Streaking Gravedigger

Author © Scott D. Zachary

       Cockfighting, knife throwing, and fishing began to lose their sparkle by the summer of 1972. At fifteen years old, I wanted to work. Not that I hadn’t already worked extensively (and bullishly) delivering newspapers, loading hay bales, picking up night crawlers, mowing lawns, raking leaves, shoveling snow, and picking fruit and vegetables; but those were seasonal. Besides, all were dependent on the weather, and most only paid a dollar an hour.

       I wanted a full-time job during the summer, and the only forty-hour-a-week jobs available within a reasonable bicycle ride from Shadeville, Ohio, were at Scioto Downs Race Track and St. Joseph’s Cemetery. Everyone told me that you needed to know somebody on the inside to get on at the race track; so when school let out for the summer, I set my sights on getting a job at the cemetery.

       I rode my ten-speed bicycle the two miles to the main office of St. Joseph’s Cemetery, dismounted, strutted into the building, and announced to the secretary, “Hello, ma’am, I’m here to work for the cemetery.”

       “You’ll have to wait for the President, Mr. Oliver, to come out of his weekly Board meeting. You can take a seat over there, young man,” pointing toward a waiting area.

       “Thank you, ma’am.”

       I waited for nearly an hour until the conference room door swung open and a swarm of men dressed in suits and ties exited, dispersing in all directions. One stately, gray-haired man stopped at the secretary’s desk. She pointed in my direction, mumbling something. The man walked over to me. “Who may you be?”

       “My name is Scott Zachary, sir. I’m a hard worker, and I’d like to work for you.”

       “Would you, now? How old are you, son?”

       “Fifteen, but I work harder than most men.”

       He chuckled condescendingly. “I would like to give you an opportunity to prove yourself; however, our insurance policy won’t allow me to hire anyone under the age of sixteen. When’s your birthday?”

       “August sixth, sir.”

       “Come back and see me then.” He turned and walked away.

       Mr. Oliver wasn’t quite as genial when I showed up again the next morning. The secretary announced my presence over the intercom. Mr. Oliver came directly out of his office. “Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear, young man. I cannot hire you until you are sixteen years old. Am I understood?”

       “Yes, sir. I just thought I’d stop by to see if you might’ve changed your mind or your insurance policy might’ve changed.”

       “I have not changed my mind, and will not change my mind.”

       “Thank you for your time, sir.”

       I’ve never been one to give up easily. The next morning, I showed up again at the cemetery office at precisely 7:45 a.m., knowing that the cemetery workers begin their workday at eight o’clock. I waited for nearly two hours before Mr. Oliver came out of his office. He was anything but genial as he concluded, “Don’t bother coming back.”

       I continued this mulish persistence for over a week as Mr. Oliver became more and more annoyed with my single-minded campaign, dismissing me abruptly. All the while, I remained respectful. Finally, in the middle of the second week, Mr. Oliver walked out of his office, looked at me in utter disbelief, shook his head, and tartly motioned for me to come into his office. He pointed at the chair facing his desk, and I sat down. “Yes, sir.”

       “There’s one thing for sure: You’ll be on time every day.”

       “Does that mean you’ll hire me, sir?!”

       Mr. Oliver took a deep breath. “I suppose. Your determination is...” He grinned. “Do you know how to operate a floor buffer, young man?”

       “No, sir, but it can’t be too difficult.”

       “Come with me, Scott.”

       Mr. Oliver led me into a closet adjoining a dining area. He pointed at the floor buffer. “I want to watch you buff the floor in the cafeteria. This handle activates the buffer wheel. Any questions?”

       “No, sir.” I dragged the buffer out of the closet, unwound the electrical cord, and plugged it in. I squeezed the handle, and the buffer jolted against the closet door. I braced myself, forcing the spinning buffer wheel across the floor. I glanced at Mr. Oliver who sat smiling as he watched me apply brute-force to that contrary buffer. By the time I finished buffing the floor, I was soaking wet with sweat. I took a deep breath. “I’m all done, sir.”

