by Kyle Giroux
“Oh, okay,” said Death. Wow, he thought. A whole group of people who don’t have to work, and can just hold signs instead. Perhaps this was what being human was all about.
“What brings you here, friend?”
“Oh, I was just fired from my job, and—“
“Ah, see,” he shouted. “The man has brought you down. Those fat-cats are putting us all in the poorhouse, taking all our money, and stealing our jobs. We’ll have nothing left soon. So let me put your information into my iPhone and get your email address and cell number.”
“My what?” asked Death. “Your what phone?”
“Don’t tell me you don’t have an iPhone,” spat the man. “What kind of protestor are you?”
“Protest? You mean where people get maimed and savagely beaten?”
“No. Those aren’t the only kinds of protests.”
“Those are the only kinds of protests I’ve ever been to,” said Death. The man walked away, chanting along with the group as Death cast his gaze over the vast sea of people. He walked closer and closer to the action, so intrigued by it that he did not realize how close he was getting. A man within the flow of the crowd bumped into Death and fell flat on his face (stone-dead, naturally), sending his sign flying into the air and falling into Death’s hands. To avoid hitting any more people, he walked with the current of the people, his new sign (which read, “We’re Really Mad About Stuff”) held aloft.
The crowd seemed to notice neither the addition of their new comrade nor the trampled dead man on the sidewalk. At first Death resisted his presence, trying to figure out a way to leave the group, but soon he began to feel involved. He chanted along with the citizens, pumping his fist in the air like they did. A very excited man in blue suspenders ran down the row of people who were holding signs, high-fiving each one. Death, in his disorientation, put out his hand and the man slapped it and promptly crumpled to the ground. The crowd laughed, not realizing the man was in fact dead, and the passionate protest continued.
“Fellow citizens,” shouted the red head with the megaphone. “Welcome to the official Occupy Hair movement!” The crowd cheered. “We gathered one hundred-thousand ‘likes’ on Facebook and continue to gain followers. If we keep changing our profile pictures on all our social network pages, we will without a doubt be getting free money from the government.” Death shouted his approval along with the crowd, with very little idea of what was going on. “Which we no doubt deserve, because finding jobs has become too hard, and our money is being stolen by somebody! But today is a special day. We have in the crowd a very extraordinary man. He is a former CEO of the investment firm Prude and Prewd. He fought for our rights as workers and lost his job over his support for us, which was labeled as ‘extreme’ and ‘overbearing.’” Some people shouted their approval of the former CEO, others their disgust at the company.
While the people were busy cheering, the redhead scanned the crowd. He had only talked to this former CEO on the phone, so he did not know what he looked like. But he was informed of which sign he would be holding. When his eyes captured the correct one (which read, “We’re Really Mad About Stuff”), he continued his speech. “He has joined us here today to show that he supports our cause and what we stand for. Fellow workers, our man is under that sign,” he pointed at Death, who looked around for whom the redhead was talking about. “Please give a hand for former CEO Stephen McLeod as he comes up here to give you all a very special speech.”
The crowd burst into cheers again. The redhead dropped down from the stage and handed the megaphone to a very befuddled Death. “Thanks for dropping by,” shouted the redhead. Death looked over at the recently reaped man whose sign he had taken, and his eyes went wide with realization.
“Oh,” started Death. His stomach seemed to have dropped out of his body as his legs began to quake. “Yeah, no problem.” The redhead dropped back, clapping along with his fellow protestors, and Death climbed up onto the stage. He set his sign down and looked out at the crowd, which looked so much larger from where he was standing. When he hit the power button on the megaphone and it crackled loudly in his ear, they went silent again. Clusters of eyes were fixed on Death.
