If grimy dishes make you gag, consider what Gary Darby spends his time "scrubbing": Hazardous waste. Bad toxins. Suicide remnants. Contaminated bird crap. Bloody murder scenes. Sewer sludge. Meth-lab vapors. Gag-inducing odors. Anthrax and other instruments of chemical warfare. Good, old-fashioned barf. Consider suicide for a moment--did you wonder who would clean up your mess? That's right--in addition to all things unhealthy and offensive to the olfactory senses, he mops up death.
Imagine you're Courtney Love. Kurt Cobain, a man without the world's most healthy plasma coursing through his veins, has just blown his head off in your home. The shotgun blast left skull fragments, brain matter and blood stains all over the room. First, you'd probably call the police, maybe the coroner, perhaps notify the fan clubs--but then who? Certainly not a fireman, not a coal miner. A lot of people in this situation solicit the services of carpet cleaners and carpenters. In fact, it is precisely those people who are often enlisted to restore crime scenes. Or the families and friends of the deceased do it themselves.
Now forget about being Courtney Love.
You've just walked into the bedroom and discovered that the closest person in your life is missing his or her face. The walls are stained with blood and the scattered remnants of a shattered life. It doesn't have to be suicide. Accidents, as well as murder, happen. The person who can properly clean up the scene and help to blur the memories will be dealing with you while you feel the way that image made you feel. You don't want a heartless bureaucrat, nor do you want a careless clown. Regardless, few of us would stop to think about the blood-to-airborne pathogens possibly preparing to attack our lungs. Even fewer of us can imagine the horrific prospect of being the person who eliminates the smell and replaces the blood-saturated walls and floors. Gary Darby not only imagines it--he gives out the phone number for his company, American Bio-Hazard Services, and waits to do it.
Not long ago, a man in a Boise North End apartment died of AIDS. He was discovered about four days later. "There were maggots all over the apartment," Darby says. "He had melted through the bed and was about to melt through the floor." The information is related in the unimpressed voice that most of us would use to describe the discovery of an expired carton of milk.
He goes on: "Yeah, everything in there was contaminated. His mother asked me to look for some personal items, so I had to keep an eye out for them, pictures and things like that. I decontaminated everything and gave them to her at no charge ... I lost money, but I wasn't about to hit her up for cash. The place is clean, though. I do not fool around with public safety."
Perhaps something less devastating has presented a problem--such as a pile of pigeon crap in your bell tower (doesn't everybody have a bell tower?) that has reached an unacceptable level of petrification and potential disease. Maybe it's a sewage catastrophe--complete with human waste, puke, and whatever else that was deemed flush-worthy soaking into your freshly weeded garden.
None of these are the kinds of situations into which average people fearlessly tread--nor should they, considering the risks of HIV, hepatitis, tuberculosis, syphilis, malaria, ebola, meningitis, streptococcus, encephalitis, staph infections and various other pathogens of the potentially fatal persuasion.
Nuclear waste evokes images of mutants with boiling skin and extra limbs. We rarely, however, think about the dangers of the blood stored in the veins of our friends and neighbors. And what of the whole rainbow of expired bodily excretions? Just gross, seemingly, not deadly. But, as it turns out, surface appearances are misleading. Blood, for instance, even dry blood, can kill you. Diseases are mutating faster than we can find cures. In the case of any of the aforementioned calamities, American Bio-Hazard Services is available. Their elite crew of men in protective suits and filter masks, much like those government officials from E.T., will descend upon the scene and remove the disease-ridden parasites that are invisibly suspended in the air we breathe.
Actually, it's just one person--but he does have the suit. Gary Darby is like that Australian Crocodile Hunter guy--except, instead of worrying about venomous snake-bites, he's more concerned with airborne pathogens that could either put him on kidney dialysis for the rest of his life or, in the case of modern weapons of war, choke him to death after one final breath of contaminated air. Oh, yeah--and for a modest fee, he'll also repair your computer and then give you a deep, soothing, rejuvenative massage. But his ancillary occupations are not his primary concern.
