by Kyle Giroux
“Yes, sure,” said Death, nodding. Tim tossed a few bills on the table and sighed.
Hours later, Tim and Death were parked outside a brick building on Parakeet Street. “Good luck, buddy,” he said. “With your good looks, you’ll knock them dead.”
The function hall was full of men in brightly colored polo shirts and women in short skirts. Static emitted from a PA system and reverberated across the brick walls, punctuated by announcements such as, “Only give out personal information if you are legitimately interested in the person to whom you are giving it,” and, “Beverages and snacks are available in the lobby,” and, “Colton Cassanelli, you left a box full of contraceptives at table number five, please pick them up at reception.”
Upon entering, Death made his way into the group of men, who seemed to be purposefully sequestered from the group of women. One of them, a hulking man with spiked blonde hair and rippling arm muscles, dug into a box of ice and pulled out a beer.
“Heineken,” said the man as Death took the bottle and undid the cap. “My favorite.”
Death took only a small sip before spitting the bitter liquid on the ground. “Dear Lord, that is horrible,” he said, wiping his mouth.
“Yeah, isn’t it good?” asked the man, chugging half of his own bottle. Death took another few painful sips and the crowd went silent when a man in a beige suit and an off-kilter wig blew a whistle.
“Hello, everyone, and welcome to our weekly Parakeet Street Speed-Date-Off. I’ll be your host, Edgar.” The crowd whooped and applauded, and Death joined in. “We’re going to get started in just a few minutes here. I want everyone to get to a table and meet up with a member of the opposite sex. I’ll give you five minutes with each person, then it’s off to the next table. We’re going to get in a circle here, so if we could just have each male go to the table to their right, we should be able to work this out. So go on, everyone get to a table.” People scrambled all around for their seats. Death found the very last one available, across from a woman with heavy black eye makeup and a somber expression. Death smiled at her, a gesture she did not return. “Okay, boys and girls,” said Edgar. “On my whistle…and…go!” A shrill screech, and Death was officially on his first date ever.
“So,” started Death, nervousness settling in. “I’m Derek.”
“Shirley,” said the woman. She was pale as a sheet of printer paper and her voice was flat and entirely uninterested. Death pressed forward anyways.
“Well, uh,” he started. “What do you think of…” He could feel himself sweating. He unfolded the napkin that Tim gave him and set it down on the table to study it. Shirley seemed involved for a moment, then folded her arms and looked out a window. “Oh, here. What do you think of, uh, the post-apocalyptic world?” Death looked up hopefully, but his body was growing weak at the sight of the woman’s hideous scowl.
“Who cares?” spat Shirley, repugnance written on every syllable. “When I die, I’m going to see Satan, and that’s all I care about. I can’t wait to die and go to Hell.”
Death could do nothing but look at her, one eyebrow raised. “Satan can be pretty fun,” he said slowly. “I mean, lately he’s been pretty fun. God’s okay, but he can be a real stickler.”
Shirley leaned forward over the table. Death noticed that her eyes were two different colors. “The Lord Satan is all I need. I worship him and he will bring me salvation.”
“Oh, probably not,” said Death. “He’s trying to build an army and all that. But really it’s just kind of a temper tantrum. He’s actually a pretty nice guy, and has a great sense of fashion. Loves rock music from the fifties, too.” Death looked at Shirley hopefully, glad to have found a connection so immediately. But she merely glared.
“I think you are mistaken,” she said. She impressively maintained her pessimistic expression but could barely hide her confusion. “The Lord my Satan is hedonistic, evil, vengeful, and—“
“Hedonistic, I guess,” said Death. “He’s not all that evil, though. He’s a softie. When you do go to Hell, he’ll probably give you a tray of fudge. See, it’s all to join his army for the Apocalypse. He—“ Edgar blew his whistle again. Shirley shooed him away and Death left without another word.
The next woman was on the taller side, blonde, with a huge smile planted on her thin young face. She gazed at Death with deep blue eyes and, as Death fought to keep his balance in the chair under the eyes of her beauty, Edgar blew his whistle.
