I pull the thick pieces together while stitching with a large, curved upholstery needle and thick, waxed thread.  It’s difficult to push the sharp point through the thick material while simultaneously joining the parts. It seems nothing ever goes back to its original shape once torn.

I learned to sew in high school.  After classes, I worked in an upholstery shop.  The old craftsman hired me part-time to remove the worn fabric from furniture, then make a pattern.

Once I mastered pattern making, he taught me more advanced skills such as tying springs together with twine then covering them with cotton padding. 

Eventually, I was taught to sew the thick off-white fabric over the repaired springs with a stout steel needle.  Five years later, I’m applying the skills I learned from the craftsman.  However, even now I’m not allowed to do the finish work.  My effort will be covered before the customer sees it. 

After working on the repair for half an hour, I pause to sip some coffee—black, no sugar. I return it to a high shelf to prevent my work from splashing into the open cup.  It helps me stay awake.  I attend college during the day and work this night job, too.  Typically, I don’t work all night, but tonight I’ve agreed to work late—or should I say early.  From the looks of the things, I could be here until morning. 

Beginning again, I insert cotton into the gaping hole.  It’s the same raw, uncultured fiber we used in the upholstery business. Then, I spray some plaster of Paris inside from a clear, plastic bottle.  It’s the type container used in restaurants for ketchup, but we fill it with the powder.

Then, I begin stitching, again—Pull, stitch, pull, stitch.  The stitches aren’t beautiful, but they won’t show anyway.  Once I’m done, a man at another table will begin the more prominent work.  On a typical night, I might assist him, but our current workload requires an assembly line process.

The ker-thump, ker-thump sound from his pump sounds somewhat like a beating heart—how ironic. On a typical night, I would be mixing fluids for him, but tonight I’m too busy. 

“Better call Donnie to help you,” the boss orders while looking over my shoulder to examine my progress.  Donnie is home in bed but won’t refuse my request; I’ve awakened him many times in the past. 

Before Donnie arrives, I finish sewing my first of three assignments of the night.   The industrial spray adhesive that I apply over the thick thread has a strong petroleum odor, which is muffled somewhat when I cover it with a thin plastic film.   Now with one done, I remove my gloves and rub my eyes. Next, I lean back with my hands on my hips to stretch my tight back.  Leaning forward so long makes my muscles tense. 

It’s the first opportunity I’ve had to examine my work.  Though it looks better than it did a couple of hours ago, it’s obviously a repair.  It’ll look better in another hour after my coworker applies his skill.  Then in the morning, when the color is sprayed on, it’ll look fine.

Enough rest, I need to get back to work. I have a lot to do before I leave for my morning class.  When I drag the next floppy frame onto my work table, it seems to be coming apart.  This one is larger than the first and more damaged. 

“This will take a lot of sewing,” I conclude as I examine the damage. 

No one hears my comment over the sound of the rhythmic pump, or they just don’t pay attention.  

I decide to switch to a larger needle.  A thicker gauge may not hurt my fingers so much.  I push the waxed string through the eye and start sewing.  It’s a little less painful.

Donnie arrives carrying a tall cup of coffee.  He drinks his with cream and double sugar.  He places it next to mine on the high shelf then slips into his apron and gloves.

“What a mess,” he complains as he scans the room.

The boss asks Donnie to help him—ignoring my situation.  I silently complain.  After all, I do have classes in the morning.  Frustrated, but without comment, I stitch, pull, and stitch again. 

“This one is torn stem to stern,” I complain hoping someone will see my plight and give me some help. 

But none is offered.  The old upholsterer was more considerate I remember.  He was a good teacher and a good boss.  Though my job allows me to go to college, I miss the skilled master. 

Lost in recollection, I’m surprised when I’m done with the second one.  I slip off my apron and gloves and rush to the bathroom.  On the way back, I pour a hot coffee and pause to take a sip.  Looking at my watch, I calculate I have time to finish before sunrise.

There won’t be time for sleep before class, but I don’t care.  A little shut-eye is worse than none.  So, I slug down some caffeine and rush back to the shop. 

I finish sewing the third girl with time to spare, so I help the others.  I fill pumps with embalming fluid and dump bloody buckets-not exactly the glory work.  I stay until all three victims of the auto accident are washed and covered with sheets. 

After shedding his bloody gloves and apron, the boss pats me on the shoulder and says, “You’re pretty good with a needle.”

I reply with no emotion, “Sewing human flesh is like sewing a couch.”

As I walk to my car, I allow myself to empathize for the first time. 

“They’re about my age.” I contemplate as the sun sneaks over the rooftops. 

I correct myself, “They were about my age.”

I drive away from the mortuary trying not to allow those thoughts to follow me—but they always will. 

– Ronald Milburn

Author’s Note: This dark story is based on a personal experience. I worked at a funeral home while in college in the 70s; at that time, our company also had an ambulance service, and I was an EMT.  Though I didn’t mention it in the story, I removed the girls from the scene of a horrific, auto-semi wreck.  One was alive, but died soon after arriving at the hospital. I worked all night sewing the girls back together while morticians applied their trade.  A professional indifference is required in those situations to not be too emotionally affected.  But how can you not be changed some?