by Kyle Giroux
Death in the City
A Novel by Kyle Giroux
A Retired Death
THE AUSTIN TIMES
June 21, 2012
DEAD BOY REVIVED, SAYS HEAVEN ‘OVERRATED’
THE LOWELL SUN
June 21, 2012
MAN HIT BY BUS, DRAGGED SEVEN MILES, SURVIVES
THE BOSTON HERALD
June 21, 2012
PLANE EXPLODES MID-AIR
All passengers land safely on pavement
Death was always good at what he did; he hardly ever erred in his work. And even if he did, if by some incredible circumstance a person escaped his hand, went on talk shows to tell his story, wrote books, and lived armless but in riches for the rest of his life, Death still took him. It was just the way things were for him—he was too good for anyone to keep up. But even the best chess players in the world want to play checkers sometimes. So, one summer afternoon, Death decided to retire.
The other Horsemen of the Apocalypse--Pestilence, War, and Famine--were out doing their own things. Death had no grand retirement parties or plans to live out the rest of his life in Acapulco with a nice lady. There was no pension plan, no two-week notice, no young and ambitious replacement. None of that. On this particular early summer afternoon, Death took off his black robe, set it down, and walked off. And that was that.
Death made his way to the small city of Hair, Massachusetts. He had always admired its many trinket shops and parks, as well as its dense and eclectic population he could have only ever dreamed of learning more about. He donned his finest suit (since being visible required looking good, of course) and his black walking stick, slicked his hair back, and breathed deeply. Here was a new beginning for our Death.
Death found that, without a morbid duty to fulfill, stalking the little city was much more relaxing. He was able to enjoy the sun on his face, the swirling clouds of cigarette smoke pouring across the sidewalks, the wisps of water blowing at him from the river.
Darkness fell on Death’s first night in the city, and he was cold. He could remember reaping people in apartments, and decided he should probably get his own. But he did not even know where to begin searching. Eventually the night grew longer, and Death was still on the cold city streets, all alone. He thought only briefly that retirement was a bad idea, but quickly assured himself that he should make the best of his new life. And so he walked and walked until he found a street that was well-lit and full of people.
“Ah,” said Death aloud, hearing his own voice for the first time in years. It sounded gravelly and old. “The people here are out at night. My kind of street.” He walked down the sidewalk, swinging his arms back and forth in determination. He greeted people as he went; rows of sparsely clad women, punctuated by men with hats and canes and flashy robes. Death thought this was a curious sight beneath the lights of broken-down convenience and liquor stores. Many returned Death’s greetings, giving him great appreciation for the human race and making him think that perhaps this type of life would be an easier one.
Death continued to walk until a woman blocked his path. She was quite thin and wore only what looked like underwear. Death tried to peer around her but she moved with his eyes.
“Like what you see, friend?” said a voice. Death whirled around to see a man with a long overcoat and black cane. He stuck his face in front of Death’s and was breathing on him with pungent breath that was reminiscent of old, wet tomatoes.
“I certainly do,” said Death, running his fingers through his grey hair and gazing at the man with friendly curiosity.
“Take your pick then,” said the man. He waved his hand in the direction of the many pretty girls lined up along the streets. “All mine are on this side of the road. Don’t you go there to the other side.”
“My pick?” repeated Death. “This is your side of the road?” The man’s eyes were not warm like he expected, but rather distant and black. Death immediately felt a sick, uncomfortable feeling deep within his stomach and wondered if that was normal.
“Yes,” said the man, refusing to satisfy Death’s desire for further explanation.
“Oh, goodness,” said Death. And, with the man’s icy glare still upon him, he darted to the other side of the street.
In the throng of people on the other sidewalk, Death felt safe again. The man was nowhere in sight, and Death kept walking along, arms swinging every which way, hoping to find a friendlier fellow city-goer. But he did not walk far before another voice came from behind him. “Like what you see?” it said.
Death swung around again. This man was particularly short, shorter than most of the women around him. He wore a tan overcoat and carried perpetually shifting eyes beneath his balding head. His mustache was perched, large and puffing, above pursed lips. His voice was significantly higher pitched than the other man’s, and therefore far less intimidating.
Seeing this as a clean slate to meet someone new, Death went about greeting him differently. “What is your name?” he asked.
“Who’s asking?” said the man. He looked at Death with narrowed eyes and Death felt uncomfortable again. But he pressed forward anyways.
“I am Death,” said Death.
“Look, buddy, whatever you want to call yourself,” said the man, taking a step back. “Dressed awfully nice for a stroll around these parts, huh?”
“Well,” said Death. He looked at the man, who looked back at him. Death felt he was not doing well at meeting people at this point, but he was determined. “Is this your side of the road?”
The man looked at Death intently, then said, “You aren’t a cop, are you?”
“No,” said Death. “Why?”
“Why? What do you mean, why?” The man looked at Death. Death could only look back. Then the man finally said, “Look, pal, I think you’re in the wrong place. You looking for trouble?”