       “As you said, Scott, you are most definitely a hard worker. A little advice for you, though: Work hard, and work smart, too.” He applied two fingers to the buffer handle and smoothly maneuvered the buffer to the right across the floor by tipping the handle slightly up and then to the left by tipping the handle down. “You see?”

       “Yes, sir!” I tried it, and it was easy.

       “You can start next Monday at the maintenance building at eight o’clock. You’ll mostly be pushing a lawnmower. Okay?”

       “Yes, sir! May I start today, sir? I brought my sack lunch.”

       “Don’t push it, boy. Now get out of my sight.”

       “Yes, sir! Thank you, sir! You won’t regret it, sir!”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

       There was only one time that Mr. Oliver regretted hiring me. We were on the way back from a company outing to see a Cincinnati Reds baseball game... Wait, before we get to that, I want to tell you about what saved me from getting fired for that lewd indiscretion.

       I worked hard. And when I say I worked hard, that’s an extreme understatement. I reveled in working all out until I couldn’t do anymore—until physical exhaustion dropped me on the ground. The men mowed between the rows of gravestones on their riding mowers, and we boys mowed up close and between the gravestones with push movers. We worked overtime leading up to holidays, such as Memorial Day, Fourth of July, and Labor Day to prepare the cemetery for the swarms of people who came to visit their deceased loved ones. I occasionally noticed lot salesmen sitting in their cars gawking at me as I ran behind my lawnmower. Even in the middle of the summer in 100° heat, I ran full speed. I ran with my mower for twelve hours. I ran until I dropped in the grass, lay there and grinned—knowing I could not have done any better, knowing I did my absolute best.

       I recall one occasion when Louie Rogers, the Grounds Maintenance Manager, assigned me to one of the largest sections of the cemetery. He dropped off two other boys at a smaller section nearby. I finished mine well ahead of them. Those kids tried to get me to slow down because I made them look bad. I ignored them. I wasn’t competing against them; I was competing against myself.

       I worked so zealously and efficiently that Louie made an exception to the rule of no boys on burials and assigned me to the grave-filling crew. A backhoe usually dug the graves, and it bucketed the dirt into a wooden box alongside the hole. After the funeral procession left, we’d lower the vault top over the casket, and then two of us would shovel the dirt from the box into the hole. Even when we had seven back-to-back graves to fill, I always muscled the dirt from my side of the box into the grave faster than my partner. Then I’d dump much of his side, too. That is, except when old Casey was my shoveling buddy. He liked to work as much as I did.

       Casey turned 67 during my first year working at the cemetery. A wiry little guy, he had swung a sledgehammer for several decades laying tracks for a railroad company before they automated the process. Casey was a little piece of steel, and I admired him. Always smiling, I loved his contentedness while working as hard as he could.

       It was readily apparent to anyone watching that Casey and I fancied working together. In fact, when it was impossible for a backhoe to dig a grave that was between a mausoleum and a big gravestone or a tree, Louis always had Casey and me dig the grave by hand. I don’t know how long it usually took us to dig a grave; time didn’t exist—we were having fun! When we encountered a big slab of granite, Casey and I unselfishly shared the jackhammer, knowing how much the other enjoyed the extreme exertion it required.

       Yep, we were an unusual pair: 15 and 67, and nobody could outwork us—NOBODY. I don’t think anyone ever saw any prospect in trying. You have to love doing something purely for the sake of doing it to bite it off as wolfishly as we did. I’d say that’s when my tendency toward mania began kicking into full gear.

       Casey taught me many of the old-timey western songs, such as “Cool Water,” “Home on the Range,” “I’ve Been Working on the Railroad,” and a variation of Tex Ritter’s “Rye Whiskey.” We’d work and sing...

