by Kyle Giroux
“I still have to show you around, huh?” said Tim, emptying a sugar packet into his own mug and stirring it in. “A buddy of mine owns this pastry shop across the PennPenny Bridge, down the river a ways. You should go there sometime. Get the croissant with the blackberry jam, it’s really something else.”
Death, seeing an opportunity to act a little more human, stood up and said, “Well, we ought to go now then.”
“No, no,” said Tim, raising his coffee to his mouth with one hand and indicating that Death should sit back down with the other. “I have business to take care of after this. But you have the rest of the day to yourself, right? You should head over there later on. It’s something else.”
As Death and Tim emptied their mugs, Tim drew a map on a spare napkin, explaining the route as he traced it. “And then you’ll want to take a left here, on National. Take the set of stairs down on the right after a few hundred feet then take a left at the end. Go straight through the intersection then follow the guard rail until you reach the public library. Go past that, then left, left, right, then you’ll get to the river. It’s right next to city hall, which has a big golden dome on top of it. You following this?” Despite essentially getting lost after ‘left on National,’ Death nodded his head and took the makeshift map. “You’ll know what I’m talking about. The golden dome is the beacon for the city. Whenever you’re lost just look towards the top of the buildings for it. Then you’ll reach the bridge. It’s a big white one that says ‘PennPenny’ on it, and it’s always packed with people. The pastry shop is right there when you get across.” Death nodded.
A waiter with a greased-up hairdo walked over to the table and handed a piece of paper to Tim. “Here’s the check,” he said in an Italian accent.
“Okay, thanks a—whoa, wait a second Marco.” Tim indicated for Marco to come closer. “It says here I owe eight seventy-five. I’m pretty sure it’s supposed to be eight sixty-seven.”
“No, it’s not,” said Marco flatly.
Clearly angered, Tim stood up to face Marco. But as the waiter threw his hands down to defend himself, he tapped Death on the shoulder by accident and fell to the ground with a thud. Tim looked down at Marco, then sat back in his seat. “That’s really great,” he said, turning to face a guilty-looking Death. “I really appreciate that. But, uh…would you mind, you know, toning down the whole killing my enemies thing? You might get us in trouble.”
“Yeah,” said Death. “I’m sorry.”
“Not to mention you can’t keep slipping out of paying for meals by taking out people who get on my bad side. One more time, then we really need to start splitting the check.”
“Oh, yeah, sure. Sorry about that,” said Death.
“Alright, Derek, I have to run and take care of something,” said Tim, swinging his jacket over his shoulder. “Have fun with that pastry shop. I’ll catch you later.”
“Alright, thanks,” said Death as Tim left some money on the table and walked away. Death took the map back out of his pocket and left the HaffCaff Café to be greeted by a hot sun that hung idly in the cobalt sky.
Death was vastly confused by the map and Tim’s directions. He walked along the heavily bustling streets under the hanging sun that shot heat through his suit and made him feel unbearably itchy and uncomfortable. He ran a hand through his hair so it stood up on end, and the heat dragged him down to a stumbling trudge. Finally he undid his shirt and pulled the knot of his tie around to the middle of his chest, using it to wipe sweat away from his chin and upper lip. Without his weather-proof black-hooded reaper cloak, he was positively miserable.
Death walked up and down streets arbitrarily, having no idea where he was going with one of the worst headaches he could imagine. As he held the bridge of his nose with his fingers to quell the burning sensation, the napkin map fell on the ground. When he bent down to get it, a man in a suit, not unlike Death’s own but far less disheveled at the moment, walked up to him. He was wearing several gold rings and dark black sunglasses that sat nicely on a perfectly tanned complexion. “Hey, buddy, why don’t you go get a job?” he said with a slight smirk but hostility in his voice.
“A job?” asked Death. “Do you really think I should?”
“Uh, yeah,” said the man. “Then you wouldn’t be so useless.” He spat in front of Death’s feet. Death spat back at him, thinking perhaps it was some sort of friendly gesture. The man, absolutely disgusted, threw his hands in the air and stormed off.
Death walked a few more blocks before the heat forced him to stop again. He leaned against a wall as a group of college guys walked up to him, carrying lacrosse sticks and wearing an assortment of white and blue jerseys. One of them emerged from the group, a huge, glazed over smile gracing his face, and pointed at Death. “Hey, you, how you doing today?” His facial features looked pinched and his short blonde hair was sticking up from sweat, and he was at least two feet shorter than Death.
“Well I’m alright,” said Death, looking at the student with only a slight smile and wishing he were not so in the mood for a conversation. “A little hot though. Hey, do you know where the river is?”
