Mr. Death

Short story #1

 He arrived just in time to watch the two sweaty workers struggle to lift the coffin from the truck of an old sedan. Why is it that they always look like they're doing this for the first time? Any minute now and Harry will slip out of the black box and carry it himself.

  “Good for them for choosing Mr. Death", said the balding man next to him.

  “I don’t know. It’s a weird name.”

  "What's weird about it?"

  "Well…why call yourself that if you own a funeral home? Did you kill your clients? Why not call yourself Eternal Peace or Heaven?"

  “Trademark?”

  They shook hands for a moment and then hugged.

  "Good to see you, Bill."

  They stood there while everyone was dragging their feet to the chapel. It looked like it was going to rain. 

  "Have you seen Steve yet?"

  "No," he said and lit up a cigarette. Probably his last chance before the rumble. "I only got here yesterday."

  Bill left a sigh out. "I have a kid now."

  "Oh, so you aren’t impotent after all!"

  "I didn't say it was my kid. I said I got a kid."

  They laughed in the way you laugh when your high school teacher is looking over your head. It was always like that with Bill.

  "I got nothing. Only a job and that is usually a minus in my case."

  The bell rang three times. Someone waved them to come in. Bill waved back with a wide grin on his face.

  "Let's wait here for a bit, I don’t want to sit next to my wife. She’ll cry and I'll laugh."

  The first drops whipped his shoulders. He took a big drag from the wrinkly, unfiltered Reds. There was silence, except for the funeral service near the cars talking away. It must be weird being in funerals every day. The repetitiveness, the close proximity, the systematic cold approach to get the job done. He felt a strong urge to go talk to them, become one of them. Maybe it won’t hurt next time.

  "So, what happened?"

  Bill looked at him like he was waiting for this very question. He cleared his throat and looked away before talking. "What always happens. Forty years. Forty years flirting with disaster, that kid. Do you really need to ask?"

  "The details, that’s what I don’t know"

  "The why is what you’re after. I know you and your ways", he said in his old man voice. He always did that when the subject got serious. He thought he was exorcizing the ‘bad Ju-Ju’. 

  "Why…why anything happens. Who cares. Was he in pain?"

  "No. That's the problem. Harry was never in pain. He spent his whole life running away from pain."

  "Everyone is running away from pain, Bill''. He smothered the cigarette with his foot. "Maybe it's time to go inside."

  "After you, sire"

  They had their own funeral march, wobbling their way to the entrance of a postmodern, white chapel that looked unfinished. The incense hit his nose. That stuff always made his stomach turn. They slipped into their seats a few rows behind the family. Mary and the kids were there. He couldn’t make up their face. That’s good, he thought.

  A tap on his shoulder made him turn. Steve. "Hey," he whispered, "didn't see you there buddy".

  Steve was smiling. "Harry is dead" he said. 

  Bill turned. "Are you stupid, Steve? That's why we’re here."

  "Oh, the gang is once again together. We don’t look half bad."

  "Harry looks better than you," Bill said with a grimace.

  Someone cleared their throat in a profoundly suggestive way. Steve followed suit, and the three of them started laughing. Fortunately, nothing too contagious but they did receive a few condescending looks from the old guard.

  Once he calmed down, Steve asked: "Who's gonna do the eulogy? We didn’t have a chance to talk it out."

  "I don't think we are supposed to. His family will. Probably his brother or his father."

  "Fuck that. They didn’t know him like we did."

  "Apparently no one knew him." That made him stop.

  For the next thirty minutes, no one spoke. The priests did their typical ‘magic tricks and angelic cacophony’ like Harry used to say. Eventually, his father got up to speak. He seemed out of it, zapped. The deadpan face and the slow tremor in his voice confessed the miracle of Prozac.

  More family members got up. Harry this and that, good man, father and son. What a load of bullshit. Everyone held their tongue, yapping and yapping. Who would say the truth? No one. The truth was sinful and they knew it. Harry killed himself by sticking the needle one too many times. After all these years, their little hometown remained unchanged, shame washing away the debris of tragedy.

  One by one, they began crowding around the coffin. Mary and the kids remained in their seats, dumbfounded, still living in that eternal moment after the phone call.

  "Come on, let's say our goodbyes."

  They approached the center of the room, brushing against each other. A clear path opened in front of them. They all went together and stood above Harry, a pale, young Harry. He was wearing a black suit, carefully hung on his body, yet remained inches away from his flesh.

  "Was he always…white?" Bill said.

  "That’s death for you."

  "No. I mean white white. I always thought Harry was black."

  Steve chuckled. "Ah, I think you're right, Bill. He WAS black!"

  "Harry, get up lad. You still owe me $5." Bill continued.

  The row of people gently pushed forward, trying to grab their spot and do some dead gazing themselves. 

  "Let’s move on. Willy Wonka is getting angry". That was a Harry joke. But the priest did give them a stern look, so they moved to the side, took a good look one last time and left.

—

  It was pouring rain now. Funerals are like that. You get wet all over. 

  Four burly men carried Harry on their shoulders. He could see their backs. ‘Mr. Death Squad’ was written on their t-shirts.

  "This is too much."

  "Yeah, I know," Steve said. He tapped his left shoulder. "Do you remember?"

  "No."

  "A lifetime ago, Harry made us promise to carry him. If he went first."

  "Yeah, well, Harry promised to never do heroin again," Bill said. He wasn’t himself now. No jokes. His wife and kid were walking next to him. They haven’t said a word.

  They entered the cemetery. Rows and rows of townsfolk twisting and turning, unable to rest even now. They lowered the black box to the ground. Everyone acted very professional, but this was the most difficult part; they looked like they'd never exhaled in their lives.

  Mary and the kids were like deer in headlights. He swore he saw her mouthing fuck you over and over again. Good for her, at least she's angry.

  The thing was over fast. Too fast. Was it supposed to be that fast? Shouldn’t he be crying? One tear is all I ask, he thought. He tried to force himself, to dig deep for a sweet memory or a sad moment. By the time he remembered Harry painting dicks on his seat in school, the first shovel of dirt was laying on the engraved cross.  

  Steve and Bill and everyone else was leaving. He was alone now, except for Mr. Death. He lit a cigarette, sucking as much life as he could with every drag. "He was a good man," he whispered. "He was my friend, you hear me?" he said louder. No one heard him. So, he cried.

***

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Congratulations, you just read my first (published) short story. Ever.

It feels awkward because I don't know how bad it is. I'd imagine it's at least as bad as I think it is. Edgy, self-indulgent, and whatever self-flagellating remark one should say in these situations.

Having said that, I'm glad I've finally published one. Hopefully it’s at least as good as I think it is.

Comment criticism (constructive or not).

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