“My name’s Bridgit,” she said in a sweet, high-pitched voice.
“Derek,” said Death.
And suddenly the beautiful smile turned into trembling lips, and Bridgit began sobbing.
“What?” asked Death, concern washing over his features. “What did I say?”
“It’s just…it’s just,” started Bridgit between gasps of breath. She covered her face with her hands as she cried, “My ex-boyfriends name was…Dirk!” She broke down, leaning her skinny body against the side of the table and pounding her fist against the surface, tears pouring down her cheeks.
“Dirk?” asked Death over the moans. “But I said my name was Derek. Derek, not Dirk.”
“I know, I know,” screeched the girl. The other speed-dating participants, though in the heat of their own dates, could not ignore Bridgit’s moans and shouts. “It’s just…so…close…” She put her head down and dug it beneath her arms. Death stared, trying to find words. “Okay, okay,” she said, nodding and sitting up straight. She sniffed, wiped her nose with her finger, and smiled again. “Okay, I’m sorry.”
“That’s okay,” said Death, thinking that she was quite a sweet girl, just in need of support. “So, I wanted to ask,” he took the napkin out of his pocket and laid it on the table, his eyes scanning over the hastily-drawn list, “uh, well—“
“You’re not a jerk, are you?” asked Bridgit. “I mean, my ex-boyfriend, Dirk, was a total idiot. Jerk. Moron.” Death held his hands up to stop her.
“No, I don’t think so,” he sighed.
“Good,” she said harshly, making Death wince. Now she sounded on the verge of a murderous rampage. “So, tell me about yourself.”
“Well, I like…uh…” He scanned the list hurriedly, having been caught off guard. “Cowboy boots?”
“Oh,” said Bridgit vaguely. Tears formed and streamed down her face again. “Dirk wore cowboy boots…every…day.” She bawled again. Edgar blew his whistle, which sounded like a sweet melody to Death now. He gathered his list and moved on to the next table, leaving Bridgit to cry to the next sorry sap.
Death found himself sitting across from another pretty blonde woman. She was much more muscular than Bridgit and wore camouflage pants with a red t-shirt. Her face had a sort of rugged beauty to it, and though she was smiling, Death was cautious this time. “Hi, I’m Mary,” she said. Her voice was deep but had a tint of femininity to it.
“Derek,” said Death.
“Well, Derek,” she said, pointing her finger in defiance. Death reeled back and looked at her, frightened. “I’m in the army, and I’ve met plenty of men like you. And most of you are absolute scum.” She screamed the last word, causing Death to fall out of his chair. “Get up. Come on, get up you worm,” she said, her arms outstretched. Death hurriedly regained his equilibrium and sat up straight in the chair. “So listen, I don’t want any of this anti-woman crap I see from all of you men. You understand me?” Death nodded vigorously, unable to produce speech to tell her that he was not anti-woman in the least. “Not only are we capable with our role in uniform, but we are better than any man out there. You understand?”
“But,” began Death. Mary mock lunged at him, so he elected instead to just nod.
“In fact, I hate men. You are all despicable, every last one of you. You have slowed the progression of humankind for the past few thousand years or so. And if
you so much as try to prove me right,” she leaned forward and whispered, “I…will…kill you. Get it?” Death sat frozen to his seat, bobbing his head up and down meekly.
Edgar blew his whistle. After easily the longest five minutes in his existence, Death moved on to the next table.
Death sat down across from a girl who was slightly gnomish in appearance. She would have been quite pretty if not for the look of disgust smeared across her face, a pouty grimace that made Death nervous when he said, “Hi, I’m Derek.”
“Eva,” she said flatly. “What do you want to talk about? Make sure it’s not boring.” Death felt a very human desire to impress her, so he was excited.
“Well, Eva,” said Death, unfolding the napkin again and running his finger along the subjects. “How about Bourbon? Do you like Bourbon?” His brief smile faded into nothing when he saw the look on Eva’s face.
“Excuse me? Are you trying to talk to me about…about alcohol?”
