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Jeff Klima - The Dead Janitors Club: Pathetically True Tales of a Crime Scene Cleanup King

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Jeff Klima The Dead Janitors Club: Pathetically True Tales of a Crime Scene Cleanup King
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The Dead Janitors Club: Pathetically True Tales of a Crime Scene Cleanup King: summary, description and annotation

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It had been well over a month since I had seen or heard from Dirk, and it was showing in my bank account...I was tempted to start searching for another job. I still had faith, though, that somehow, someway, I was meant for this line of work...
Hello? I mumbled, not recognizing the number on the caller ID.
Jeff, its Dirk, said the voice. I waited curiously, wondering who the hell Dirk was. Weve got one, he eventually said when I failed to answer.
We had never bothered to get together for any sort of training, and now, it was too late.
After toiling for minimum wage for years, Jeff Klima got an unexpected offer: to head up a brand new crime scene cleanup company in Orange County. The upside? A chance to make incredible money in a field with no competition. The downside? Everything else about the job.
The Dead Janitors Club is an engrossing, hilarious, and morbidly fascinating memoir of life and death, from someone whose life is death. From his first job-where a piece of brain fell off the ceiling and landed in his eye-to having to clean up one of his former neighbors, The Dead Janitors Club is more than just a retelling of crime scenes and what it takes to clean them up. It is a memoir about struggling to survive college, love, life, and keeping ones sanity when one never knows if, the next time the phone rings, you must delve into the darker side of life and death.

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Jeff Klima - The Dead Janitors Club: Pathetically True Tales of a Crime Scene Cleanup King
The Dead Janitors Club: Pathetically True Tales of a Crime Scene Cleanup King
Jeff Klima
The Dead Janitors Club: Pathetically True Tales of a Crime Scene Cleanup King

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Copyright 2010 by Jeff Klima Cover and internal design 2010 by Sourcebooks - photo 1
Copyright 2010 by Jeff Klima
Cover and internal design 2010 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover design by William Riley/Sourcebooks
Cover photos Fly_Fast/istockphoto.com, AndrewWilliam/istockphoto.com, jupiterimages
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviewswithout permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.
This publication is designed to provide accurate and authoritative information in regard to the subject matter covered. It is sold with the understanding that the publisher is not engaged in rendering legal, accounting, or other professional service. If legal advice or other expert assistance is required, the services of a competent professional person should be sought.From a Declaration of Principles Jointly Adopted by a Committeeof the American Bar Association and a Committee of Publishers and Associations
Published by Sourcebooks, Inc.
P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410
(630) 961-3900
Fax: (630) 961-2168
www.sourcebooks.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Klima, Jeff.
The dead janitors club : pathetically true tales of a crime scene cleanup king / by Jeff
Klima.
p. cm.
1. Crimes--California--Orange County. 2. Crime scenes--California--Orange County. 3. Orange County Crime Scene Cleaners (Firm) I. Title. HV6533.C2.K55 2010 338.7'6136325--dc22
2010001458

For my boss
He pushed me to write this book
Now I bet he's sorry I did.
Also, for Happy.


All of what follows is true, but my apologies if my memory of chronology or events differs slightly from your own. It mostly shouldn't, though, unless you're a liar.

Maybe something good can come out of all this evil?


