Death in the City (3 page)

Death started across the bridge and was immediately toppled over by a large man whose chest muscles seemed prone to busting out of his blue polo. He turned to Death with an absolute scowl before collapsing to the ground. Death did not notice; he knew humans had goals and dreams, and decided getting to the pastry shop would be his.

Death felt as though he were swimming through people, bumping into children, elderly women, fathers with kids on their shoulders, all of whom crumbled to the ground in their own awkward ways. At one point an entire group of Asian tourists completely swallowed Death, who came out on the other side of them when the group split into two piles of bodies. As an elderly man tripped over Death’s foot and crashed into a shop window, Death spun around and fell backwards into a couple that was on an afternoon stroll. After giving a quick juke to an old woman with a cane, Death stumbled over a plank on the bridge and fell headfirst into a young bearded man. He got up as a young woman in box-framed glasses and frizzy hair fell over him, and was thrown back down to the ground by a young boy chasing a football one of his friends had thrown. The boy fell face first onto the ground as his friends laughed. After Death was clothes-lined by two women holding hands who subsequently sprawled to the ground, he came out on the other side of the bridge. He was hot, frustrated, and tired, but pleased to finally get away from the crowd. He walked into the shop and breathed in the scent of freshly baked bread and marmalade as an air conditioner blasted its sweet gusts into his face. The combination cooled his senses and casting deep relaxation over him.

“Hi,” said a man at the counter. He wore a white baseball cap under which lengthy blonde hair spilled out over a few day’s worth of scruffy beard.

“I’m here for one of your world famous croissants,” said Death. The man smiled. Death tightened his tie back up and wiped sweat clean off his face.

“Alright, great. Marmalade?”

“Yes, please. Could I have blackberry?”

“You got it,” said the man. Death found his friendliness pleasant enough to wash away what remained of his misery. Walking along the street in that awful heat seemed to have happened years ago. The man retrieved a mammoth croissant from within the glass case and handed it to Death, who bit into it. The taste was unlike what he had ever experienced. “That’ll be two dollars,” said the man, holding out an empty hand. Death swallowed the piece of croissant and gazed at him quizzically.

“I don’t really have any money,” he admitted.

The man looked Death over a few times, disgusted, and said, “No money? Why would you ask for a croissant then?”

“I…” started Death. “Tim told me they were the best around.”

“Tim?” asked the man. “Oh, jeez, you’re not one of his thugs are you?”

“His thugs?” asked Death. He took a step forward, which somehow caused the man to leap backwards and knock the clock off the back wall.

“You’re not here to break my thumbs, are you? Look, I have a check coming in next Thursday, I’ll have the money then. Come on, I have children to feed, man.”

“Oh…yes, okay,” said Death, nodding and edging towards the door.

“Here, here, take the croissant. No charge. You deserve it, pal, you look like you could take a load off.” Death took the pastry and was about to smile when the man clutched his forehead. “That wasn’t to say you look bad, like you’d need to take a load off or anything. I…oh God.”

The man looked like he was about to vomit as he held his palm to his chest so Death thought it best to say a quick “Thank you” and walk back to the bridge. However, it was not bustling as it had been only minutes before. It was still covered with people, but all of them were dead. Some were propped up against windows of the shops, others sprawled out on their backs with their mouths hanging open. Death cast his vision across the ocean of demise before him.

“Oh, damn,” he whispered. He walked across the bridge, tiptoeing in any open space he could find, and emerged on the other side. He ate the croissant in four quick bites and started to find his way back to his apartment.

Death Starts a Career

“Do you think I should get a job?” asked Death to Brian. They were sitting on the couch in 55 Macci Street. Brian was shirtless and drinking whiskey at nine in the morning.

“Nah, man,” slurred Brian. “Getting a job is what the government thinks we should do. But we should all be doing things for free. People could just do their jobs for free and then everything would be free. The world would be a better place.”

“It would?” asked Death. “But would people go along with that?”

“Of course, because if they didn’t, the whole system would break down.”

“What would be your job?” asked Death.

“I would sell ham,” said Brian, finishing off his glass of bourbon.

Death wanted advice that was slightly more coherent so he decided to meet Tim at the HaffCaff Café. They sat down at their usual table and ordered coffee. “Most people have jobs, right?” asked Death.

Tim looked him over for a few long seconds before answering, “Yeah, they do. I mean, some of us have different jobs than other people. I mean I am employed. I do work. It’s not really traditional, more odd jobs, specialty things. When a person has a lot of skills, they, you know, they can do things like…like that.” His face was getting red and he looked sweaty and flustered and Death had to cut him off.

“Right, well, this man I met suggested I get a job, and I think I’m going to try to get one.” He took a sip of coffee.

“I thought you were here for retirement,” said Tim. He looked at Death through sharply squinted eyes.

“Well, yeah, but I was thinking a retirement job,” said Death, thinking quickly. “Just to, uh, keep myself busy.”

Tim shrugged and leaned back in his seat. “Well, I’m sure you’ll be able to find something along Maine Street, it’s really something else. There’s plenty of places looking for workers there.” His voice was calmer now. The two friends finished their morning coffees, which were becoming ritualistic for them (a human routine Death was proud to have obtained) and Tim started putting on his jacket. “Okay, this one’s for Marco,” he said, showing his wallet. “But next one’s on you, right?”

“It’s on me?” asked Death.

“Yeah, that’s pretty fair,” said Tim.

“Okay,” said Death, clueless.

“Great, I’ll see you,” said Tim, tossing a few bills on the table and leaving the café. Death smiled at a very pretty young waitress with silky brown hair and deep emerald eyes as she walked up to him. She returned the gesture as she cleared the mugs and took the money Tim had left.

“Thank you,” said Death.