“Um…yes?” said Death, unsure of where this was going.
“Okay, next subject,” said Eva, waving her hand as though trying to throw off an irksome fly. “You can’t just come in here and talk to me about that awful liquid. I won’t have it. Alcohol is a dangerous substance. All it does is kill people and make them crazy. Even one beer can kill you, just one.” She crossed her arms and looked at the ceiling, appalled.
“Okay, okay,” said Death, looking over the list again. “How about, uh, Led Zeppelin? What do you think of them?”
“I don’t like bands,” snapped Eva. “I’ll never understand your stupid rock music. I only like solo acoustic guitar, stuff no one’s heard of. Have you heard of An Horse? Didn’t think so. You wouldn’t know them, not when all you listen to is,” she threw her hands in the air and said mockingly, “Led Zeppelin.”
“I…wow,” said Death, looking over the list again. “How about chewing gum?”
“Disgusting. Next.”
“Okay. Ah, here we go. Football. Do you like football?”
“Football? Football?” spat Eva. Death sighed. “Football is revolting. It’s just like war. All it does is promote competition and violence.”
“What’s wrong with competition?” Death blurted out. Eva seethed.
Edgar blew his whistle and Eva said, “So, hey, let me get your number down and maybe we can meet up later.” Death pretended he had not heard her and went to the next table.
The night was looking like a downright failure for Death. He met a woman who said she loved Bourbon so much that she bathed in it, then said she only bought the cheap stuff because it got her extra drunk. Another woman, quite pretty, was so vapid that she only talked about her Italian leather purse, and when Death brought up ankle-high versus knee-high socks he had to explain what the difference was. A thin woman in a pale pink dress and blonde pigtails started to rant when Death brought up the disadvantages of big government, and tried to make plans with him to assassinate a public official. A younger woman in box-framed glasses and a lip ring tried to slap Death when he said he supported the second amendment (whatever that was), and a woman with a beard said she only liked puppies if they were on a burger bun. Finally Edgar blew his whistle and indicated that this was the last table. Hopeless, Death sat down and looked up.
The woman sitting across from him was quite large--spherical in fact-- and dark orange from overtime hours at the tanning salon. Wrinkles spanned all across her young face. Her balloon-like hands sat neatly folded on the table in front of her. She had a gnarled nose and slightly crossed eyes beneath a mane of bleached blonde hair. Her yellow smile was warm and inviting, and Death found comfort in his final chance.
“Hi,” said Death. “My name’s Derek.”
“Nice to meet you,” she said. “I’m Sheila.”
“Sheila, okay, great,” said Death. He fumbled with the napkin as he unfolded it on the table. “Well, Sheila, how do you feel about…puppies?” He closed his eyes in anticipation.
“Puppies? I LOVE them,” she squealed. Death opened his eyes and laughed at Sheila’s broad smile.
“Love them? Really?” asked Death in disbelief.
“Yeah, I used to have a little chow,” said Sheila. “He lived with me when I was a kid, in Longfellow, Indiana. It’s a small town, kinda ghetto, you know?” Death nodded his head, intrigued. “I was always, like, the rebel child, you know? My mom always tried to tell me what to do, and I was always, like, no, you know?”
“Yeah,” said Death. “Yeah, of course.”
“I mean, she didn’t even like my hair, but I was like, ‘oh yeah, well whatever.’ You know?”
“I know,” said Death, smiling. “Well, how about…uh…bean dip? Do you like it better than onion dip?”
“Oh my god,” screeched Sheila. Death found all eyes upon his table again, but this time he was a little less self-conscious about it. “I love any kind of dip.” She did three quick little claps with her hands and let out a deep, satisfied sigh.
“Me too,” said Death. “Onion dip is pretty good, but bean is good too, you know?”
“I know, I know,” said Sheila, nodding energetically. “Know what else I like?” She leaned over the table, pushing the other end into Death’s gut, and said quietly, “Beef jerky.”
“Me too,” gasped Death, clutching his stomach. Although he had never had beef jerky before, he was too caught up in the moment enjoying Sheila’s enthusiasm.