“Trouble? No,” said Death. “I’m looking for friends.”
“Friends?” asked the man, taking another step back. And, for the first time, he smiled. “I can give you a friend for a hundred an hour, and I can give you a great deal. The rest of the night until three in the morning, only three hundred bucks.”
“Three hundred what?”
“Bucks. Dollars.”
“Oh,” said Death. He looked down at the ground and tried not to look too disappointed. “I don’t have any money.”
The man’s smile was gone, and he looked angrier by the moment. “Look, buddy,” he said, his voice rising. “What do you think you’re doing here, huh? What do you think, huh?” He started to walk towards Death with his arms outstretched. Death backed away.
“No, I just, I’m just looking for someone to—“ started Death, but he was cut off by another voice from behind him.
“Hey, moron.” Death recognized the voice before he even turned around to see the big man he had met earlier. His face was deep red and he looked unreservedly furious. “What did I tell you about going across the road?” He came within inches of Death’s face again, causing him to reel backwards.
“Come on now, Harvey,” said the shorter of the two, speaking around Death. “He just likes what he sees here better.”
The man named Harvey was angry to the point of trembling slightly, and Death thought briefly of running down the road and out of sight. But he was too resolved to make at least one friend that night. “Likes what he sees better? You shouldn’t even be around these parts, Tim,” said Harvey.
“I decide where I stay, Harvey,” said Tim. The two men forgot about Death for a moment and got very close to each oth
er, putting on their most intimidating glowers.
“You’re gonna come back to my side of the road,” said Harvey to Death. “You’re gonna pick out a girl, and you’re gonna buy her services. Get it?”
Death thought about the proposition for a moment, but had to decline. He was just beginning to get to know Tim, he did not care much for Harvey, and he had never bought anything before and he did not quite know how. “I don’t know. I like this side better.” He smiled to show that he meant nothing by it, but Harvey was not pleased. He walked right up to Death for the third time, a vein throbbing in his forehead.
“You come with me,” said Harvey.
“He doesn’t want to come with you,” said Tim.
“Shut your mouth.”
“Yeah, I’d, uh,” started Death. He was trying to find the right words, since Harvey seemed touchy, “I’d rather just stay here. Thank you, though.”
“Why, you,” shouted Harvey, and he leaped at Death, who tried to back away but did not have time to react. Harvey wrapped his hands around Death’s neck, but his grip quickly loosened and he fell over backwards, stone dead.
“Oh, damn,” said Death quietly as all the women who were around let out shrill screams and ran every which way. Some hopped chain-link fences, others crashed into one another and fell to the ground after fruitless clacks of their high heels to stay upright. But, in the commotion, Death noticed that Tim could only stand there with his mouth hanging open.
“Dude,” said Tim, his eyes moving up and down Harvey’s dead heaping mass. Death tried to look innocent but it was useless. Tim continued: “That…was…great.” A smile broke over his face, and suddenly the tension in Death’s shoulders eased. Tim went to shake Death’s hand, but Death pulled away, playing it off as though he was tripping over Harvey’s unmoving legs. Tim did not seem to notice. “What’s your name?” he asked. Death was intrigued by Tim’s sudden change of attitude.
“Death,” said Death, smiling.
“Derek, huh? Derek what?”
“No,” said Death, shaking his head. “Death.”
Death thought he had enunciated it well enough until Tim said, “Derek Derek, huh? I’m going to admit, that’s a pretty weird name. Well, Mr. Derek, I owe you one, big time.”
“Please, call me D—“
“Right, I’ll just call you Derek. My name’s Tim. It’s really great to meet you. That was incredible.”
“Right,” said Death, or Derek, or Mr. Derek. He decided to just go along with it. “Good to meet you too.”
“What are you doing around here, anyways? You don’t really seem to be looking for a girl.”
“A girl? Oh, no, not at all,” said Death, glad to have cleared up the misunderstanding between them. “I was actually looking for a friend, and an apartment. I just retired and moved here, and honestly don’t have anywhere to stay.” As Death spoke he rubbed the back of his neck with his palm and looked down at his shoes. In a very human way, he felt slightly embarrassed, and was pleased.
Tim looked Death up and down suspiciously and said, “An apartment? Are you sure…are you sure you aren’t a cop?”
Death looked down at his suit as though it might provide a clue as to why he kept asking that question. “No, I’m pretty sure I’m not.”
“Come take a walk with me,” said Tim. “I owe you one for taking out my rival. I’ll be rolling in the dough because of this. Let me make some phone calls.”
As Tim talked on the phone, Death marveled at the city around him which, given his former career, he never truly had the opportunity to enjoy before. The city seemed to change drastically as they simply turned down different streets. Death and his new friend walked along a string of closed down antique shops that punctuated very large and expensive-looking houses. They turned right at the end of that street and through a dark alleyway. They walked by a man who was knelt down, shivering and staring at the moon as though it meant to harm him. The alley turned into a street that was bustling with nightlife and lined with pubs, each of which had different music coming from them, swirling together in the streets into one incomprehensible polyrhythm.
