A Date with Death

by Scott Colby

  “So what’s the plan?” Kevin asked.

  “I’ll take care of the girls. I’ve got several options lined up,” Ren replied. He spoke of these women as if they were cattle headed for market. “You’ll deal with the reaper. He seems to like you.”

  “‘Like’ is too strong a word.”

  “Fine. ‘Tolerates.’ ‘Might think you’re okay.’ ‘Can kind of empathize with.’ Whatever you want to call his attitude toward you, he didn’t try to rip your soul out through your nose.”

  “And if he tries that with one of the ladies?”

  “I’ll try to spin it as a mass hallucination brought on by fungus in Fran’s tap lines, but we’re probably fucked.”

  They crossed the street without looking, absorbed in their own thoughts. Mr. Pemberton climbed out of the Lincoln as they approached, his expression demure. He opened the back door and held it open for the reaper.

  To his credit, Billy cleaned up relatively well except for his stupid swoopy hair, which had been spruced up with a liberal application of shimmering gel. His jeans, T-shirt, and leather jacket—all black—were clean and unwrinkled and wouldn’t look remotely out of place in a dive like the Burg, where creative fashion meant wearing an old school Cubs cap. Billy had even spritzed on a bit of cologne. Kevin almost couldn’t believe it; if the reaper had put this much effort into his appearance it could only mean that he actually wanted to come out to the Burg with them, that he actually wanted to meet a girl and make her like him, that he actually wanted this evening to be a success. Kevin suddenly felt a bit better about their chances.

  “Evening,” Billy said tentatively. He shuffled from one foot to the other and wouldn’t look either Kevin or Ren in the eye. The reaper was nervous. Another good sign, as long as it didn’t negatively affect his ability to make friends. An awkward, stumbling-over-himself-to-speak reaper could be even harder to work with than the silent, mysterious reaper they’d had to deal with in Lordly Estates. Kevin took the lead, offering Billy a smile and a handshake. The reaper stared at Kevin’s hand for a few moments as if it were on fire, then he took it in a solid grip and pumped it three times. Billy’s hand was like ice.

  “Ready for this?” Kevin asked. Billy nodded.

  “Gentlemen,” Ren said suavely as he clapped a hand on each of their backs. “Let’s go get some pussy.”

  Kevin and Billy exchanged an annoyed glance. Behind the reaper, Mr. Pemberton shook his head and got back into the car. Kevin thought he heard Driff sigh somewhere off to his left.

  “Right, then,” Ren stammered, stepping around Kevin to open the Burg’s narrow metal door. “After you, fellas.”

  The front room of the Harksburg Bar and Grill was the old dining car, a spot known throughout town as the last stop before the Windy Pines Rest Home. Elderly men and women sat rigidly on the red leather-topped stools or leaned heavily on the stainless steel counter and tabletops, sipping cheap bottles of beer and picking at plates of the punchless buffalo wings that were half price every Friday night. Fran Kesky had left most of the original fixtures intact and installed replicas whenever something needed to be replaced. Behind the counter, cranky old Buck joylessly flipped burgers on the grill. The buzz from the back room was palpable, a dull roar of bawdy laughter and excited conversation underscored by the beat of the karaoke machine. None of the patrons moved when the three young men entered, but two dozen pairs of geriatric eyes watched their every step as they passed through. “Spring training for senility,” Ren often called the place. Billy eyed the crowd nervously as if examining a lengthy to-do list he didn’t want to tackle.

  Crossing into the Burg’s back room was like stepping into an entirely different universe. Gone were the old codgers waiting around to die, replaced by a younger crowd celebrating life. A morass of bodies swamped the bar to their right, conversing loudly or trying to catch Fran Kesky’s attention to order a drink. Ahead, the majority of the tables were filled with drinkers huddled close together around pitchers of cheap beer. Smaller knots of people more interested in watching everyone else rather than talking among themselves leaned against the paneled walls. Beyond the pool tables and the dart board stood the stage, a rickety platform Waltman and Jimeson had built in exchange for five years of half-priced food and beer. There, a knot of younger girls Kevin didn’t recognize crowded around a microphone and a monitor and butchered a Def Leppard song.

