Death Sucks

by Andrew Mallen

  “Yeah, you go boy!” Jackie cheered and wished he could hear her.

  “Jackie agrees with Rog,” Bobby conveyed with a shrug.

  “It’s cozy and I like cozy.” Lenny smiled at where he thought the ghost mom might be, missed and smiled at nothing.

  “I miss cozy.” Bobby smirked at Lenny, a nonverbal apology for his fashion critique which he accepted gratefully with a subtle nod. “So we need to go back to the spot where the star lines up with the shore.”

  “Why can’t we just drive?” Lenny asked.

  “I told you, you need a buggy permit to drive on the beach. The last thing we need is a dutiful park ranger interrupting my mano y mano with el mano grande,” Bobby figured since his English explanation had failed maybe a bad Spanish version might get his message across.

  “Hand to hand with a big hand? What are you babbling about?” Roger asked, knowing what Bobby was trying to say but since he was being snippy with Lenny he figured he’d call the Reaper on the lingual mutilation.

  “Ain’t no cops coming out here.” Jordan was on Lenny’s side as well.

  Jackie shot him another of her looks, “Why do you care? You can’t feel the cold.”

  “Just want to ride on the beach Mom, I never did any of that kinda stuff,” the kid revealed his innocent secret. “I thought it’d be cool, that’s all.”

  Jackie’s shoulders slumped. Lenny frowned. Bobby’s head hurt. “Go on, get back in the Jeep,” he offered.

  “Yeah boyeee!” Jordan shouted, pumping one small fist in the air.

  Jackie smiled. Lenny climbed back inside before the offer was rescinded.

  “You sure about this?” Roger asked Bobby.

  “Yeah, why not? This is my gig. There’s no need to give your hubby pneumonia or deny the kid a bucket list opportunity. Besides, not having to listen to them both whining is a double bonus.”

  Roger only half got it, Jordan’s off-road wish hadn’t been forwarded.

  “You cold?” Bobby asked.

  The big man stood tall despite the damp cold, the driving wind and the cane at his side. “Nope, Eddie Bauer Expedition, you could go Santa hunting in this and not feel a thing,” Roger replied proudly and patted the thickly padded chest of his snorkel coat. “I got it for ninety nine bucks last summer on super sale, it’s like a five hundred dollars coat.”

  “Savvy and stylish,” Bobby teased.

  “Better that what your sporting there Friar Creepy.”

  “Cheaper too,” Bobby laughed. “This cost me my soul.”

  “If this works you’ll be buck naked on cloud nine in no time,” Roger painted a hopeful picture.

  “I’d give my left nut to be naked again.”

  “Not with one nut you wouldn’t, not a good look,” Roger scowled as the image of the naked, single-balled Reaper danced across his mind.

  “Good point, I’d still do it though. This fucking thing is like being wrapped in fiberglass insulation,” no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t explain how abysmal the robe felt but he kept at it anyway if only to vent. “It’s like swamp ass for your entire body.”

  “Okay, okay, no more, please,” Roger raised his hands in surrender, the conversation had taken an odd detour and they needed to get back on track. “TMI bro, TMI.”

  Bobby nodded, turned and rapped on the Jeep window with one knuckle of one long, creepy finger. Lenny lowered the glass. “Wait here but give me that flashlight. If you see it flashing come get us.”

  “What if He doesn’t show up?” Lenny asked the question Bobby had been considering since before they left New Rochelle.

  “Then it’s back to the drawing board I guess,” he replied casually but in his mind and in his guts a tempest, born of fear and fueled by doubt, raged.

  “Good luck,” Lenny whispered as Bobby turned away.

  Roger stepped up to the window and kissed his husband a gentle but passionate goodbye.

  “Ewww!” Jordan squealed.

  Jackie whacked the boy across the back of his head, hard. Rubbing the sore spot, the boy rolled his eyes, trying to play it cool. Jackie wasn’t impressed. She swatted him again, stared and waited.

  “Sorry Lenny. Sorry Roger,” the kid finally responded to the not-so-subtle hint.

  Roger and Lenny’s lips parted, their goodbye immune to the invisible drama in the back seat. “Don’t be too long,” Lenny warned.