“Uh, hi,” he said. His voice boomed across the street. “I’m, uh...Stanley McLeod. I was, uh, fired from my job.” The crowd erupted again, this time in boos, whistles and thumbs-down gestures. “And I’m here to, well,” he looked at the redhead, who signaled for Death to press on. “I’m here to show you that you have my support. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately, and I got to believing that maybe doing everything everyone tells you to do can be a bad thing.” The words were spilling out of him before he could catch them. It was an oddly euphoric sensation. “And, well, I guess I just want to say that you people should never let others control what you do. Go against what you write off as how you’ve been told the world works, and do what’s right for each other. And, uh, free iPhones for everyone.” The crowd cheered louder than ever as Death stepped down.
“Thank you, Mr. Macleod,” said the redhead, clapping and moving to the podium. “Now, we—oh no, here we go.”
Most people craned their necks to see what the redhead was looking at. Another group was marching towards them. This one looked a lot different from the one Death was a part of; it was made up mostly of middle-aged men wearing ties. Their signs read things such as: “Workers Unite For A Better America” and “We Work For Our Money” and “Homosex Is A Sin.” A bulky man with a handlebar mustache and denim jacket climbed onto the stage. The Occupy protestors looked appalled, so Death tried his best to do the same.
“Look, we’ve been thinking about what you said,” said the muscular man. The redhead looked like he was about to vomit. “And I don’t think it’s the answer to our arguments. We have to do the American thing and punch each other until one of us is right.” And with that, he tore the megaphone from the redhead’s hands and shattered it on his head. As he crumpled to the ground, both crowds charged at each other. Death thought it best to leave.
He inevitably could not avoid bumping into a few raging protestors, but made his way out of the crowd relatively unscathed. He saw the young man who had asked for his phone number earlier on. “I told you this is what usually happens,” said Death. But the man did not hear him; he was too busy trying to impale someone with the post of his sign.
Death decided to walk home, slightly disappointed that no one had paid much attention to the epiphany he shared with them. For now, he would have to put off being more human by getting a job, or by holding a sign, or hitting someone, or whatever it was humans did with themselves.
A Bargain
Death was in the process of cleaning up a vomit stain that either Brian or one of his friends made when he began to feel funny. He thought at first he might have eaten a bad taco. He went to the bathroom, shaky and sweating, and looked into the mirror.
It was then that Death noticed he was disintegrating.
“Wh-what’s happening?” he said aloud, looking at his hands, which would be shaking violently if they were still there. He stared at his reflection, hopeless as the remnants of his body swirled in the air around him until all that was left was his face. Death caught one last glimpse of his gaunt complexion, and he was gone.
He fell on a very hard surface with a dull thud. He clambered back to his feet, his body aching all over. He was in an apartment that looked similar to his but with far different furnishings. Everything around him was nautical in theme; there was a ship steering wheel clock above an anchor-shaped lamp; two harpoons hanging on the far wall in an X formation; a model lighthouse on top of a table made from a lifesaver and paddles; several signs that had phrases on them such as “The Ship’s Tavern” and “Disc Harbor Yacht Club;” even a large telescope on the wall, above which was a plaque that read “Capt. J. George, 1849.” Death was so mesmerized by the intriguing room that he jumped back
in fright when a man on the couch waved to him.
“Oh man, I can’t believe that worked,” said the man. Death looked down to see that he was standing in the middle of a circle outlined in chalk and burning black candles, around which were inscriptions in Latin. He had seen this before. “I looked it up online,” admitted the man. “I figured I’d give it a try. And here you are, it’s really you. Death himself, right?”
“Yeah,” said Death, rubbing his forehead with a sweaty palm. “Yup, that’s me. Look, I know you summoned me and everything, but—“
“You’re a lot less scary than I thought you’d be,” said the man, standing up off the couch. He looked weak and tired.
“I’m plenty scary,” said Death.
“Well, anyways, my name is Thomas Lange. I need you to do me a big favor right now. I’m a cancer patient, see, and I—“
“Oh, no,” interrupted Death. “No, no, no, I’m done with that stuff nowadays.”
“No, but you have to listen. I want to strike a deal with you. I’m too young, way too young for this. There is so much in my life I haven’t done yet, so much I haven’t seen.”