  “Ren! Over here!” called a familiar voice Kevin couldn’t immediately place. Then he noticed Jenny Reilly sitting alone at one of the longer tables near the bathrooms. Of course! Kevin thought. Jenny would sleep with anything for twenty bucks. The fix was in.

  “First round’s on me,” Kevin said, detaching himself from the group. Even though the plan called for him to support Billy, Kevin figured the reaper would be more likely to talk to Jenny if his only other choice was Ren. Billy briefly made as if to follow Kevin to the bar before Ren placed a tentative hand on his back and redirected him toward the table. Kevin hoped everyone’s souls would still be stashed safely up their noses when he returned with drinks.

  The crowd between their table and the bar made no effort to make Kevin’s progress any easier. Though drinks sloshed merrily in many hands—props waved for emphasis or just out of habit—their owners weren’t about to give up the prime real estate they’d claimed in front of the bar. Those spots were like gold: convenient to the Burg’s only source of alcohol with an excellent line of sight to every corner of the room and any debauchery, shenanigans, or brouhahas that might be occurring therein. Kevin elbowed his way between a douche bag in a Chicago Bears hoodie and a wobbling drunk in a Chicago Bulls jacket and took his place behind a forty-something couple waiting for a drink. The woman might’ve been his substitute math teacher a few times in elementary school, but he couldn’t remember her name and her liquor-glazed eyes didn’t register any sign of recognition.

  Kevin scanned the crowd as he waited, hoping he’d find a few of the women he’d labeled as good prospects for Billy while perusing his yearbook that afternoon. He could put names to most of those gathered without much thought. A few nodded or smiled in his direction. He didn’t return their greetings; he’d never been one to work a room that way.

  He almost pissed himself when he spotted his mother at the end of the bar. Abelia Felton had spent the last twenty-seven years of her life running down anyone debauched enough to frequent “those damn gin mills.” She’d spent one summer leading an outspoken but extremely short-lived campaign to make Harksburg a dry community—a campaign that made Kevin’s sophomore year of high school a lot more difficult than he felt it needed to be. The only liquor to touch her lips during that time had been church wine and that only in very small doses. Yet there she sat, clad in some kind of red leather jacket Kevin had never seen her wear, watching the Blackhawks on the television as she nursed a Manhattan. Oscar leaned heavily on the bar beside her, still clad in his white Immortalist robe, working on a light beer and staring up at the very same hockey game. A few easy comments passed between them after a Hawks defenseman laid out one of Detroit’s forwards. Abelia laughed and took a sip of her drink.

  Kevin averted his gaze and wormed through the crowd toward the opposite end of the bar, putting as much distance as he could between himself and whatever the hell Driff had turned his mother into. What could the elf possibly have yanked out of her memory that made her go to the bar with a heathen to watch hockey and get drunk? The thought made Kevin shiver. He’d have to confront Abelia eventually, but he wasn’t looking forward to it. Did she still love him? That, Kevin realized, was the question he was really afraid of. Abelia Felton had loved her son without question—and he loved her back, despite all her faults and general religious insanity. Kevin’s mother had always been there when he needed someone, and she’d welcomed him home with open arms and a warm cup of cocoa when he’d had nowhere else to go. What if that part of her was gone? Could Driff and the elves exorcise something that fundamental from an individual’s personality
with just a handful of dust and a few strategic instructions?

  Those thoughts made him thirsty. He sidled up to the bar as the two men in front of him—Fran Kesky’s nephews, Lou and Ben, who occasionally filled in slinging drinks when their uncle was out of town—departed with snifters of cheap bourbon in hand. The bar itself was a sturdy wooden affair, its top tattooed with names and dates inscribed into the dark wood with car keys and pocket knives. The liquor shelves on the wall behind it were lined with blue Christmas lights and cluttered with keepsakes: a Jim McMahon bobblehead, a picture of Steve Bartman edited to give the infamous Cubs fan a black eye and several missing teeth, several horseshoes the workers found while excavating the addition’s foundation, the bronzed baby shoes of Fran’s eldest son, Rob. Nosy townies who knew such things claimed that the walls of Kesky’s house were pure white and unadorned, that he hadn’t bothered to put a single photograph on the mantel. The Harksburg Bar and Grill was Fran Kesky’s real home. Kevin had always felt welcome there.

