Death in the City (9 page)

“Help,” screamed the waiter, rushing over to Sheila’s limp corpse. “Someone must have eaten the salmonella tomatoes again! Someone help!” He tried to dig a shoulder under Sheila’s chest to move her off the table, but gave up.

“Don’t worry,” said a young lanky man with curly brown hair. “My name is Jared, and I’m a nursing major in college.” He rushed over to the table as the rest of the diners looked on with deep interest. With the waiter’s help, Jared got Sheila face-up on the floor. Death looked around nervously for the nearest door.

“We need a doctor, not a nursing major,” said the waiter.

“It’s the same thing,” shouted Jared.

“No it isn’t.”

“Watch, with my help she’ll be good as new,” said Jared. He lifted a fist and pounded it into Sheila’s sternum with a resounding crack. “Oh, might have broken something there.”

Death sidled out the back exit next to the kitchen. He felt alone again, but figured a coffee with Tim could fix that.

A Promotion

Mr. Ancora, the manager of FreePay Brothers Supermarket, sweated heavily beneath his pinstripe suit. He continually clicked a Zippo lighter open and shut in front of his round, grinning face, and routinely licked his hand to run it across his hair. Death wondered with content interest why Mr. Ancora would call him to his office on such a busy Friday morning. “Ah, Donald, is it?” he said.

“Um, Death. No, Derek,” said Death.

“That’s it, that’s it,” said Mr. Ancora. “Have a seat then, Daniel.” He clicked his lighter and stared vaguely at the ceiling as Death sat. “I’ve been hearing all about the great work you’ve done for the produce department here at FreePay Brothers Supermarket.”

“Produce,” Death repeated softly. “But I work in the deli.”

“Daniel,” said Mr. Ancora, standing up and walking around his desk to lean against the front of it. Death sat staring up at the wide man’s triple chin. “We here at FreePay Brothers would like to offer you a promotion to CEO of the company. If you accept, you will see a significant increase in pay and, at the same time, a significant decrease in work. What do you say to that, Dustin?”

“Why?” asked Death.

“Because of all the hard work you’ve been doing.”

“But why…really? Why not Bobby?”

Mr. Ancora’s eyes narrowed. “Because Bobby’s gay.”

“So?”

“Well, it wouldn’t have been a problem if he weren’t open about it, but since he is, you’re the only one left.”

“So you won’t accept him because he told you the truth about something that has nothing to do with the job itself?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

After a few signatures and poorly timed puns to avoid handshakes, Death became the CEO of the Massachusetts branch of FreePay Brothers Supermarkets. He walked past a glaring Al for the last time to turn in his apron.

“So it’s true,” said Bobby. “You’re moving on? Is it true?”

“I guess so,” said Death, setting his rolled up apron on the counter. “Thanks for everything, Bobby, you’ve been a big help.”

“Yeah, well, it was good having you around,” said Bobby. “Now you’re leaving me with Al. I hate that guy.”

“I think he’s pretty funny,” said Death, shrugging. He made a stop at the service booth and walked outside, giving his very last paycheck to the man outside the door. “That’s it,” said Death. “I don’t work here anymore. I’m sorry.”

Death expected the man to be disappointed, but a great smile broke over his face. “Mister,” he said, “I’ve never seen such kindness before in my life. Bless you, mister. Bless you.” And with that he danced across the street, out into a parking lot of a neighboring department store and through the woods behind it, vanishing out of sight.

“Well look at you then,” exclaimed Tim when Death told him the news at the HaffCaff Café. “I knew when I met you that you’d be something. And now here you are, a big CEO. Just remember the little people when you buy that mansion, eh?”

“I doubt I’ll be buying one any time soon,” said Death. “I guess I have a meeting to go to at one o’clock today, in Boston. Something about putting chopsticks in FreePays around the country.”