“Maria,” she said.

“Death.”

“What?”

“D—D—Derek,” said Death.

“Well goodness, I could have sworn you said something else,” said Maria. Death noticed she had a soft southern drawl to her voice. She was back to smiling as she wiped down the table and left.

Maine Street was not difficult to find; it was easily the largest street in the city, and people were crammed together on the sidewalks, walking together in rhythm. Many of the buildings that lined the street had “Help Wanted” signs in the windows. Death shrugged and walked into the first one he saw, and his job hunt began.

He was surprised to see that the place he walked into was a boxing gym. All around were men in full boxing getups, hitting large bags of sand, sparring in the ring, grunting and sweating and spitting. Death was hit with an aroma reminiscent of feet, sweat, and bengay, but kept walking until he came to a door that said, in dingy red letters, “OFFICE.”

Death knocked and was immediately greeted by a little man wearing very short shorts, and a sweatband around his head. He grunted, motioning for Death to come inside, and closed the door behind him.

“Yeah, what?” grunted the little man. He stuck an unlit cigar in his mouth and crossed his arms, looking straight up at Death. “Whadyawant?”

“Uh…wow,” said Death quietly. “I just saw you were looking for help here. I was wondering if I could have the job.”

“Canya spar? I need a sparring partner for Williams out there. The one he’s got has no heart. Y’need heart. The game is ninety percent heart, another ten percent heart. You got heart? I can’t take no one with no heart.”

“I…” started Death. “Yes. I…have heart.” And a few minutes later Death found himself in the ring with one of the largest men he had ever seen, dressed in his grey suit, a soft helmet, and red boxing gloves. The little man stood next to the ring and clanged the bell.

“Allrightgetatim!” he screamed. Death took this as a cue and, having no idea what he was doing, mimicked his fellow boxer’s fighting stance and motions. He arbitrarily threw light punches that weakly hit the air as the little man kept yelling, “Comon yah worm!”

Death’s adversary, Williams, was a handsome, very large black man, coated in a mist of sweat with a neat grin planted firmly on his thin face. He threw a heavy punch that landed right between Death’s eyes. The two boxers crumpled to the ground instantly as the little man jumped into the ring.

“Jeezum, whadyado?” he yelled, running to Williams and looking worried. Death took several seconds to wake out of a daze. When his head stopped threatening to split open and he could see and hear again, he looked at the big man and the little man standing over him and a realization hit him; the boxer had been reaped.

“Oh, damn,” muttered Death. He was placed on a list of people who were banned from the boxing gym, and he found himself back on Maine Street, jobless.

Only a short amount of walking and avoiding the throng of people on the sidewalk landed Death in the office of a major stockbroker, J. Stephens and Sons.

“So, do you have a resume for me?” asked a skinny young man in a silk tailored suit. His desk was minimal and classy and even his haircut looked obscenely expensive.

“No,” said Death. “But I can just tell you whatever you need to know.”

The man raised his eyebrows, moved a stack of papers on his desk to the side, and said, “Alright, well what experience do you have?” He leaned his elbows on his desk and fiddled with a well-chewed pencil.

“Experience?” asked Death. He thought back to the millions of years he had existed and tried to pull something from that. “Well, I’m good with…people. And I’m very well traveled. And I like…” he racked his brain, and then finished with, “coffee.” The words came out of his mouth as though they were not his own, and he felt very uncomfortable.

The man leaned back in his chair and looked like he was on the verge of laughter. He stroked his chin with a manicured hand. “I meant business experience. How much do you know about stocks, corporations, costs, exchange, fiscal policies, GDP, inflation, interest, supply and demand, markets, trade agreements, credit unions, CDs? Do you know anything about 401Ks or even the income limits of a traditional IRA?” The man stared at Death, panting lightly.

“No,” said Death slowly. “But I used to play the fiddle.”

“So you want me to hire you when you have absolutely no knowledge or experience whatsoever?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

Death soon found himself searching on Maine Street again. He walked into a bakery and was greeted by a large, very jolly woman who hired him on the spot. He only spent forty minutes there before, under his watch, the oven caught fire and exploded. The ice cream stand he walked into was run by several teenage girls who called the police on him because they thought he had “malicious intentions.” Two hours later the cruisers were gone, and he moved onward.

Death began to lose hope. The very last building before Maine Street turned into Ernie Way was the local supermarket, FreePay Brothers. The day was growing dark and the letters on the façade of the building were glowing bright red, but the large
F
was burnt out, so it just read “REEPAY BROS.” Death looked at a “Help Wanted” sign in the window and saw it as his last hope.

Before Death walked into the supermarket, he saw a very old man in grey, grungy, patched clothing standing outside the door. On his head was a ragged black winter hat (despite the relative warmth of the summer evening) under which grey stringy hair sprouted over a twisted and unshaven face. In a gloved hand he held a battered tin cup, which he shook back and forth at Death.

“Uh, oh dear,” said Death. “Do I need to pay?” He shuffled around in his pockets nervously.

The man looked confused. “Do you have money to spare?” he asked in a gruff voice.

“No,” said Death automatically. “No, I don’t.”

“You gotta have something in that nice suit of yours,” said the man, peering up and down Death’s outfit.

“I honestly don’t, but I should soon,” said Death. “I’m about to get a job right now.”

“Okay. Bless you, sir,” said the man, and Death walked into the supermarket.

People rarely die while in supermarkets, so Death was in awe when he walked through the door. Before him stood aisles and aisles of food racks bathed in fluorescent lighting that blotted out the darkening natural sky. Death walked up to the customer assistance desk and was greeted by a smiling old woman in a mauve smock.

“Hi,” said Death. “I’m here to ask about getting a job.”

“Oh, great,” said the woman happily. “Just fill out this form and—“