A Real Job

Another day was done as the sun poked out from the east. Another nightshift, another day until next payday.

Owen Penner was well used to it. He had had the drive-though window job for three years, and it had bracketed his existence for all that time. His school performance had been middling, as there always seemed something more important to do. When he had finally finished, he was glad to have been done. Finding a good job had proved to be somewhat of a challenge; he hadn’t the staying power because he lived by the rule that a man had to work. The night job, he had found two weeks into his job search. It wasn’t a great job, but it was a full-time job – as close to a permanent job these days as a person could hope to find. Even if his dad disagreed a little, Owen counted it as a real job. It just wasn’t that good a one.

Getting the orders right, the coffee and victuals out, had been a challenge at first; he had to talk himself through it, and he had made his share of mistakes. The second year in, though, he had gotten it down to a routine. It had become relaxing.

Lately, he had noticed a new addition to his routine. People started pulling up, ordering, and then asking for a job application. He’d been caught short the first time, but his manager had later slipped a pad to the window. Owen was sobered: some of them had looked pretty desperate, almost as if their patronage would earn them brownie points.

He didn’t bring up the possibility of promotion to his dad; lately, he’d been pointing out that he had three years’ experience and a good work record. Even if he was let go, his experience put him at the front of the line. He had (somewhat nosily, he had to admit) asked the manager what kind of candidates would be signed up. “None,” replied the older man, “and not what we’ve got even if there’s an opening. All that matter these days is experience.

“I’m seeing applications – even résumés - with good degrees from good schools. I can’t help ‘em, and that’s the way it goes.”

Owen found that his dad, an electrician, lapped it up. “’Bout time; they had it coming to them.” He smiled as he stuck his left had casually in his pocket: job habit. “They were the ones who thought that we working men were a little rough on their scenery. They didn’t mind in the least when everyone’s protections were dismantled; not a bit. Now, they have to live with what they’ve done.”

His dad was his height, but Owen still found that equality a little surprising. They looked a lot alike, except his dad’s hair was darker and somewhat gone at the top. Had he been pressed, Owen would have admitted that his résumé tales had been a little self-serving; ever since he had taken the night shift, his dad would sometimes make kidding remarks about “children of a lesser job.” They were good-spirited, but there was a little bit of a hint embedded.

There wasn’t any such jabs in Owen’s place, just a hominess that sometimes was lonely. He rated a bachelor apartment: small bedroom, mini-bathroom and a somewhat larger everything-else room with kitchenette. He soon put it to work fixing his dinner.

After done, he flopped down in the easy chair and hit the remote. The local morning news show stood in for his dad’s evening news, and the morning talk shows served in the stead of prime time. Some of them served pretty well as comedy. There were other shows too, mostly reruns, but what’s the excitement in watching old stuff? He couldn’t be bothered TiVoing the prime time stuff, as there wasn’t much point pretending he had a day job. Almost all of his paycheque went though his fingers, and he was too settled to think about taking a trade in college. As of yet.

He hadn’t eaten that much, but he was feeling groggy. A little too groggy…

Owen’s head leapt up when he sensed that he was no longer alone. “Who – Jeezus!”

He had leapt up with the second word. The figure in front of him was clearly sheathed in black: a full robe with a matching black hoodie. The only body part that showed was a bulbous nose. Owen’s eyelids jerked back when it hit him that the thing (whatever it was) outmatched him in the height department.

He didn’t say anything after. His eyelids had returned to normal position…or so he thought. Whatever this thing was, it was going to have the first word.

And it did: “I require your assistance with a death.”

What am I – a nurse!? After that thought passed, though, Owen finally realized who it was in his place.

“You’re – you’re – “

“I am Death.” With a voice deeper than my dad’s... “Should you choose to assist me in this task, I will give you the year of your own death.”

That jolted him back, somewhat. “Year? Why not the whole deal? The day and time? Too?”

“You may request them if you wish, but I must inform you that the information you may earn will in likelihood be useless. You will almost certainly take action to avoid your death, and doing so will leave you as ignorant as you were before. There are no second chances, not ever.”

Owen’s hands rose up at that, and he began feeling wary. What he was hearing sounded like that economics crap. This shift here, that shifts there, and we all wind up where we were. Not unlike the opposite of life.