“But you don’t understand,” said Death.
“Please,” said Thomas, his eyes closed and lips trembling. “Please, I’m begging you. I’ll give you anything.”
“I’ve quit. You won’t die. No one will.”
“For the love of God, please,” whimpered Thomas.
Death breathed a deep sigh of frustration. “Fine. What is it you want to give me so I won’t reap you?”
Thomas stood up and the tension in his face vanished. “Oh, thank you, thank you so much. I’ll give you anything, you just name it.”
“Um…well,” said Death, stepping out of the chalk and candle circle. Then, an idea. “Do you have a boat?”
“A boat? Of course,” said Thomas.
“Do you think you could take me fishing today? I’ve always wanted to go fishing.”
“Certainly! Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you! Then I definitely won’t die?”
“You won’t die,” said Death happily.
Thomas drove him to a harbor on the outskirts of the city. Boats lined the docks, rocking back and forth lightly in the soft breeze that rolled across the shore. Thomas parked the car and led Death to a nice wooden boat with a blue trim and swirling white letters that read “Queen Anne’s Reprisal” on the hull. Death’s nostrils were hit with the pleasant aroma of dead sea creatures and salt water. He followed Thomas onto the boat.
“Well, here it is, the Queen Anne’s Reprisal. She’s my baby.” He ran his hand along the steering wheel and closed his eyes. “I have a few fishing poles down below.” Death gazed at the deep blue water as it lapped against the hull of the boat. Thomas emerged from below deck with two large fishing rods and a bucket of small dead fish. “Let me bring her out and we’ll get a move-on,” he said.
“Great,” said Death, snapping out of his trance. “I can’t thank you enough for this, it’s beautiful.” The boat was miles away from shore now.
“Hey, no way. Thank you,” said Thomas, setting a baitfish on Death’s line and doing the same with his own. “I can’t believe this. Don’t you usually make people sell their souls or something? Drastic stuff like that?”
“What? No, not at all,” said Death, tossing his line into the water. “Satan does that stuff. I don’t care much for it, though.”
Thomas lit a cigar and offered Death one, which he declined. “This is one of my favorite spots here,” said Thomas, tossing his line in and looking intently at the light blue horizon. “See why I shouldn’t die? See why I have so much to live for?” He turned his pleading, glassy eyes to Death.
“I..uh, I guess so,” said Death, leaning his arms against the railing of the boat and watching the tip of his fishing rod gently bob up and down. “I mean, is dying really all that bad?”
“Oh, it’s the worst,” said Thomas, crossing his arms and nodding. “It’s just about the most terrible thing to ever happen to anyone.”
“Hm,” said Death. “I guess I just don’t get it. I know you humans don’t like me and everything, and I suppose leaving all this behind would be kind of sad. But are you just scared because the party is going on without you? Shouldn’t you be happy that you got to experience life in the first place? Not to mention for some reason I get the worst reputation out of all the terrible things that could—“
“Oh,” interrupted Thomas. He was pointing at Death’s fishing rod. The tip was bent down so far that it was nearly touching the base of the pole. With all the strength he could muster, Death reeled in the culprit, hoisting a great Bluefish out of the water and onto the deck. It violently flopped upwards, its mouth and gills opening as it gasped for precious water. “Well jeez,” shouted Thomas. “That’s one of the biggest Bluefish I’ve ever seen.”
“That was,” started Death, searching his brain for the right word. He settled on “incredible,” but felt he could have done better.
As Death hooked another baitfish onto the line Thomas said, “How about we make a bet?” Death tossed the line into the water. “Whoever catches the next fish gets to…oh.” Death’s fishing pole bent again. He reeled it in and brought on deck a second Bluefish, even bigger than the first.
“I’m pretty good at this,” said Death. “Maybe they’re just sensing that a natural presence like me is on the boat. That’s another thing I don’t get. Humans are so afraid, but other animals seem not to mind me.” He quickly hooked another piece of bait and tossed it in.