  “Be back in a jiff,” Roger smiled his best smile then walked to where the Reaper waited.

  “Sorry,” Jackie whispered shamefully as Lenny sealed the window and cranked up the heat, knowing he couldn’t hear it but needing to say it anyway.

  *

  “Ready?” Bobby asked the stupid question and handed Roger the Maglite.

  “Nope.” Roger gave an honest answer and stowed the light in one of the many pockets of his coat.

  “Me neither.”

  “Shall we?”

  “We shall.”

  They headed east once again toward the first sign of light from below the horizon. The exhaust from the fishermen’s idling engines swirled in the wind adding to the already eerie scene. “I’m scared.” Roger’s tightly bound hood muffled his confession, but Bobby heard it clearly.

  “Me too, buddy.”

  I could never have done it without you. I love you Roger, I really do. I’m sorry I dragged you into this mess. I hope I don’t let you down. I’ll try my best buddy, I promise, I’ll try my best.

  “This is the spot,” Roger announced after consulting the sky and Google Earth.

  “You sure?”

  Roger shrugged, framed by the dancing fur that lined his hood, his eyes answered the question with no words.

  *

  “Shit,” Bobby moaned as he studied the vehicle parked in the exact spot they assumed they needed to be in.

  It was a Jeep like Lenny’s but a lot older and a lot cooler. The 1978 CJ7 sat high on knobby thirty-six inch tires wrapped around bright, silver, deep-dish Cragar rims. Buffed to an impeccable shine, its flawless silver paint sparkled in the starlight. Where the spare tire should have hung a diamond-plated cargo box complete with three chrome rod holders welded seamlessly in its place. Power rumbled from beneath its curvy hood and echoed from its twin, wide bore exhaust pipes. Deeply tinted windows mirrored the landscape and kept the fisherman inside a mystery.

  “What do we do now?” Roger was panicking.

  “We wait,” Bobby suggested the only option he could think of.

  “What if this guy’s blocking, like, a portal or a landing zone or something and God can’t get through, ya’know?”

  “I’m thinking God, or whoever, doesn’t need to jump through hoops like that. His world, His rules. He makes ’em, He can break ’em.”

  “Good point.” Roger replied, liking the logic.

  “Time?”

  “Twenty-six minutes.”

  “Twenty-six minutes.”

  They waited. It was the longest twenty-six minutes of all time.

  2.

  Black faded to gray before the rising sun masterfully painted the eastern sky in every shade of awesome. The beauty of it had Bobby and Roger lulled into an almost dreamlike state when a reel screamed to life on one of the three rods staked in the sand in front of the CJ7. The unmistakable whine of line being pulled out into the sea was the most intoxicating sound to any fisherman and a signal that the battle they so desperately sought was underway.

  “Fish on!” the driver hollered, erupting from the Jeep and sprinting toward the deeply bent rod.

  Well outfitted for the elements, the fisherman sported one piece neoprene overalls, the kind with the boots chemically welded to the legs so no water could find its way inside. The thick hood of a waterproof, thermal sweater, cinched tight at his throat, covered his head. He wore thin, bright blue gloves, no doubt made of some high-tech material to keep the warmth in and the water out, and matching mask over the lower half of his face.

  Bobby and Roger watched as the small f
igure sprang to action. Snatching the rod from its holder, he wrenched back with a mighty heave, insuring the hook on the other end penetrated his prey. Satisfied, he began to battle the fish as it fought for its freedom. It was obvious the fisherman knew his craft. Hauling back and reeling down, letting the equipment bear the brunt of the work, he inched the fish from the unseen depths. When the beast ran, overpowering the drag, he let it. Pulling against it would only strain the line and its intricate knots unnecessarily.

  “Bobby look.” Roger nudged the Reaper to snap his attention from the life and death struggle.

  Bobby had almost forgotten what he was there for but it quickly crashed down on him seeing the night being pushed aside by the rising sun to the east. The fiery orb had revealed itself at last. The curve of the far-off star peered over the swells of the Atlantic at them.

  “Shit,” Bobby whispered, the wait was over.

  “Could one of you boys please grab me that net by the Jeep there?” the struggling fisherman called out.