"Blood is as dangerous as nuclear waste," he says. "Bodies are landmines of germs ... You can't leave any amount of matter at all, because it will emit the most horrendous odor. Blood is notorious for it ... There cannot be one drop of blood left when I'm done."
Despite the occasional request from family members to salvage personal items, he tries to remain detached.
"I refuse to see bodies, because it personalizes it," Darby says, while petting the aging cat that rests on his lap and sheds on the floor. "By the time I get there, the coroner has removed most of the body. They'll often even pick up teeth for me. In the past, family and friends took care of it, and it personalized the whole thing." The comfortable cat, combined with its owner's cheerful nature evokes images of a James Bond villain who has decided to change his ways and make the world a better place.
Darby understands the trauma that families experience after a loss, because his sister was murdered when he was a child living in Africa. "I've seen the tragedy. It wasn't a grisly murder, but the impression it left on me was very strong," he says. And the images of Apartheid-related blood are still vivid to him.
A 47-year-old Vietnam vet who has volunteered his time to work with crack babies in Portland, Oregon, Darby is a portrait of charming mystery. He is from "all over the world." His dad was a military instructor. Later, Darby worked for Hewlett-Packard. When "things went south," he simply directed his attention toward the bio-hazard industry. The business is only a few months old, established after he completed the exhaustive training and was invited to join the anthrax-decontamination team in Washington, DC.
"I live with my phone, and my intention is to help people," he says. "This is not an area with enough crime that I can get rich from it." But it's the only business in the Treasure Valley to specialize in crime-scene clean-up. So, all he needs is a bit more trauma in the area, and he'll be coughing all the way to the bank.
Darby, however, expects American Bio-Hazard Services to eventually hire employees and combat terrorism--because, as he says, envisioning the future, we'll be dealing with a lot of noxious gases. "Chemical warfare is cheap, and bio-terrorism is inevitable," he says. Meanwhile, there's always a crime scene--or at least one or two sick scenes. Darby poses a question: "Who will clean up grandma's tuberculosis germs--which linger in the air for 30 to 40 days?"
Suddenly, his 23-year-old cat prepares to puke on the carpet. He grabs a paper towel and catches the cat vomit before it hits the ground, then tosses it into the garbage, all in one graceful move and all without derailing his thoughts. "You can be a carrier of tuberculosis for up to 10 years and not even know it," he continues. "I put my life on the line for this. It's hazardous work."
The hypothetical-grandmother scenario leads into gruesome territory: Who's cleaning things up, for instance, in the Middle East? "I don't know," Darby says, "but the bombers could infect themselves with a disease and then blow themselves up." True. They could do that anywhere--and if so, the situation demands a company willing to eliminate biological hazards.
Several millionaires were made during last year's anthrax problem. At a rate of 200 to 500 dollars per hour, the virusfighters are bound to make some money--especially when nobody dares to say, "Okay, that's good enough. Get out of here. I see with my own two eyes that there ain't no more stupid anthrax in here."
A business that depends upon death and destruction, while, on the surface, can appear a bit unsavory, not only helps the people affected by the death and destruction--but, regardless of the conditions under which it prospers, you have to admit that, these days, death and destruction are bankable commodities. Nice, recession-proof work--if you can get it.
In the sense that nobody is obligated to call someone who eliminates biological hazards, it's an unregulated industry. However, once a business like Darby's is advertised as such, it must comply with OSHA and EPA standards. For example, if you haven't obtained a license to label, color-code, store and dispose of sharps (needles and medical tools), you can be fined $25,000. The regulations are too verbose and numerous to list here, but basically: Employees must wash hands. They must also wear disposable gloves, masks, hoods, eye protection, face-shields, and impenetrable suits of germ-resistant armor to cover the rest of their severely endangered flesh. Oh, and they must get all of their shots. And keep their pockets full of Mr. Yuck stickers.