Jack o’ Diamonds, Jack o’ Diamonds, I know you from old
You’ve robbed my poor pockets of silver and gold
Rye whiskey, rye whiskey, you’ve been my downfall

You’ve kicked me, you’ve cuffed me, but I love you for all

Rye whiskey, rye whiskey, rye whiskey I cry
If I don’t get rye whiskey, I think I will die

If the ocean was whiskey and I was a duck
I’d dive to the bottom and never come up
But the ocean ain’t whiskey and I ain’t a duck

So I’ll pray for Jack o’ Diamonds and chance on my luck

Rye whiskey, rye whiskey, rye whiskey I cry
If a tree don’t fall on me, I’ll live till I die

I’ll drink my own whiskey; I’ll drink my own wine
Some ten thousand bottles I’ve killed in my time
I’ve no wife to quarrel, no babies to bawl
The best way of living is no wife at all

Rye whiskey, rye whiskey, rye whiskey I cry
If the whiskey don’t kill me, I’ll live till I die

I’m goin’ up the holler to build me a still

I’ll sell you a gallon for a five-dollar bill

My parents don’t like me; my money’s my home

And them that don’t like me can leave me alone

Rye whiskey, rye whiskey, rye whiskey I cry
If I don’t get rye whiskey, I think I will die

       There were more verses than that, but you get the idea.

       Casey and I had a blast working and singing together. Casey never did drink alcohol as far as I knew. It’s a pity I didn’t learn that from him. I had to drink those ten thousand bottles, and then some—not to mention all the headaches and heartaches that I endured—before surrendering my demons to that virtue.

       I worked on Saturdays during the school year as well as after school when the grass needed grooming. That is, except the occasional week that I skipped school to work full days at the cemetery. Then I’d take another week off to get ready to go back to school; I’d study 12 to 14 hours a day memorizing everything in my textbooks on which they could’ve tested us. Although I missed at least thirty days of school every year (and at least sixty days a year during high school), I fully appreciated the value of a good education and made sure that I maintained all As and Bs. I knew those good grades and the knowledge they merited would provide the key to the adventure-filled life I craved.

       Speaking of adventure, 1973 spawned a most unusual fad: streaking. Wikipedia describes it as running naked through a public place as a prank, a dare, or an act of protest. Singer and songwriter, Ray Stevens, whipped this fad into a craze in the spring of 1974 with the release of his song, “The Streak.”

       That streaking summer, St. Joseph’s Cemetery treated all of their employees to a free excursion at a Cincinnati Reds baseball game. On this particular Saturday morning, everyone, from the executives to the gravediggers, climbed aboard the tour bus parked by the maintenance barn. I cannot begin to describe how elated I was as I stepped around two large rubber trash cans filled with iced-down beer. At seventeen, there were no more cherished sights than that. Yes, I was a full-fledged alcoholic destined for a dysfunctional life.

       I have no clue who won the game, much less which team the Reds were playing. I barely remember everyone getting off the bus at a rest stop about mid-way home from the stadium. Eddie Rice (one of the other part-time boys) and I were about to climb back on the bus when Gary (a young lot salesman) hollered, “I dare you two to streak around the rest stop!”

       Eddie and I looked into each other’s drunken eyes and grinned.

       “I’ll hold your clothes,” proposed Gary.

       Without further ado, Eddie and I stripped down to just our tennis shoes, handed Gary our clothes, and streaked, weaving around the many cars in the parking lot. People gawked, jeered, giggled, and berated. Mostly they gawked.

       The rush of adrenalin sobered me up quite a bit. It was over and done before we thought about the consequences of what we’d done. However, we thought about it a lot throughout the rest of the trip home because the atmosphere on the bus was as grave as a funeral—mine and Eddie’s! All of the cemetery managers were in their fifties and sixties, and they were ultra-conservative. Running around naked in public was not something they appreciated, much less tolerated from their workers.

       Before heading home, Louie told Eddie and me the only thing that saved us from being fired on the spot was that we were the two best workers among the part-time boys. However, Mr. Oliver would decide our fate come Monday.

       I wasn’t overly concerned about the prospect of being fired because I planned to enlist in the Air Force soon to cover the cost of my college education. Still, I preferred not to leave St. Joseph’s Cemetery on a negative note after having worked for them so diligently for two years. I was happy that Mr. Oliver didn’t fire Eddie and me; however, I did regret disappointing Louie because I respected him enormously. That was the closest I ever came to being fired from a job.

       I wonder if the cemetery employees are now given a briefing before such outings, warning them that streaking before, during, or after would result in their immediate termination. There always seems to be somebody who messes things up for everyone else.