  Bobby and Roger exchanged a look of confusion. “Should we?” Roger asked.

  “Please?” the guy begged. “I think I got a fifty pounder on here!”

  “Why not?” Bobby shrugged and turned to find it.

  “He’ll see you,” Roger warned.

  “Already did,” Bobby said, his hood had been down since they left the others.

  Bobby grabbed the long, wide mouth net from where it stood beside the Jeep and jogged down to the water’s edge to where the fisherman stood waist deep in the surf. “Here you go…sir”

  “One minute, I nearly have her,” he replied without turning.

  “I’ll just leave it here,” Bobby didn’t mind helping the guy out but he had no intention of standing there, waiting like a fool while the guy did his thing, he had something a tad more important to take care of.

  “No. Please. She’s right there, see her?” the fisherman cried as the wide powerful tail of his opponent assaulted the waves from beneath with a huge splash.

  “Holy cow!” Roger shouted as he approached. “It’s a monster!”

  “Will you help me?” the fisherman cried, he clearly needed it.

  Like saving the world isn’t enough now I gotta play first mate. God’s got a sick sense of humor.

  “Yeah,” Bobby replied, they were in the right place at the right time and at least it would help keep his mind off the fact that God was nowhere to be seen.

  The fisherman straddled back and forth in the waves while working the rod carefully. Bobby and Roger followed him like the worlds weirdest backup dancers. Backing out of the frigid sea he gently reeled the exhausted fish toward him until the swivel above the leader rose from the water. “Here,” he said and thrust the rod at Bobby who instinctively grabbed it and dropped the net.

  The fisherman splashed back into the surf while pulling the line toward him, hand over hand, until the fish’s spiked dorsal fin pierced the surface. She’d run out of water a few feet from shore and there was nowhere else to run. “Would you look at her? She must be sixty, maybe seventy pounds!” he cried in amazement.

  “You need the net sir?” Bobby was happy for the guy but something was wasn’t quite right about the whole situation.

  “Too small,” the fisherman replied. “Either of you have a camera or a smart-phone?”

  You gotta be fucking kidding me! What’s next, he going to ask us to gut and fillet the fucking thing?

  “Sure!” Roger cried.

  The fisherman slowly lowered himself down beside the massive fish. Drained and dazed, having spent every drop of energy in her failed attempt at escape, she waited. The waves crashed against the fisherman’s chest and splashed his face. He didn’t seem to care, the beast he’d conquered had all his attention. “Ready?” he called to the impromptu cameraman.

  “Ready.” Roger was at the edge of the water, leaning as close as he could, regardless of his device’s zoom capabilities or the fact that he’d ditched his cane and could fall headfirst into the cold surf with one misstep.

  The fisherman leaned over the surrendering Striper, slid his arms under her impressive girth and eased her up out of the sea as if she were a minnow.

  “Holy shit!” Roger roared in disbelief. “That’s the biggest fish I ever saw! It’s gotta be a hundred pounds!”

  “Not quite but close I’d say,” the fisherman beamed. “Snap away son, she ain’t getting any lighter.”

  “Right. Sorry.” Roger began clicking away like Austin Powers, dancing and weaving on the shore to capture the creature from every conceivable angle.

  Bobby watched, enthralled by the fish. Her snow white belly bulged between the fisherman’s arms. Her stripes, as wide as a man’s belt, glistened in the new light of the day. Tail spread wide, fins raised like sails, gills flexing, she studied them with big, intelligent eyes.

  “She’s dying!” Bobby roared, surprising himself as much as the others.

  Roger turned, shocked and embarrassed. “Dude, it’s his fish. It’s not your call. That thing’s gotta be a record breaker, he has to get it weighed.”

  The beautiful Striped Bass’s death was not something Bobby wanted to witness. He’d see enough death, enough pointless killing. “You don’t have to kill her! She doesn’t deserve it!” he roared at the fisherman who still embraced his catch of a lifetime, of a hundred lifetimes.

  “Oh?” he accepted the strangers protest with polite confusion.

  “You know you caught her so why kill her?” Bobby pushed. “She’s given you the fight you wanted, the memory, the thrill, the bragging rights, and you have the pictures to prove it. Come on, buddy, there’s no need to kill her.”