“I think I’ll take my chances. Gimme the day, hour – as exact as you can make it. Once I’m done the job.

“Now, what is it?”

He didn’t mean for his voice to crack like that, but this thing was pretty imposing.

Now, Owen felt whatever it had in place of eyes spotlighting him. His stomach curdled.

“Turn around; there is something that you must see behind you.”

“Why don’t you tell me,” his voice said in starts. “I don’t have to – “

“Do it.”

He felt sweat on his forehead as he complied, silently this time. Whoever this Death was, he was pretty damn mean. Before Owen had finished turning around, he saw…himself. Slumped over, on his easy chair.

“I’m…” Without meaning to, a spit-bubble popped over his lips. “I’m…”

“No, you are not dead; you are asleep,” the creature said behind him. Behind and upwards. “When you are ready, we will depart to the death place of the soul you will be transferring to my keeping. I will go, and you will prepare that soul for me to take. He must be ready to accompany me, and willing to do so expeditiously. Only then will you learn the moment of your death.”

Moment? That word jerked him back into some kind of awareness. So it was a deal.


Owen was now in front of a huge bed in an even huger bedroom; Death was gone. The sheets looked glazed, as did the pajama on the old stork in front of him. One look at the guy’s face said all that needed to be said about the dried-up bird.

He was clearly in the class that Owen’s dad had told him about. So rich, the interest he raked in could pay food, rent and board for everyone in Owen’s apartment building – more than, likely. One of the fellows that rigged the rules: this day it was ‘merit’, just like it was ‘character’ in days gone by. Either way, you don’t come even close to him unless you bought into his world hook, line and sinker. Even then, you didn’t mean a damn unless you were rapacious.

Death’s introduction to this cave-chest had made his father sound like a clubmate. “This man had devoted his very life, soul and fibre to one goal and one goal alone: making money. He cares for nothing else, much as he professed otherwise. ‘Competitive’ was his excuse. He took pride in his talent for bending both rules and norms, in personal terms as well as in business practice.”

A figure in the bathroom gave evidence of it. Owen drifted over and saw the kind of woman that he’d only gazed at in magazines. Blond hair, down to a little below her shoulders. Taller than normal, lithe and thin. Blue eyes: he could see them in the mirror. The kind of jaw that made her look like a tooth grinder. She looked not more than ten years older than Owen himself. What was in her eyes induced a headache: ostensibly open and bright, there was a certain vacantness in them. She was, of course, beautiful, which made Owen’s headache worse. It took several seconds before he realized that she was the old geezer’s wife.

Instead of lingering, he turned away. Part of it was the job he had to do, but part of it was the need to get away from her. She didn’t know he was there, nor would she.

Time for the wake-up call. “Hey? Guy! I’m here to tell you something.” Owen didn’t mean to sound officious, but he wanted to get it over with.

The lingering headache blunted Owen’s surprise at seeing the fellow – the spirit of the fellow – rise up from his corpse. “Boy, you are not very polite,” he said. The purse-mouthedness of the old boy’s kind of authority was now evident. “What brings you here?”

“To bring you some news, old timer. Your time’s up.”

“So what are you. A kidnapper? A robber? My security system is nothing to be laughed at, and my wife is – Amanda? Amanda? Could you come here?”

Owen began to smile as the old crow’s bark turned into confusion. “No, she ain’t available to take your call right now.”

“Then who – I mean, why are you?”

Might as well have some fun with this. “I’m an executive assistant of a personage you’ve probably become acquainted with recently. His name is Death, and he’ll be by real soon. I’m just here to do the prep job.

“Turn around, please.”

Not unlike Owen himself earlier, the old guy craned his neck around and saw his own corpse. His face was expressionless when he eyes once again met Owen’s.

His voice might as well have been too. “So I am. My widow must be delighted.”

Owen just blinked, so the guy helped himself to some more talk. “I mean it; there is no need for me to be dicey as I’m the dead one. I’m quite sure that her boyfriend – oh yes, they all have them – will be jumping with glee and counting the money that used to be mine….”

He continued in that vein, with the only interruption for his breathing. Over the next ten minutes, Owen learned about: the geezer’s déclassé first wife; his arrogant second wife; some unflattering things about the current one that jibed with what Owen himself had seen in her eyes; the geezer’s kids; his grandkids; what they cared about; what they didn’t care about; etc.

