Death in the City by Kyle Giroux (read my book TXT) 📗

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