INTRODUCTION
Becoming a security guard was never a vocation, it was a necessity at the heels of a long line of jobs I had to take for the sake of food and shelter during the 21st century's economic meltdown. Had I been inclined to live outdoors or looking to knock a few pounds off from lack of sustenance I'd be writing a different story altogether. As it turned out, what started as a run-of-the-mill stop-gap paycheque became an eye opening experience of seeing life, and death, from a whole different perspective.
I've done a lot of jobs in my life - janitor, car wash attendant, census taker, government archivist, mailroom clerk, warehouse worker, radio tracker, graphic designer, musician, record label president and even a professional car driver. Never have I done a job that mattered on a human, emotional level.
Working security at one of the busiest cemeteries in the middle of a major city is not for the faint of heart. The work is not difficult as such - though sitting in a patrol car is unusually tiring in 15 hour stretches - so it might come as a surprise to learn that it boasts a level of responsibility and empathy you would never see written in a job description.
I've put up a strong facade of being the stoic tough guy in public, but it's difficult to remain aloof and detached when you deal mostly with people who are living through the worst days of their lives. You realize quickly that when you set aside everyone's differing beliefs, wealth, social status and dreams that we all have one thing in common - death. It's inescapable. Everyone gets the same cubic footage six feet under – or through the miracle of science – a two cubic foot China cabinet to spend the rest of eternity in.
My interaction with grieving families paled in comparison to the cemetery staff I answered to on a daily basis. The funeral support staff possess a constitution that can only be described as a true calling. I can't imagine how much you must love what you do to have to walk people through the most painful time of their lives; facing untethered anger and heartbreak - usually at the same time. I couldn't do it. The burnout level and PTSD for undertakers and funeral directors must be huge.
That's why they do what they do and I did the rest - protecting the dead from the living. I had no horse in their race and was sent into these hallowed grounds as a sentry because despite the presumption of peace and tranquility, cemeteries are anything but.
When I’ve told people what I used to do for a living the first cliché that springs to ones lips is invariably “Were people dying to get in?” My response always surprised them, “No. People were desparate to get out!”
The look I would receive was worth the response. The path is over for the dead when their remains pass through the gates of the cemetery and consequently the anguish begins immediately for the survivors. But there were also visitors to the cemeteries. Those who, for whatever reason, found solace or a twisted dark interest in both the scenery and energy found in such places. And when I locked the gates at sundown, the panic would begin. Without exception all visitors wanted out of the cemetery…and they wanted out NOW.
The second question people ask me about the work I did is “Why do they need security at graveyards? Everyone’s dead.” It’s true. I never had a problem with anyone interred there. My primary job was to protect the dead from harm. And its that pretense that lead to this book.
The stories, on the surface, seem incredible to many. You may think that while reading them. All of them are true. They are my stories. In comparing notes with other guards in my squad there were more…so many more. Maybe one day I can collect those into a book as well but for now I present a year in the life of one cemetery cop.
Names have been changed to protect the privacy of the living. The cemetery referred to is a composite of the many places I had to patrol during my duties as a security guard shall remain vague to protect the privacy of the dead.
Jaimie Vernon
September 2016