CHAPTER 1
from wine to spine

Man has to suffer. When he has no real afflictions, he invents some.Jos Mart


I walk into the lobby of a shockingly splendid hotel, and the wheel on the cash register in my mind is clicking audibly upward. I anticipate leaving this place a few thousand dollars richer than when I walked in. So many factors are at play here; I am chomping at the bit, trying to discern them all.
French doors gilded with a gold overlay breeze open effortlessly before me, working off unseen sensors and a pneumatic arm. Caucasian employees stare pleasantly at me from behind the counter. From a financial standpoint, this is a good thing.
White people are terrified of death. An overabundance of detachment and safety in our culture has resulted in "whitey" becoming a benign collective of soft-shelled whiners, people who understand pain only in terms of there not being three-ply toilet paper on sale at the supermarket closest to their condo.
Ethnic folks are confronted by death more frequently than white people, and that numbed acceptance of it can mean a lot less money for a guy in my line of work.
I stroll around a polite setup of stain-free and richly upholstered dark couches arranged around a coffee table holding stacks of newspapers from various regions of the world. The smell of breakfast fills the lobby. Whether it's pumped in or they have a caf tucked somewhere, it still means that they give a damn about their multisensory first impression, and that is good news for me.
I set my clipboard on the counter and straighten my black polo shirt so that the biohazard symbol is smartly on display.
"Hello, sir. How can I help you?" the attractive, brunette counter girl asks. The orange script practically glows off my chest, screaming out what I do, but her eyes never waver from mine, not once. She's been trained well.
"I'm looking for Gary," I say.
"Right away, sir." She picks up her walkie-talkie, blocking out her mouth, but I can discern the same clipped and effortlessly polite tone with which she addressed me.
I feel goodimportantlarger than life, and regret not parking beneath the valet awning, right in the middle of the lane, my car torqued at a hard angle to create an impasse, letting everyone know the Crime Scene Cleaner is here. It is the sort of dick move that I typically do these dayscarefree, powerful me.
What stopped me on this occasion was that my car had the misfortune to be parked the previous night under some sort of avian toilet. A ridiculous amount of white bird shit, speckled with the green remnants of devoured insects, gave my red car a rather polka-dotted appearance.
I pick up my clipboard and step over to the coffee table to scan headlines from the news of the world, hopeful that the Orange CountyRegister will scream about mass death and murder in its banner headline. But probably not, because I would have already known about it.
Gary appears from behind me, looking dapper but terribly ethnic, which yanks several thousand dollars off what I was hoping to make the price tag. I curse silently behind a confident and winning smile.
"Hi, Jeff Klima from Orange County Crime Scene Cleaners," I say, extending my hand and speaking first to inform him that I am the alpha male.
"Hi," he says, a bit puzzled, and I suddenly hope I am in the right place.
He introduces himself and looks around ashamed, as if I were a homeless urchin who had obstinately wandered into the ornate lobby and began snacking on the odds and ends in a trash receptacle.
"I understand you have some sort of scene" I query further, losing some of my swagger, and I can't help but note how two years on the job suddenly doesn't feel like that much experience at all. Shit, I might as well have acne and a pubescent hard-on, considering the detectable quiver in my voice. It shocks me how quickly my overwhelming shyness can come roaring back to capsize my confidence.
He politely shushes me with one raised hand, vibrating softly, panicked. I understand completely but say, "A suicide, maybe?" a bit loudly, as if I didn't, comfortably reestablishing my authority. The same trembling hand waves me out of the lobby and away from the guests checking in, who can undeniably read my shirt.
We step out into the courtyard, a lush open-air affair, where hotel workers are scrambling to set up for some speaking engagement to take place a little later in the day. None of them make eye contact with me; they've been well trained. We wait in silence for a short eternity, though I'm eager to persist, having had to wake up well before noon to ready myself for this gig.
Another man, also ethnic (and more money off the bill), joins us. I don't remember his name, so we'll call him Osama. He is better dressed than Gary, and I clue in to his seniority when Gary quickly moves aside, his eyes slightly downcast. I introduce myself to this man as well, comfortably meeting his gaze through his executive eyeglasses. This guy may be a fearsome boss to the minimum-wage herd working here, but to me he's just another jerk who needs my skills. It further empowers me.
Osama shepherds Gary and myself quickly along manicured stone pathways past doors with placards that refer to the rooms beyond the doors as "suites." This is usually good news for me. This place, in its self-congratulatory way, considers itself a "nicer" establishment. I bet I can get some good money out of them after all.
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