The funny this was, Owen found himself growing kind-of sympathetic. Since the geezer wanted to hear himself talk, Owen had an opportunity to sift through his memory. This fellow reminded him of – wait.

One of his friends had a mother that got divorced. Her husband had run out on her. She sometimes wanted him to lend an ear, which Owen did because she’d had a tough break. And her son was his friend. The thing is, what was coming out of that old stork’s mouth was a lot like her woes. Only…

…only this fellow was at the top of the world! And her he was, complaining like a jilted wife!

It became easy to listen to the drone now; Owen had no need to fake a smile. This pillar of po-lite society, this titan of the executive suite, this maven of the business magazine covers, was a whiner!


The rest was easy. The old boy must have felt some residual guilt, because he tried to ask about Owen. “Seeing as how we are both dead, we might as well get to know one another.”

“It’s all right; just say what you got to say. Let it out, because you won’t have any chance once Death gets here.”

And sure enough, the geezer did. He made an effort to talk about something other than money grabbing, but it was forced; all he could really do was talk his business. Death had been exactly right about this clown. By the time his droning recounting was over, Owen felt good enough to be solicitous.

“You’d better make yourself ready. You’re going to be taken away soon.”

“Oh, that’s right.” The he smiled, or tried to. “You’re not a bad boy; you’re a nice boy. Others would have walked off, but you didn’t. You lent me your ear and showed more consideration than any of my grandchildren. I’ve said my piece, so Death I await.”

Owen took the cue, and called in his mind to the Reaper. He soon felt the same presence that had jarred him back in his home. The old fellow looked over and opened his mouth.

“Before we go, I would like to say a word or two about this fine boy you’ve –“

“Please,” Owen interrupted. “You’ll say it just by going with him.”

The old man looked quizzical, but then shrugged and looked back at Death. “All right. I’m ready to go.”


Owen had been banished back to his old room while Death saw to his charge. Looking at his slumped-over body, he had time to think things through.

That old guy is someone that any of his friends would trade places with in an instant. That kind of money? It might have been as high as a billion bucks. A hundred million, maybe. And not only his friends would…

There was a kind of customer for which Owen had to go through the routine mechanically. The usual arrival vehicle was a Mercedes, Cadillac, BMW, Saab or Jaguar. Even the sight of those brands pulling in was leadening. All of them had men and women who hoped, schemed, pushed, drove to get up to where that old guy was. Some of them, he was sure, wondered what they lacked, or were getting over the fact that they’d never reach the heights – their heights. And here he’d been, looking at and listening to the real thing, and what he had found was a…

…tool. The guy was a tool of his money, of his business. And that’s what all those assholes aspired to be. Someone like that old fella. Owen wondered why, despite all that his dad had explained, he was kind-of pitying the old guy in a warmish kind of way. Maybe the old boy really had something to whine about.

His dad had told him about the plutocrats, and Owen was glad of it, but –

“Your task is complete.” Owen turned around, and saw Death out-heighting him again.

“It didn’t take that long,” he ventured, waiting.

Death paused, and delivered his judgment in that reverb baritone of his. “No, it did not. He was talkative, but the pacification of him was straightforward and consumed little time. You have fulfilled your end of the bargain.”

You mean there was doubt? But that thought came nowhere near to being voiced; Owen just waited.

“You asked for as much precision as can be supplied,” the baritone continued. “Your death will be on December 26th, 2012, at 11:38 AM.”

That close? Again, Owen couldn’t voice it.

“Well… thanks, Mr. Death.

“But I just wanted to ask you: could you kind-of tell me the cause – Whoa!”

The figure was gone from his vision as he was floated over his slumped body. He was the top of his head approach, then a jolt of darkness, then the floor and his shoes. After straightening up, a quick glance around revealed that he was now alone. Alone for the rest of his day, which would end at about noon or one.

Boxing day, 2012, 11 – sometime around 11 AM. He’d better be careful…

War Is Over

Alex Cathcart had had a hard day protesting. What better cause than ending the war?