“Oh, Derek, this is the absolute best date,” said Sheila, throwing her heavy arms in the air. “I just gotta get a few vodka shots in me and then I’ll be the most fun you’ve ever had.” She was stumbling over her words as she eagerly blurted them out, sending saliva all over Death. As he wiped it off of his face, he laughed.
“That’s great,” he said.
“I’m so happy, happy happy happy,” said Sheila in a sing song voice. Death clapped along, taking immense pleasure in Sheila’s company. And suddenly, this venture did not seem so fruitless.
“Me too,” said Death. He was laughing along with Sheila as she bounced from one side of the chair to the other.
The two exchanged phone numbers (Death proudly so, since Brian had only just shown him how to use a phone), and a romance was in bloom. Edgar’s whistle blew for the final time. “I can’t wait I can’t wait I can’t wait for our date,” said Sheila. She got up and did a little dance, stumbling into the leg of the table and pushing it across the room with a great screech. It knocked a newfound couple into the wall as Sheila laughed heartily and got to her feet again.
“Well, I guess I’ll see you again soon,” said Death.
“You know it, Dee-Dee,” she said, waving a hand at him and blushing.
Death walked to Freepay to pick up his paycheck. Remembering what Tim had told him about money, he gave the check to the woman at the service booth and she handed him a stack of cash ($219). He gazed at the green paper, unsure of what exactly made it so important. But he figured if Tim told him it was essential, he could not have been lying. He plopped two-hundred of the check into the man’s cup outside and kept nineteen for the next trip to the HaffCaff. And, more than ever before, Death felt like a living, breathing human being.
A Day Off
The first Horseman to learn of Death’s retirement was Pestilence. He was in the middle of working out a new super-flu that he was sure the media would take hold of and use to terrorize the world. But when no one died for three months, the media dropped the story and Pestilence grew suspicious. When he found out that Death was planning on living out the rest of his existence in an apartment complex in urban New England, he was fairly peeved.
Pestilence arrived on Death’s doorstep on a Saturday morning, when Death was not scheduled to work at the deli. He startled Death at first, standing in the doorway and running his fingers along his bald head as a
cockroach scuttled from the bottom of his eye socket, along his cheek, and into his ear. A normal man would be disgusted by Pestilence’s corporeal form, with veins protruding like river pathways up his neck and eyes like pools of mercury shining deeply across their paths, but Death was no ordinary man just yet. He looked at the Horseman, clad in bloody khaki pants and a white t-shirt that looked as though it had been shredded by a rabid dog, and invited him into his home as an old friend.
“Death, it has been too long,” said Pestilence in a gurgling, biting voice. “Lately I’ve been long gone before you come around. Not like the plague days, eh? We have to bring that back sometime. I’ve never had so much fun—or been so drunk.”
The memory put a smile on Death’s face, but he was too preoccupied with Pestilence having found him in his retirement home for it to last very long. “I suppose you’ve heard of my resignation,” he said warily.
Pestilence also put away his grin. “I did. I have to admit, Death, the higher ups aren’t too happy. There’s been a lot of talk about how much this is going to throw everything off. You know how close the Apocalypse was approaching.”
“I know, I know,” said Death quietly, stroking his chin with his hand and staring out his window, his eyes fixed on a billboard for Shellock Aspirin. “Why don’t you come in? I have some beer for us.”
Death and Pestilence walked into the kitchen and Death cracked open two beers. Pestilence took a sip and cringed. Death let the liquid slide to the back of his throat to avert his taste buds. “Wow, awful,” said Pestilence, holding it up to the light as though inspecting for a forgery. “I love a good drink, but I’ll stick to War’s gin, thank you. Humans don’t know what they’re doing.”
“Seriously,” said Death. They set the bottles on the kitchen table and sat down.
“Alright, Death, I really think we need to talk about this,” said Pestilence, folding his hands together. “This isn’t going to look good if you retire. You have way too much responsibility. I mean, don’t tell him I said this, but we could probably deal with Famine’s resignation. You’re much too essential, though.”