“The river?” said the student, looking back at his friends, who were nudging each other and giggling. “Yeah, it’s right past Loser Street.” One of his friends burst out laughing, but quickly shut up when he saw his comrades were not joining in. “Is this what you’re looking for?” He dug around in his pocket before pulling out a single dollar bill, which he held up above his head.
Death squinted until he could focus his vision on the bill, which hung indolently in the windless sky. “Oh, no, I said river. You know, the river? I’m looking for this pastry shop and—“ Death stopped talking when the student pulled a lighter out of his other pocket and set the bill aflame, letting it drift to the ground and dissolve into ash. He and his friends laughed as they began to walk the other way down the street. “Wait, wait,” said Death, moving towards the students with an outstretched hand. “The river. Do you know where the river is?”
“We told you,” said a hulking, sweaty student with a stomach that hung well over the front of his gym shorts. “Right past Moron Street.”
“But you said Loser Street,” said Death. The students high fived each other as they walked away. They must not have heard properly. Death remembered the previous friendly city-goer’s gesticulation and, with enthusiasm, reeled back and spat a huge wad of saliva at the group. It stuck to the back of the dollar-burner’s shirt, who did not notice. Suddenly, Death remembered what Tim had told him. He looked up to see the great golden dome of city hall, glittering in the blazing sun. He felt just rejuvenated enough to continue towards it.
Ten minutes later Death found the public library, and a woman walked up to him. She wore a long denim dress and her hair was tied back in a tight bun. Death was slouched over against the wall of the library when the woman extended a hand to put a blue book in his face. On the cover was a title in gold lettering: THE HOLY BIBLE.
“Hello, sir. Have you heard the word of God?” she asked in a light and crisp voice that found its way into Death’s ears and brought him a great deal of comfort.
“Which one?” asked Death. He sat down against the wall. The woman sat down beside him.
“Sir, I’m with the church. I’m here to preach about the good word of our Lord. Have you heard about the good Lord your God through the view of the Enlightened sect?” Her words sounded carefully laid out, and she wore a look of genuine concern.
“Enlightened sect?” asked Death.
“We’re new. Listen, I wanted to tell you that you can be saved through the Lord God’s good grace. He can help people like you. And to be honest, you don’t look very far from your own day of judgement.”
“God…” said Death, stroking his chin as he took in everything the woman was saying. “Boy, I haven’t talked to God
in…years, I guess.” He tried to remember the last time he and God had a chat. He was thinking about back in 1350, when God gathered the Horsemen together to talk about ending the Black Plague because Satan’s army was building much too rapidly. Death could not think of a more recent time he talked to the Big Man.
“It shows,” said the woman. “But the good Lord can help you. He helps all of us. If you don’t believe in the Enlightened sect, you may end up in Hell. Eternal damnation. Do you want that?” Despite the less than happy subject she still retained her sweet voice and smile.
Death was even more puzzled now. “The Enlightened sect? Wait, God doesn’t care about that.” The woman was taken aback, her smile now wiped clean. “God’s actually a pretty cool guy. Satan’s a little more fun to be around, though.” He noticed the woman’s look of disapproval and stood up to try to explain himself. “Not that God isn’t fun. I’m just saying.”
“Wow, okay, I think we’re done here,” said the woman. She held the Bible out and Death took it, examining the cover with mild interest. “Take the Good Book and maybe God will have mercy on your soul, if you repent enough.”
“Great,” said Death. He was so pleased that the woman would be so kind to give him a gift that he did not want her to miss his gesture of friendliness like the student had earlier. So he reeled back and shot a great mass of spit into the woman’s face. He stood facing her, wearing a great smile. Then, to his very sudden surprise, the woman put her hands over her saliva-covered face and sobbed loudly, gasping in sharply as she did so. As she ran off and turned the corner out of sight until her squealing sobs dissolved into silence, Death thought perhaps he had offended her somehow. He shrugged and looked up. The golden dome stood only a few blocks in the distance.
Finally he made a turn around city hall and to his great delight found himself right in front of the river. The spray from the white water rushing downstream cooled him down instantly, and he felt like a new Death as he searched for the bridge Tim had mentioned. He did not need to walk far before seeing the great “PennPenny Bridge – Erected 1863 – Burnt down 1864 – Rebuilt 1989” sign hanging above a bridge that seemed to be a hive of bustling people. Some were stopped to take pictures, others window shopping around the jewelry shops lined up along the side of the bridge. Most seemed to either be in one of the many tour groups or trying to get around said tour groups in a hurry to get across. But over the great sea of humans, Death could see a small white building with a sign that said “Voted Best Croissants in Hair.” There was his goal.
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 g
etting 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.