Like many of his friends, he had sung the tune about supporting the troops - by bringing them home. In his heart, though, he believed everything his father told him. Soldiers love war, as it gives them better pay, promotion, status. Citizens take their ribbons more seriously, and become less inclined to differentiate between ones awarded for ‘valor’ and ones handed out for time-serving, making the right connections, or being in the right place at the right time. ‘Support’ had turned into somewhat of a code word, mostly relating to who paid taxes and who found what taxing.

His sleep was groggy, which confirmed his impression that his day had been hard. He and his group had done a lot of bending. It had been much easier in the halcyon days of the Vietnam War, Alex believed. He did not know how difficult it had been before “Stop The War” had become popular. Had it been pointed out to him that it was much easier for his crowd than it had been in 1966, he wouldn’t have believed it.

The heavy but comfortable feeling made awareness come slowly. At first, he thought that the cloaked figure in front of his bed was a compadre. His roomie was still asleep on the other end of the residence room, adding credence to his impression.

“Hey,” he said thickly. “Demo’s over, man. I got class tomorrow.” Alex had a major that was generally seen as an easy ride, but it was hard for some. You had to be convinced before it became easy.

“How’d you slip –“ and then his voice stopped as comprehension clicked in.

Whoever he was, he was big. Well over six feet. Cloaked, with no visible features except for a bulby kind of nose. No eyes to see, but eyes there were. Alex could feel them, and he didn’t like what he felt.

“Wait a minute. Who are you and how’d you get in here?” His voice was now cracking slightly.

The answering voice did nothing to defuse his jumpiness; it sounded something like Darth Vader. “I am the figure you know as Death.”

Death? The Grim Reaper?

“Stand up and I will tell you what I have come to offer.”

“Like hell I will! Who are you and why are you bothering me?”

The voice continued. “If your fear of me outweighs your desire to learn the year of your death, then I will go. You will not encounter me again until your own time is due.”

For the first time, it had occurred to Alex that he himself might be dead – after Death had assured him that he wasn’t. “What makes you think I should be seeing you at all? I got a right here, and –“

“Then you refuse,” the hooded creature concluded.

“No – wait.” Now, Alex did get up. He was thin, and fairly tall – but Death was taller. Alex’s eyes came up to about where Death’s chin would be. “What did you say?”

“I want your assistance in transferring a life to the afterlife. Should you complete this task, I will tell you the year of your death. Look behind you.”

Obediently, Alex did so. He saw a murky outline of himself, under somewhat messed-up covers. Then, he turned his gaze to his roommate and saw sleep there too.

His gumption came back. “How could you pull me out of my own body? More to the point, how do I know you’re not –“

“Lying? I do not lie.”

Yeah, well it’s easy for you to say it… The thought died.


“So that’s all I have to do. Just tell the fellow, make him ready and get you here.” Alex’s tone said, it’d better be. Death merely nodded. They were in a deserty place, one Alex had never seen. At least it was daylight.

“The man you are here to welcome is a warmonger. He asked for combat, and enjoyed killing his fellow human beings. For years prior to his enlistment, he dreamed of shooting those that he considered enemies. You may find it an easy task.”

Alex’s head bobbed up, down and around. This Death guy was pretty cool now.

But his head-bouncing stopped when Death’s now-exposed arm pointed to the corpse…which started another kind of bouncing, in his stomach.

It took a while to take in what he saw. A military Hummer – some kind of troop transport – lay smoking and wrecked in front of them. Entangled in the mess was a mess of a body. His legs were gone, and his arms were bent in a way that Alex had never seen before. Charred flesh etched out the lower part of the body. Alex found himself starting to gag.

When his stomach finally quelled, he looked for Death; the creature was gone. Alex was on his own now.

Hesitantly, he called out to the wrecked body. “Uh…guy?”

“Yessir!” Amazed, Alex saw a second body of the same man emerge from the corpse. He hadn’t seen the legs form, but they were there now. The man in front of him stood easy. “Private first class Guadaglioni.”

They were the same height, but Guadaglioni was obviously beefier. Alex’s face tightened up a little.

But he had a job to do, so he did it. “I’ve got some news for you. You see – you’re dead.”

Guadaglioni blinked. “Dead? But I feel fine.”