The industry is further required to meet the rules of the American Bio-Recovery Association. It's like taking the Bar exam, except, instead of practicing for closing remarks, the graduates put on space suits and dispose of diseased syringes. Speaking of throwing things away, you can't just drop a blood-soaked rug off at the dump. Everything has to be sealed off, and if anything has seeped into the floor or the wall, it has to be removed and replaced with blood-less wood. These jobs are not contracted out to someone else. In addition to extensive training in disinfection, chemical/pathogen decontamination, and deodorization of trauma scenes, Gary Darby must also be familiar with carpentry, janitorial services, psychological counseling and preserving evidence.
Ripping up the carpet, even if the blood is dry, can launch tuberculosis or hepatitis germs into the air, which are then picked up by the heating or cooling vents and distributed throughout the house or building. Once inhaled, germs can remain dormant for years, so you may want to reconsider slowing down to look at car-wrecks.
Cops and medics have no choice but to slow down and look, though. They're in danger of contracting blood-borne viruses or a virus that has gone air-borne from blood, not to mention mosquito-borne viruses. Who's cleaning up the remnants of car wrecks, anyway? Often, it's mechanics and auto-body shops. Through the process of evaporation, we can contract pathogens via the eyes, nose, lungs, even broken skin near the base of our fingernails. Maybe this is why people in hospitals are always sick.
Darby's services cost anywhere from $1,500 to $5,000 per job. His fees are usually covered by property insurance, so he also bravely works with insurance companies, which don't smell as bad as four-day-old feces but can often present similarly messy complications.
Yes, American Bio-Hazard Services and others in the industry are often protecting people from invisible bullets, but Gary Darby is not a shameless opportunist. Otherwise, he would be soliciting customers by advertising on TV ... something like this: "Suicide trouble? A multi-casualty drive-by-shooting problem? Body tissue of unknown origin? Tired of dusting that pesky fingerprint powder? Maybe you just have too many bird droppings piling up on the basketball hoop. Whatever your source of horror--I'm here to help! If you call right now, I'll not only clean up your calamity--but for a few extra bucks, I'll throw in some feng shui! Hell, I'll even replace drywall, re-carpet the floor and paint the damn room pink! Yes, American Bio-Hazard Services focuses on homicides, suicides, industrial accidents, removal of decomposed remains that you may have forgotten about, vehicle accidents, sudden hemorrhaging, projectile vomiting, offensive smells, messy births and terrorist attacks--but that's not all: I can also fix your computer and give one hell of a great massage! So don't hesitate--call now!
"I want to help," Darby says. Consequently, he's available anywhere in Idaho, 24 hours a day, including holidays--so you'll never have to deal with any excuses of the sorry-I'm-busy-coloring-eggs-with-the-kids variety. In fact, he doesn't have kids--just a very old cat. Almost all of his contracts are private, but public establishments need his services just as much. Businesses can unknowingly put people in hazardous situations by enlisting employees to do the job. ("Hey, Jimmy, before you take another smoke break, pick up that blood.") But nobody wants to see people with hepatitis filters walking into a place of business, so American Bio-Hazard Services maintains a low profile. The company will, for instance, be listed in the phone book under "House Cleaning." And Darby will gladly cover up the logo--a red bio-hazard symbol--on the side of his truck.
"Are you obsessed with germs?" I ask, scanning his kitchen for cat hair. He shrugs off the question, then adamantly recommends that people wash their hands often and "keep both toilet covers closed at all times"--well, maybe not at all times, but at least when not in use. This, Darby estimates, can cut down 40 percent of your exposure to colds, allergies and other viral irritants.
Recently busy with a suicide in Nampa, a trauma-scene photo collection rests on his table. "What do I do to decompress from all of this? I give massages," Darby says, sliding a pile of flyers to me, "I'm the Happy Masseuse." Sure, the masculine form is "masseur," but of all people, Gary Darby deserves a reprieve from anything that sounds like the word, "sewer." The flyer, which suggests a massage-and-computer-repair combination, reminds us to "smile and laugh every day!"
Whatever you call him--the Happy Masseuse, the Grin Reaper--Gary Darby is ready to answer the phone. And incidentally, the flyer announces that 10 percent of the massage/computer income will be donated to "assist dislocated and abandoned cats and to help senior citizens pay for medical procedures and medication for their feline friends." That's one thing he doesn't want to clean up.
Photograph (Gary Darby)
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