  “A second chance?” the fisherman’s summary stunned both shore bound spectators.

  “Yeah,” Bobby agreed.

  The fisherman lowered himself and the fish back into the sea’s cold embrace. Gently turning the monster, he took a firm hold of her rough, toothless lower jaw and reached into her cavernous maw to retrieve his hook. With one deft jerk and twist he pulled it free and tossed it aside. After stroking her side lovingly for a few moments he lowered his head to the fish’s. He began talking to the fish. Bobby and Roger stood like statues watching the scene unfold. The fisherman rose slowly, then towed the sluggish fish along the shoreline, forcing the oxygen rich water through her delicate gills to revive her. The toll of their battle had depleted her but she soon began to show signs of resurrection as her tail began to sway and her body began to meander through the waves. With one smooth heave, the fisherman released his hold. The Striper drifted for a tense moment then burst from the shallows and into the secretive depths with a flick of her mighty tail and a cheer from the Roger, the Reaper and the stranger.

  *

  “That was something else,” the fisherman announced, sloshing toward shore.

  “I can’t believe you let her go,” Roger uttered in awe.

  “Your friend here wanted her to have a second chance,” he replied.

  “Yeah, but still, that was some fish,” Roger said, shaking his head.

  “Sure was,” the fisherman agreed. “Thanks.”

  “Thank you sir.” Bobby smiled at the stranger gratefully.

  “Never planned on keeping her son,” the fisherman revealed. “I don’t even carry a knife, or a cooler for that matter.”

  “Oh,” Bobby replied, dumbstruck.

  “I got hot chocolate in the Jeep. Come on, you boys look like you could use a cup.” The fisherman turned towards his rig without waiting for their answer.

  Roger perked his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders. Bobby did the same. They followed the fisherman to his Jeep where he dug a thermos and a stack of cups from inside the box mounted on its back and poured three steaming cups of comfort. Roger immediately sipped from the Styrofoam container, clutching it as if it was the Holy Grail. The fisherman tugged his mask from his face and tucked it underneath the thick white beard it had been hiding before savoring the rich brew. Bobby stood hold
ing the cup in his hand as if it were poison. He’d tried eating during his first days as a dead man, unable to resist the lure of a fresh pepperoni pizza Roger ordered. The result had been an unpleasant one. Instead of gooey cheese, tangy sauce and flaky crust, he tasted ass and ash instead. Trying to swallow only to realize it was impossible, he was dead after all.

  “Not good?” the fisherman asked with a wink of one clear blue eye.

  “No, I’m sure it is, it’s just I can’t,” Bobby replied truthfully.

  “At least try, it’s my special recipe.”

  Bobby shook his head but was unwilling to say more.

  “No worries.” the fisherman smiled and tilted his head toward Roger. “I’m sure it won’t go to waste.”

  “I’m sure it won’t,” Bobby agreed with a smile of his own.

  “That’s an unusual outfit you got on there, my friend.” The fisherman’s sharp eyes regarded Bobby from hoodless head to bare toe.

  This is about to get weird.

  “Work clothes,” Bobby replied and cringed internally at the stupidity of it.

  The fisherman nodded and turned east to where the last sliver of the sun clung to the horizon. “You boys here for that?”

  How does he know that?

  “How d’you know?”

  The fisherman pulled off his own hood, uncovering a full head of the same thick white hair as his beard. Bobby figured he was pushing seventy but his face held onto youth the way it does for people who live life to its fullest.

  “No rods, no gear, nothing fishy about you two,” the old man replied.

  Duh.

  “Yep, just here for the show. It’s beautiful,” Roger jumped in.

  “Yes it is,” the fisherman replied, gazing eastward, enjoying the last few moments of the sun’s matinee. “Thanks.”

  Thanks? Weird.

  “Those your people?” the fisherman asked.

  “What?” Bobby didn’t get it.

  “The white Jeep that’s been idling over there watching us like paparazzi.”

  Roger and Bobby looked to see Lenny peering through the windshield of the Wrangler like a perv at a peepshow. “Yeah, that’s Lenny,” Roger admitted with a smirk.