Alex mutely pointed over to the wreck transport, as he had nothing to say to Guadaglioni’s remark. Privately, he was hoping that the big lug would get himself prepped so Alex could go back to his home. The soldier looked over and added another remark. “That guy really took it. Must have been an IED. Poor fellow; I thought the area had been –“

Then, the PFC himself went mute, for a few seconds. “Holy God…that’s…”

“Yep, it’s you,” Alex filled in. He had intended to sound casual, but it had come out breezy. “The war’s over for you.”

That got Guadaglioni looking back at him. “It isn’t for the rest of us. Is there any way I can warn them?”

“Uh…no. I don’t think so.” Once again, Alex’s voice didn’t quite sound like what he had intended. “It’s over; you’ve passed away. Kicked the bucket. Met the –“

“Hold on here,” Guadaglioni slipped back. “Grim Reaper? You mean you’re him?” He was smiling now. “No offense, but you’re not really that scary. I mean, I always knew that God was a – peace lover, but…”

But Alex was left indifferent to Guadaglioni’s bonhomie; all it said to him was ‘jarhead’. “I’m not, not exactly; I’m his stand-in.”

“Well, what do you know. The Reaper has hired help. Hey kid” – Alex felt himself getting colder, as they were the same age – “do you think you can fix it so that I become a ghost? I don’t mind being tied to this place, but I think it would be right if I could have a chance to warn my unit about what happened. This area was supposed to be cleared, and I assumed so. That’s why I’m here with you now. I know they’ll find me and send me home, but I’d be happy to haunt around here as a reminder to –“

“I can’t do it,” Alex said firmly while wondering if he had to bark his way through the rest of the job. “Reaper says you’re dead; you go with him.”

“Oh – is he around? Can I talk with him?”

Alex shook his head. Now, he saw why Death had asked him to take over the job. Part of him was wondering if he should just throw the thing and let the jarhead bend the Reaper’s ear instead. His curiosity won out. “No. I’m supposed to deliver you to him and you’re supposed to go.”

“Hey kid” – there it was again – “don’t you think that the set-up here is kind-of, well, bureaucratic? I mean, it would do a lot of good for me to stay here and I won’t mind. It’s really no skin off Death’s nose and I’d make for quite a tourist attraction. Be harder for the insurgents to keep murdering if I was…”

“Nope; no chance.”

“Bureaucracy...” Guadaglioni was now looking down at his boots. His brow wrinkled, but the accompanying frown was soon replaced with a smile.

“Hey look at this! I’m floating here!” He was; Alex now had to look up at him. “Who would have thought I could it?”

Alex sighed, feeling a headache coming on. It was going to be a long one…


It was. Alex had spent more than a half-hour cajoling, arguing, even barking at the guy before he finally summoned Death. As he had been told, a mental summons was all that it took. Several times, Alex wished to throw it early; each time was quelled by reminding himself how much he had already invested in the deal. It was like waiting at a streetlight to get from one side of the street to the other. You could pick one of several, by walking further towards your destination, but you’re at the one you picked and the more you waited the nearer the change was. Too much time was sunk in to move.

Death had only been a short time whisking the PFC away, and returned to briskly whisk Alex back to his own room. When there, Alex remembered that he had forgotten to remember what Death’s arm had looked like. White flesh, or something…perhaps…

“So…. That was a hard one. You glad it’s over?”

Alex was trying to be chummy, but the lock that Death’s hidden eyes had placed upon his own made it clear that the creature didn’t see it that way. “All the dead are the same to me. Rest assured that, when your time has come, I will be as detached when describing you to another.” That shut Alex right up.

“As to your own: you have fulfilled your part of the bargain. Your death will take place in the Christian year 2071.”

“Uh – wait,” Alex blurted out. “Can I – like, have the day? It was a kind of hard job, so I thought that – you know, a bonus would be in order?”

In response, his vision started tilting and his body re-arranged. It sunk until it reached familiar ground, when he woke up.

Habitually quiet, out of concern for his roommate, he stirred over what he had experienced. He had faced down Death himself and had gotten what he wanted. The jarhead had been a pain, all right, but the fellow wasn’t what Alex had expected. Gawd, had he been an earbender! The mission – the mission – the mission – the yada, yada, the yawna. Cripes, he was single-minded! Gotta do this; gotta warn them; gotta, gotta, gotta. Alex sure had a few tales to tell his buds the next rally. Only…

One of his friends was in jail. The coordinator said that she was unjustly grabbed, but that was all. What would a man like Guadaglioni have done?