  Kylie would’ve hated the place with a passion. “Why the fuck do you want to go to that dump?” she would’ve asked. “In the mood to slum it with the local yokels, maybe?” Kylie and her friends preferred modern, antiseptic bars with pretentious names like “Snack” or “Igloo.” Places where everything was the same fucking color, usually a luscious maroon or a dark gray. Places where darts, billiards, and karaoke were all dirty words. Places where the drinks were named after turn of the century railroad barons or members of Andy Warhol’s menagerie. Places they wouldn’t let you into if you only had $20 in your pocket. Places without a soul.

  Part of Kevin wanted to call Kylie up, drag her into the Burg, and tie her down to a stool until the place’s unassuming vibe purged all the bullshit from her system. Part of him never wanted to talk to her again. If he could just find a way to make a life with Nella, he wouldn’t have to worry about either option.

  Fran Kesky was busy at the taps in the center of the bar, pouring a trio of pitchers for Betty Tuttle and the members of her bridal party. Kevin cursed, crossed Betty off his list of possibilities, and scanned the rest of the crowd. There was Harry Young, who sat in front of Kevin in fifth grade science, chatting up big Matty McGwire, one-time scourge of the back few rows of the bus. Waltman and Jim Jimeson stood with their backs to the bar, leering at Betty’s crew like sharks deciding which goldfish to devour first. Laurie Nucent, Kevin’s third grade crush, twirled her long blond hair while entertaining the advances of two younger boys Kevin thought were probably Doorknob’s little brothers. The scene was strangely unnerving; for some reason, he flashed back to Mrs. Best’s second grade class, to the day they’d gone around the room and announced what they’d all wanted to be when they grew up.

  “An actress or a princess!” Laurie proclaimed happily.

  “CEO of a Fortune 500 company,” Ren replied disinterestedly. “With enough stock options to buy Monaco twice over.”

  “Astronaut,” Waltman said.

  “Astronaut,” Jim Jimeson echoed.

  “FBI agent,” Tom Flanagan said.

  “President,” Jenny Reilly announced.

  “Race car!” Doorknob said, picking his nose merrily.

  “Do you mean a race car driver?” Mrs. Best had asked, smiling her best this-kid-is-fucking-stupid-but-I-have-to-be-nice-anyway smile.

  “No! I want to be the car!”

  Kevin couldn’t remember his own answer. That troubled him. Had he ever really known what he wanted to do with himself? He’d gotten into finance simply because it paid well and the perks were out of this world. The work itself was fine, poring through ledgers and writing reports became boring and tedious at times, but it wasn’t a terrible way to spend eight, nine, or sometimes ten hours a day. Still, it shocked Kevin to realize how little he actually cared for his old job, how he’d always cared more about the money, the benefits, and the prestige than he cared about the work itself.

  When had his friends decided to give up their dreams? None of them had told Mrs. Best that they wanted to be an out-of-work handyman, the town’s most infamous party girl, a fake messiah in a dirty bathrobe, or a regular at the Burg. Maybe it was wrong to tell children they can be whatever they want when evidence clearly pointed to the contrary. Maybe the difference between what Kevin and his friends had wanted to be and what they’d become didn’t actually matter given that everybody turns out fucked in the end regardless of their title and position and how much money they have in the bank.

  A burly hand clapped Kevin on the shoulder, shaking him out of his thoughts. He turned to find Fran Kesky’s smiling bulldog face filling his view. Bald, fat, ugly, and damn proud of all three, Fran was probably the most gregarious and personable individual Kevin had ever met. He knew everyone in town by first name and always had a warm greeting for anyone he hadn’t seen in a while. Underneath that friendly exterior, though, lurked one of the shrewdest businessmen Kevin had ever encountered. Kesky had single-handedly turned a failing diner into the social and political center of Harksburg. He could’ve given many of the investment bankers at Noonan, Noonan, and Schmidt a run for their money—and he never would’ve allowed the Griffin Group to take over.

