My Brush with Death

My brush with death.

I’m enjoying my beer, sitting around in my fuzzy bunny slippers and terrycloth robe, when I her a knock at the door.

When I open it I find a skeletal man in a crappy, off the rack JC Penny suit holding an umbrella. He looks at me underneath thinning hair, one eyebrow raised, and says,

“It’s your time to go.”

“Wait, what?”

“I’m death.”

“Who?”

“Muerte? La mort? The Ferry Man?”

“You’re death? The death.”

He rolls his eyes sarcastically, “Well, a death. There‘s a bunch of us running around, collecting souls. One person couldn’t do this job.”

I scan him for a moment, “You wanna come inside? Take a load off?”

He (or rather it) looks down at his Blackberry, “Well, I am ahead of schedule and I do need to use your restroom…”

After soiling my toilet, he takes a seat and starts to fiddle with my stereo. “What are you listening to?”

“Otis Rush.”

“Ooo. I like him. Real depressing, you know.”

I pour him a drink. He takes a sip and looks at me inquisitively, “Liquor? It’s ten in the morning.”

“I’m going to die in a few minutes anyway, right?”

“See, this is what I’m talking about. You smoke and drink all the time and when I come, all you folks complain about not having enough time…”

I squint at him, “Did I say anything, slappy?”

“No, no you didn’t. Sorry, it’s been a hard few centuries.”

“How does your job work, anyway?”

He stretches out on my couch and yawns, “ Well, like any government organization. We all work throughout the year, taking into account sick and vacation days--”

“Ha! Death takes a holiday…”

He sneers, “Like I don’t get that one all the time.”

“Anyway, we go around where needed and guide the recently deceased to wherever they ought to go. I heard the whole thing runs kind of like the DMV.”

“That place blows.”

“I wouldn’t know. I don’t drive.”

“Heaven? Hell? Nirvana?”

“Not my department,” he says after sipping on his drink. “I’m just the middleman.”

We sit for a while, he tells me all about how rough his life is. Blah blah blah. For the grim reaper, he sure bellyaches like your average government type.

“We may end up striking in May…”

“What happens when you strike?”

“One word. Scabs. Last time that happened we got the back plague.”

He looks at his crappy Timex.

“Well, it’s time for us to go, Mr. Fenwright.”

“Mr. Fenwright? He moved out a couple of months ago. I still get his mail sometimes…”

He jumps up, “What?! This isn’t where he lives?! Why haven’t you sent his mail back?!”

“Um, ‘cuz I haven’t had time? Here. It‘s in this box, I haven‘t touched it”

“What the hell? Goddamn Shelly in processing, she always screws this up.”

“Told you the DMV blows.”

He peers at me cynically “Let me see some ID.”

He checks out my license and old student identification card.

“This is just perfect! I’m late, it’s going to rain and to top it off, I have to go all the way down to the main office and update some information.”

He leaves my place in a huff.

After a few minutes of head-scratching, I feel the need to empty my pipe and head to the bathroom.

The smell hits me first, then I look down and see that not only did Death not flush, but this hunk was hanging in the bowl like a goddamn iceberg. Fucking thing made me gag.

What did I learn today?

Death is a terrible, terrible thing to invite into your house.