his name proudly above his uniform pocket. He came inside the store and approached the lady behind the counter, then addressed her in a loud,
clear voice. "Excuse me, Miss," Henry said, being ever-so-polite, "Someone called about a dead animal on the road. Do you know where it is?" The girl shook her head. "Well thank you,
anyway," Henry told her. "I'll just go look for it." And with that, Henry went back out to his truck and pulled out his pitchfork. Henry began walking a steady path around the building – which was
mostly just huge windows. His eyes darted everywhere, keen, sensitive and questing, as he circled in what appeared to be a spiral search pattern worthy of any SWAT team. The restaurant was silent, except for an
occasional in-drawn breath whenever Henry appeared to find something and bent over to examine it. Every pair of eyes was fastened on him, albeit reluctantly – and I'm sure he knew it. And every breakfast biscuit, every
croissant, every crumb of French toast lay cold, sodden and neglected on its plastic plate as Henry made his rounds. One by one the restaurant began to empty, food completely abandoned, yet Henry, determined to find
that critter, kept at it. Soon, the restaurant contained only discarded breakfasts, the kitchen staff and our table. Bowing to one of our party's squeamishness, we also went back to work. My last view of Henry that
day was as he rounded the corner, pitchfork held jauntily over his shoulder like a soldier marching off to war. Later I asked him if he found the animal and he just laughed. "Must have been a false report," he
said. But it didn't matter to Henry. He loves his job and doesn't care what others think. Besides – it was a grand excuse to spend the morning outdoors |
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