  “K-Felt!” Fran bellowed, his jowls quivering. “The prodigal son makes his triumphant return!”

  Kevin couldn’t help smiling. “It was a little less than triumphant, Fran, but it’s nice to be back.” He didn’t really mean that, but there was a certain protocol that had to be followed. If Kesky picked up on it, he didn’t let it show.

  “Nasty business, that,” Fran said, his demeanor suddenly demure and empathetic, “but it’s good to see you. You coming back seems to have loosened your mother up some.”

  “It—uh—sure has.” Kevin changed the subject quickly. “Two pitchers of your finest IPA, my friend,” he said, slapping the bar for emphasis.

  “Coming right up,” Fran replied as he trundled off to fill the order. “This round’s on the house.”

  As he waited, Kevin turned around and leaned back against the bar. He had to stand up on his toes and crane his neck to get a good look at the table at which he’d be joining his friends. He found Jenny talking a mile a minute at a rather stunned looking Billy while Ren played with something on his phone. It seemed like the reaper either wasn’t able to keep up or didn’t want to. Kevin shook his head and cursed under his breath.

  Ten minutes. I’ve been here for ten fucking minutes and already I wish I were anywhere else. He hadn’t been looking forward to moving back to Harksburg, but he’d never expected things to turn this fucking ridiculous. When had he become such a magnet for drama? Did he give off some kind of field that drew all these magical assholes straight to him?

  Fran returned with two pitchers full to the brim with frothy brew and four warm, recently washed glasses. Kevin tucked the stack of glasses between his forearm and his chest, took a pitcher in each hand, and made a beeline for the table. The crowd parted slightly at his approach, affording him just enough space to squeak past with his heavy load. Ren stood and took the glasses from his arm as Kevin set the pitchers down.

  “You put those on my tab, right?” Ren asked with a wink.

  “They’re on the house,” Kevin replied. “A welcome home present from Fran Kesky.”

  Jenny took one of the pitchers and poured Billy the first glass. “Fran’s a hell of a guy,” she chirped. “My friends and I came here for my twenty-first. He comped everything, even the rim job he gave me in the bathroom.”

  Ren burst out laughing. Kevin chuckled, genuinely at first, and then more anxiously when he saw Billy’s blank stare. The reaper looked absolutely petrified.

  Thinking quickly, Kevin whirled into damage control mode. “So Billy, Jenny’s really into heavy metal music.”

  “I just love a good, hard guitar,” she said scandalously, leaning close to Billy and smiling brightly. Despite the extra weight and whatever the hell she’d done to turn her dirty blond hair a stringy, silvery white, there was still so
mething alluring about Jenny Reilly—especially if you didn’t know or chose not to think about the manic depression, raging alcoholism, and general lack of self-control that knocked the valedictorian and prom queen of the Harksburg Class of 2004 off of her pedestal and into the cashier’s job at Hucky’s Gas-n-Go. Kevin couldn’t help feeling depressed at the sight of his old friend. The Jenny Reilly he’d remembered from school was a bright, pretty, hardworking girl who seemingly had the whole world ahead of her. What the hell happened to turn her into a busted, broken college dropout?

  Billy shied away from Jenny and eyed his beer nervously. “I like the drums myself.”

  There, Kevin thought. That wasn’t so hard.

  “Say,” the reaper continued. “Have you ever met anyone named Poofy?”

  The girl cocked her head in confusion. “Poofy? Can’t say I have. Sounds like a good name for a real pussy.”

  “Jenny, what was the last show you went to?” Kevin asked nervously, trying to redirect the conversation.

  “I don’t remember the band’s name. Dragon-something, maybe. But oh my God, it was so much fun! We went backstage and did lines of coke off the bassist’s Bowie knife!”

  Billy’s eyes widened so far Kevin feared they were about to fall out of his head and splash into his glass of beer.

  “Hey, Jenny, what do you say we go look at the karaoke book?” Ren suggested.

  Time to regroup, Kevin thought. And not a moment too soon.

  Jenny didn’t miss the hint. “Let’s,” she said happily. “Maybe we can find a song that’ll put everybody in a better Friday night state of mind!”