“Yeah, beginner’s luck I guess,” said Thomas. “But listen, I was going to say—oh come on.” Something tugged Death’s line sharply again and he reeled in another fish, this one a Bigmouth Sole. Thomas threw his vision at his own pole, which sat bobbing in rhythm with the boat.
“Yeah, it’s probably just luck,” said Death. “If you want we can switch positions.”
“Nope,” said Thomas. “This has been my spot for the past twelve years, going on thirteen in two months. If I can’t catch a fish here, I can’t—“ Thomas pulled the cigar out of his mouth and put his head in his palms, watching as Death reeled in another fish, this one a California Halibut. “Are you kidding me? Those don’t even live around here.”
“Maybe he got lost,” said Death, hooking another piece of bait and tossing it in. Thomas’ pole sat tranquil as Death reeled in two fish at once, both Bluefish.
“This is unbelievable,” muttered Thomas.
“I don’t have to fish anymore, I can just sit here and watch you.”
“No,” said Thomas with confidence, puffing out a cloud of smoke. “No, I’m going to catch one, bigger than what you’ve caught.”
“Okay,” said Death, hooking another piece of bait and tossing it in. The pole bent and he quickly reeled up a sizable Cod.
“You’re doing it all wrong,” said Thomas. “It’s all wrong, all wrong.” Death put the line in and pulled up his fourth Bluefish. Thomas continued: “Something must have taken my bait.” He reeled up his line until the little baitfish stared him right in the face. He dropped it back in the water and let out a long sigh.
“I really don’t have to do this anymore,” said Death, plopping the Bluefish in the bucket and stringing another piece of bait. “I don’t want to ruin it for you.”
“No,” said Thomas again, holding a hand in the air and not looking at Death. “No, keep going. Quantity is one thing, but it’s all about quality, and I definitely have the skill to—“ Death smiled hesitantly at Thomas before reeling in another catch. It was a tuna, at least three feet long. The fish fell onto the deck with a great wet slap.
Thomas perked up when he saw Death was having trouble getting the hook out of the fish’s mouth. “Ah, that’ll happen to a beginner fisherman. Never know how t
o get them hooks out. Here, here, you’re gonna kill it.” He walked over with a great smile that Death was glad to see had returned.
When Thomas stepped in the puddle of seawater the fish had brought on deck, he lost his footing, stumbling and twirling over with arms outstretched. Death had no time to react as Thomas flew right into him, hitting him with tremendous force and pushing him down. As Death got to his feet to try to help, all he saw was the lower half of Thomas’ body flipping over the railing and into the sea. Death clambered to look overboard. The last he saw of Thomas was two glazed eyes hanging over a wide open mouth. One could easily deduce by his expression that his death came as a surprise, perhaps due to the fact that Death had made a bargain, and could not hold his end of it.
Death the Fiddler
“And that’s why I need to borrow your fiddle,” said Death to Satan, who was sitting with his feet resting on the desk in his office.
“Just because you reaped some cancer patient?” asked Satan.
“You were right. People need to know who I am and what I’m trying to do. I shouldn’t have tried to hide it. And I need something to catch people’s attention at city hall. I’m finally announcing it.”
“I never said that,” said Satan, grinning and shaking his head. “What happened to your fiddle?”
“Famine accidentally broke it a hundred and fifty years ago in Ireland. I just need it for a few hours. I’ll bring it right back.”
Satan folded his fingers beneath his chin and gazed at the ceiling. Then he smiled broadly and said in his booming voice, “Fine. Bring it back soon. I wanted to duel some politician named Santorum up in America later.” Satan raised his arms and a black fiddle with blazing red swirling designs levitated out of the center of his desk. Death marveled at it as Satan chewed on a toothpick. “Guy says he follows the Bible. Has he even read Leviticus? Cutting off wives’ hands? Really, God? Even I’m not that messed up.”