Alex had to concede that the guy was incredibly loyal. A warmonger, yes. A brute, almost certainly. An overgrown child, call that ‘probable’. But still, there he was yakking about becoming a ghost for his unit when it didn’t matter a damn what he did. No: it was more than mouth, he had really meant it.

My opinions haven’t changed one damned bit. But Alex did start to wonder about what his friends meant by ‘support the troops’. The soldier’s motives were hard to pin down; that was for sure. Nothing he had heard from his father sufficed, and his friends’ remarks didn’t seem to do either. Nor did his girlfriend’s, come to think of it.

Did soldier boy have one? He might have…

As sleep came to him, Alex was mulling over whether to sign up for a creative writing course.

Uncertain

“You want me to what?”

Gord McCowan’s voicebox had said it, not he. He was still in shock.

The figure hulking over him was quite clearly Death. Gord didn’t have any friends who would play a prank of that sort – not any pranks at all, for that matter. They were an earnest bunch, and so was Gord.

Even in his bed, he could see that Death was big. Well over six feet tall; possibly six foot six. The black cloak may as well have been a burqa, save for the hood; it was the kind that topped a sweatshirt or maybe a parka. It was black too. Thanks to some sort of night vision, Gord could see what was black and what wasn’t.

“Aren’t you – supposed to be holding a scythe?” And a large hourglass? That was his voice again. Had Gord been fully aware, he would not have dared; not at all. He must be still sleepy, or something close to.

The creature did not reply. Instead, its resonant baritone voice said, “I need you to assist me in a death.” This ain’t a funeral director; that’s for sure. “In exchange for doing so, you will learn the year of your own death.”

A trade? With Death? The almost homeyness of the offer jolted Gord into wakefulness – and stomach-melting fear. The trouble his voice didn’t have now descended upon it.

“Uh – uh – the year. If…you don’t mind me asking, sir, why – why not the day?”

This time, Death answered him. “You can so choose if you wish, but I must warn you. Many who have heard the day of their death have adjusted their conduct and rendered their prediction false. Should you follow, I am sure that the information you will gain will prove to be useless.

“The year provides an indefiniteness that makes it of value.”

Despite the helplessness in his stomach, Gord had to concede that Death made his point. There wasn’t even any guarantee that changing course would postpone the day; he might end up hastening it. He got up and Death backed away. Gord, standing straight up, saw his eyes rest on Death’s collarbone.

“I’ll take the year.” The fear in his voice was gone now. His subconscious now realized that Death was not there to destroy him, or take him away, but to bargain with him.

“Then we go.”


Now, there was light. He saw an older woman, with a slight smile on her reddened mouth, reading a book. It looked as if she was about to turn in.

“Do not be fooled,” Death told him. “She is a whore. She cuckolds her husband recurrently, using various excuses that are accepted in her subculture. Her ways have made her children directionless and easily distracted from purpose. She believes she has kept the peace, but there is little of the responsibility-taker in her.”

It clicked in. Gord was hearing - from Death, no less! – something he could hear his preacher say. The Whore of Babylon, spreading confusion and pain. So this was a real one.

“What is she dying of?” he asked Death.

“That is not for you to know; it is not part of the bargain we have made.”

There seemed no point in pressing. “Then what shall I do?”

“You will make sure she is ready,” Death instructed. “She must be accepting of her death and must not cause trouble.

“I will go now. When you think she is ready, call for me and I will be back.” And, he was. Gord and this woman were alone.


“Ma’am?”

She looked up, straight at him. “Who are you? How did you get in here?”

“I’m, uh, Death.”

The corners of her mouth turned up more. “Death? That’s not exactly a new one.” Evidently, she had little fear of strangers, Gord noted to himself. Coldly, he found.

But, she was his responsibility. “What I mean is, I’m an envoy – a sort of agent of Death. I don’t rate the cloak.”

That put her at her ease, and that put him at his ease. “Pity. You would have been exotic had you been.”

That snapped his morals back. “I understand that –“ but her look, a polite and inquisitive one, drained them away. She was dead, after all, and he was only the envoy.

