The Dead Don't Tip

I meant to tell you more about my current employment. But I don't usually like talking about work. I've gone great lengths to not be defined by my job, and hope I never am. (I'm aware that these "great lengths" have also made me quite poor and or not using my "potential").
When you're doing something repetitive, that's when the thoughts begin forming at rapid pace. When your doing something repetitive in a new or strange environment the combination is like baking soda and vinegar, and the senses are hightened like those of a weather tower.
Take a graveyard for instance. I spent a good little portion "on the clock" at a local, old, cemetary searching for George Bell's tombstone. "What kinda job is that? You may be asking in a southern drawl. Well, if I haven't already mentioned, I took a part time job delivering flowers on Saturdays. Since it's Christmas time, that Saturday has turned into everyday. This would normally be good, because that means less time working temp jobs in factories (wink wink, another post, another time). But it's also not all that great. Delivering flowers in and of itself is not a bad job, and I'm glad to do it.
I'm not good with directions. This is a recipe for disaster for someone in the delivery business. I'm learning quickly. All the street names I thought I knew, I found out I didn't. I drive by familiarity and landmarks, and creatively I might add (taking a different route just for giggles). Not so good on a time frame. Not such a good idea when the entire van is full of vases, and ridiculous arrangements with glass enclosed candles, bells, balloons, and other flower industry paraphenalia. Needless to say, I've improved my routing and all that by leaps and bounds. But every once in a while, when i'm finding everything, i'll be thrown a curveball at the worst possible time. This usually occurs right before closing time, and I find myself on the complete opposite side of town with a hideous hour glass visual (much like the one in the Wizard of Oz) pulsating in my mind. I hate trying to find houses that are hidden. It's not really a fun game like hide and go seek. It's more like stress.
Today I did great. I delivered fresh arrangements all over this town with precision, safety, and an award winning smile for all the nice old ladies (99% of recipients are old women, not hot college chicks like movies might have you believe).
Yes folks, I was regaining confidence. I was starting to believe I wasn't a hopeless , directionless, non-linear minded, numskull, until the last assignment. The Oak Hill Cemetary.
My very last delivery was too a headstone in the oldest cemetary in town. It's one of those that's kind of pretty, historical, but creepy when cold and very, very alone. George Bell was the target. I was to place a wreath at his gravesite. No big deal. You are given a section and a plot number. But guess what. There are no plot numbers here. So I find myself wandering around this forsaken graveyard, with gnarled oak trees, and biting wind, looking for the whearabouts of George Bell. He cannot be found. Unlike some of my living recipients, I cannot call him with the store cell phone. Round and round I rummage (respectively) about the sunken headstones, that brownish moss looking stuff enamered spires, and peruse countless inscriptions. After several section changes, I finally find some Bell's. But no George. A charles, a Georgia, Anna Belle (yes the moment was very "Poe") but no George. After calling back to the store, we surmised that on the side of one of the markers was a GEO....and then time erased the rest, leading to our conclusion that it was him. So I staked the easil with wreath into the ground and jogged back to the van. Don't normally see joggers in the cemetarys do ya? Well, I was just trying to save time. It really had nothing to do with those "spooky noises" coming through the trees.
I wonder if I really got the right site or not. Most of me wants to be respectful of those who chose to put these flowers there. I really did want to find the right spot. But the practical, average guy in side me says....no big deal.........there dead.........what good will a wreath do.............The strange thing is this tombstone was from the late 1800's. That's what made me wonder if I had the wrong site to begin with. But according to the boss, many families continue to commemorate the long, long gone. I guess that is an honorable thing to do.
An old cemetary is a strange place to be. It can be complety natural, and not a big deal at all. But sometimes you can't stop thinking of thousands of past lives, now moslty only commemorated by a rock with some barely legible writing. They tip about the same as most folks though.....