Finally, Tim stopped in front of a large building with many windows. Paint was chipping off the front door and the doorknob nearly came clean off as Tim swung it open. “Here we are, 55 Macci Street,” he said, letting Death in first and closing the door behind them. Before them stood a creaky, dusty hallway that led to an abnormally steep flight of grungy stairs. As they walked together the entire apartment building seemed to creak loud enough to wake the dead. Death ran his finger along the wall right before they arrived at the staircase, taking chips of paint, dust, and a hefty amount of mold with him.
“This is great,” said Death as he and Tim walked up the stairs. He meant what he said; he was grateful for what Tim was doing for him.
“It’s nothing too special, but it’ll help you ou—“ Tim started, but before he could finish there was a great cracking of splintering wood and he fell straight through the staircase. He crashed to the floor underneath with a great thud and cloud of dust. Death stood on the stairs, mouth agape, as Tim ran around and back up the staircase. Then, as though nothing had happened at all, he kept walking, explaining, “It’ll help you out for now.” The two arrived at a door, labeled A7, and Tim knocked.
A man who looked like a jittery weasel opened the door dressed in a brown suit with a matching vest. His hair was greasy and combed over a prominent bald spot on the center of his head. He twiddled his fingers around as he said, without meeting their eyes with his, “Oh, do come in.”
Death followed Tim into the drafty three-room apartment. He figured perhaps it could look nice in the right amount of sunlight. On the other side of the living room was a young man on a couch. He slept with a backwards baseball cap on his head, which laid bent backwards over the cushions, and his mouth hanging wide open. A television played silent infomercials and cast the room in a dim bluish-purple light.
“Hiya, Pete,” said Tim. “This is the guy I was telling you about.”
“Ah, hello,” said the man, holding out his hand. “Name’s Pete.” When Death did not shake, Pete played it off as though he were extending his hand to run it across his greasy side part. He turned to Tim and said, “Well, okay then. Two months rent for free, then we’re even?”
“Two?” asked Tim, examining the curtains. “I think it’ll be three.”
“Three? Why?” said Pete, raising the anger in his voice but not the volume. “Two months would come to seven hundred dollars. I owe you three hundred for the rented ice cream truck and only one for the extra horse. I’m giving you a deal here.”
“You also forgot about the four hundred you owe me for the cooking utensils and for finding those immigrants to help you,” said Tim.
“That was a gift,” said Pete , throwing his arms into the air. “You even told me it was when you gave them to me. You’re being a lowlife.” His voice was strained and his eyes bulged as he spoke. Tim put his face right in front of Pete’s and spoke pointedly, as though Pete were hearing impaired:
“Listen. You’re going to give him three months, and that’s final.”
“You and your friend can just get out of my apartment complex then,” said Pete. His voice carried with it confidence but his demeanor held shades of meekness and fright. “Go on, get out.” He raised his fists in defiance.
“You’re messing with the wrong man,” said Tim, holding his fists up as well.
“Whoa, fellas,” said Death, stretching his arms out. “No need to get hasty.”
“You can just shut up,” said Pete, slapping Death on the shoulder. And swiftly he fell to the floor, reaped. Tim looked at Death, who began to shy away.
“Wow, that was great,” exclaimed Tim, waking the man on the couch up out of a hefty snoring session
. “Well, I guess the place is yours then. Listen, I’m going to be at the HaffCaff Café down on the boulevard tomorrow. Why don’t you join me, eight in the morning? I guess I owe you one again for getting this guy off my back. I’ll buy you a coffee and maybe something to eat since you’re new here.”
“Alright, sounds great to me,” said Death. He felt good about this retirement adventure already. “The boulevard. I’ll find it.”
“Good,” said Tim. “I’ll see you then.” And with that, Tim left.
Death walked over to the couch to the now awake young man and sat down next to him. “Hello,” said Death. “I’m Death.”
“What?” asked the man in a deep voice that carried across the apartment.
“I’m…um…Derek,” said Death.
“Oh, yo,” said the man, lifting himself up and centering his backwards hat. “I’m Brian. We roommates?”
“I guess so,” said Death.
“Alright, sweet. Ballin’,” said the man. “I’m Brian,” he repeated.
“Brian, good to meet you then,” said Death.
“You gotta give me a day or so, I’m super smashed right now.”
“Smashed?” asked Death, looking Brian over, expecting to see his body mangled and broken.
“Yeah. Tequila.” And on that note, Brian turned his head to the side and began snoring. Death got up to find his bed.
He lay down, still wearing his suit, and stared up at the ceiling. And, for the first time in thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands of years, Death slept.
Death on the Bridge
“Have you seen the pastry shop across the bridge?” asked Tim to Death. They were sitting at a table beside the giant windows of the HaffCaff Café.
“Which pastry shop across which bridge?” asked Death. He grasped a coffee mug with his spider-leg fingers as steam plumed from the top of it. He gave it a short burst of breath to cool it down and took a sip, smacking his lips together in delight and comfort.