Instead of a speech, his brain clicked on an idea. “Would you care to stand up?”

Now her teeth were exposed. “Would you care to help me?” There was something in her eyes that squared with what Death had told him, but Gord just held out his hand. It seemed best to get the job done. She took it, and her well-coiffed brown hair bobbed slightly as she did so. Her ‘do stopped above the ears, making almost for a parody of what a much younger woman would sport. Her mouth was thin, and her dark eyes were small. She smiled easily; Gord noticed how thin she was

As she stood up, he saw his hunch proven to be correct. “Please, turn around.” She did so, and saw her own body with the upper part slumped over. The armchair had enough depth to keep her teetering body from hitting the floor, as yet.

“Golly. I really am dead,” she said flatly with a bit of wonder. The, her eyes fastened upon his. “Do you know what caused it?” Gord shook his head. The top of hers was at the level of his chin.

It had hit her in such a way to make her anxious. “Is there any…other part to this?”

Gord was tempted to tell her that she was to expect the standard treatment. St. Peter, or another angelic gatekeeper, going over her life and pointing out her many sins. For her to express sorrow over - or gloat about. Then, the judgment. Afterwards – well, given what she was, what else would be expected?

But something in her demeanor changed him. He had expected a woman of her sort to be lewd, or self-justifying, or smirky, but she wasn’t. Gord couldn’t see any hint of defensiveness or braggartry.

“Yes, ah, there is. You’ll soon be meeting the real thing. Once I’m through, Death - the real spirit - will take over.”

“The real thing…” She was back to looking at her own body, still slumped. Gord idly noted that he legs were spread with her head dangling just over her lap. That observation led to no other.

After all, she was dead now. Any trouble she had caused, she would no longer be causing it. Her husband likely didn’t now of her misadventures, and they may have well died with her. Gord had to admit to himself that he didn’t know the whole story: maybe her kids would have turned out directionless all the same. It was that kind of culture in some parts. He also knew that some loose-moraled couples didn’t mind the wife doing what she did; for all Gord knew, it had been consensual all the way. She would go and sin no more; that was for sure. So why dwell on it?

“Are you ready?” he asked quietly.

She smiled up at him, in a similar way as from the chair, but there was no tang in the smile this time. “I’ll go quietly,” she replied with quiet firmness laced with a little irony.

Uh-h-h, Death? His thought was to prepare him for the call, but it wasn’t needed. The stiffening of his body, and the shadow of a much taller figure, told Gord that his mission was done.

She looked a little afraid, but largely quizzical. “So you’re Death. You look a lot like the one in the movies.”


The next thing Gord saw was his own room, and his own body lying in sleep. Funny: he had forgotten to check when Death had whisked him away for his errand. He waited, unsure of whether he could go back without Death there also. It was only about two minutes before his wait was ended when the same shadow appeared behind him. When he turned around, Gord saw the same hulking figure looking down at him.

“She was co-operative. You have fulfilled your part of the bargain.”

He still felt a responsibility, perhaps. “Where did she go?”

Death’s face was sheathed in darkness, except for a strangely bulbous nose. But Gord could feel the creature’s eyes lock with his now. He wondered if he had been prying.

“That, you will never know until your time is due. For all you know, your God may be a libertine and she may be cavorting under His benevolent eye. It could be that your impressions are correct and she is suffering without recourse, but you will never know until the death that is your own. Even then, it is likely you will never find out.”

Gord got the message, completely. He just waited as the hood-covered glare seemed to fade.

“Now, to your own. You will die sometime in the Christian year 2038.”

Sixty-one? Gord neither smoke nor drank. He didn’t make any big deal of his diet, but he wasn’t a food slob either. Why so…

But whatever slim chance he had to ask, was gone. His spirit-body was lifted up, moved gently over his own sleeping form, adjusted to match its position, and sunk. Death, by this time, was also gone.

And so was sleep. Gord turned on the bedroom lamp and walked to his desk to write down the number he learned. While doing so, he added a note to search the likely causes of death in males at sixty.

Thinking further, he also added a more personal note to get on with it. He was still single, and he didn’t seem to have that much time now. He wouldn’t be a grandfather, but he still had time to start a family…