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

of the building were glowing bright red, but the large F was burnt out, so it just read “REEPAY BROS.” Death looked at a “Help Wanted” sign in the window and saw it as his last hope.

Before Death walked into the supermarket, he saw a very old man in grey, grungy, patched clothing standing outside the door. On his head was a ragged black winter hat (despite the relative warmth of the summer evening) under which grey stringy hair sprouted over a twisted and unshaven face. In a gloved hand he held a battered tin cup, which he shook back and forth at Death.

“Uh, oh dear,” said Death. “Do I need to pay?” He shuffled around in his pockets nervously.

The man looked confused. “Do you have money to spare?” he asked in a gruff voice.

“No,” said Death automatically. “No, I don’t.”

“You gotta have something in that nice suit of yours,” said the man, peering up and down Death’s outfit.

“I honestly don’t, but I should soon,” said Death. “I’m about to get a job right now.”

“Okay. Bless you, sir,” said the man, and Death walked into the supermarket.

People rarely die while in supermarkets, so Death was in awe when he walked through the door. Before him stood aisles and aisles of food racks bathed in fluorescent lighting that blotted out the darkening natural sky. Death walked up to the customer assistance desk and was greeted by a smiling old woman in a mauve smock.

“Hi,” said Death. “I’m here to ask about getting a job.”

“Oh, great,” said the woman happily. “Just fill out this form and—“

“Wait, did I hear someone say they wanted a job?” said a voice from behind Death. He turned around to see a very tall and bulky man walking towards him. “You, did you need a job?” he sounded stressed, but his voice was bright and effeminate.

“Yes,” said Death. “I need a job, a man told me to get one. Are you hiring?”

“Well we are busy as all hell and we need as much help as we can get right now,” said the man, waving his hand towards Death. “Can you start right now?”

“Well, I guess,” said Death. “But don’t you want to…you know, ask me random questions about stuff? Like how much experience I have?”

“Sure, how much experience do you have?” asked the man.

“None, I guess,” said Death, shrugging.

“Okay, you’re hired,” said the man. “My name is Bobby Carter and I’m the deli manager here. Follow me, come get your apron and we’ll get to work.”

Bobby Carter led Death to the back of the store, where the deli was located. A big glass case with a variety of meats and cheeses was almost entirely obscured by a large group of shoppers shoving each other about, shouting out their orders. A lone man, very old and tired looking, stood behind the counter cutting meats slowly and precisely as the crowd raged behind him.

“Hey, Al, you want to pick up the pace a little? These people are waiting, hello,” said Bobby. The man named Al turned to Bobby and gave him a deadly cold stare, which Bobby did not seem to notice. “Well, Al, this is our new employee. His name is…wait, what is it?”

“Death,” said Death.

“Excuse me?” asked Bobby.

“Uh, that is, Derek,” said Death.

“Oh, alright, this is Derek then. Al, why don’t you show Derek how to do everything around here?”

“How you doing?” asked Al as Bobby walked through the back door of the deli. He cast a look of unswerving petulance over his hooked nose and thick glasses. “First thing is, you need to put on some of these latex gloves. You change them whenever feels right for you when you’re handling meats, but you absolutely must change them when going from the fish case to the meat case. Get it?”

“Yeah,” said Death. Bobby returned with an apron and hat and handed them to Death, who hurriedly put them on over his suit.

“There you go, new employee,” said Bobby, who then turned to Al and said sharply, “Hello, Al, anyone home? You have customers waiting on you.” He pointed to the group of people shoving and fighting to get to the front of the counter. Bobby left and Al acted like he had not heard him.

“These machines, they’re beautiful,” said Al, running his fingers along the base of one of three silver deli slicers behind the counter. “I’ve been working in delis ever since I got out of the army. Nothing is quite like the feel of a freshly cleaned slicer, of the meat running along the blade, of turkey zest spraying gently in one’s face.” He had his eyes closed and was being positively poetic, almost sensual. Death grew uncomfortable. The crowd raged behind them, louder than ever.

“How do I use it?” asked Death, trying to get the same appreciation for the machine that Al had shown.

“Well, why don’t you try it?” asked Al eagerly, retrieving a turkey from the glass case and setting it gently on the slicer. “Just turn this dial to get the right thickness, and press this button to get it spinning.” He was indicating the steps quickly and Death struggled to keep up. “Grab hold of this handle here and slice away. Then gently put it on this piece of wax paper.” He took a square piece of plastic from one of many bright yellow boxes and set it down on the base of the slicer. “Try it out,” he said, smiling and gesturing to the meat. Death noticed that Al was dripping in sweat.

Death found slicing the turkey to not only be easy, but fairly fun. Al clapped in enjoyment at the sight of his new trainee. “Wonderful, bravo,” he said. “Now you need to set it on the scale.” He set the meat down on one of four digital scales and pointed to a sign that was taped to the door of the glass case. “Each meat and cheese has its own code. They’re posted here, but you’ll memorize