Tim choked on his coffee a little and looked at his watch. “One o’clock in Boston? You’d better get a move on, pal.” Death looked at his own wrist, which was bare, and thought perhaps he should buy a nice watch himself. As an afterthought, slight panic washed over him.

“How do I even get there?” he asked.

“I guess the train would be your best bet,” he said. “You could take the subway to the train station, then that will take you right to Boston. I bet if you caught the train at 12:10 you could make it with a few minutes to spare. I think the FreePay headquarters is right across the street from North Station. You should make it on time.”

“Oh, okay, that works then.”

“Enjoying the meal, boys?” asked Maria the waitress. Her sweet southern drawl captured Death’s attention.

“Maria, where are you from?” he asked.

“Well, if you must know, Mister Derek,” said Maria, her eyes darting between Death and Tim, “Tennessee.”

“Wow,” said Death. “I love it there. It’s something else.”

“Well I’m glad you like it,” she said, the pitch in her voice an octave higher now. “Anything else I can get for you?”

“No, no thanks,” said Death. Maria’s happy face made him feel comfortable, as though she was an old friend. She giggled and took one last look at them before walking over to another table.

“Watch out for them,” said Tim, leaning over the table. “They work for tips, you know.”

“I think she’s just friendly,” said Death.

“Come on, man, you have to know what people are all about. She’s joking around and smiling because she
wants
something. Not because she thinks you’re good looking.”

“I never thought she thought I was good looking.”

“And you need to know how to react to them, like I do. You need to joke with people. Be more sarcastic. People love that stuff, and at the same time it lets them know that you know what they’re up to. It works both ways.”

“How do I do it?” asked Death.

“Well, the next time a pretty girl says hi to you, you joke around. Call them names. Degrade them. And never, ever tell a girl she’s pretty. In fact, tell her she’s ugly. Women love that.”

“Uh, why?”

“Because they do. Have I led you astray before?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Exactly,” said Tim. “Well, you should really get a move on, buddy.” He pointed out the window and said, “Over by that red circular sign is the subway. You can grab the Green line there.” Death nodded and left.

“Wait, aren’t you going to pay for this?” asked Tim. “Derek? Hey, Derek!” The door clanged behind Death. Tim crossed his arms.

Death descended the stairs of the subway station, sidling along the wall to avoid the clusters of people rushing by him. As he was nearing the platform, a young man wearing a fine looking suit and holding a black leather briefcase (much like the one War bought during his time in the city) lunged down the staircase. Death could not turn fast enough as the man slammed into his shoulder, and before the man could even say “Watch where you’re going,” he was sliding face-down along the floor. He slid so far that he fell onto the subway track, stone dead. “Oh, damn,” muttered Death, arriving at the tracks and looking around. No one noticed what had just happened; they were all too preoccupied with whatever they were doing.

Death observed the scenery around him. He rarely reaped people on the subway system; it was usually too much for him to handle. But here he was, sitting on a bench next to a very old man in a ratty grey hooded sweatshirt who was stirring in a light sleep, waiting for the next train.

The subway station contained some of the most diverse assortments of people Death had ever seen. Elderly people in fedoras and suits; young businessmen; groups of very old, very short Chinese people; running children; an old black man with dark sunglasses strumming a guitar. Death really got a kick out of watching the people, so much that he barely noticed the time pass until the next Green line train arrived.

Death did not tell Tim this, but he honestly had no idea how the train systems worked. But he did figure that if he got on just this train, it would bring him to Boston eventually. He walked onto the subway car, careful to let all the humans on first, and was relieved to see there were not very many people on it. The driver requested he put two dollars into a machine at the front of the car (which he proudly did with his hard-earned money), and he took a seat next to a young woman. She was twenty-five years old at the most and wore a pair of white headphones beneath flowing auburn hair.

“Hi,” she said. She snapped a piece of gum in her mouth, showing he bright white teeth.

“Hi,” said Death. “How are you?”

“I’m doing well,” said the woman. “I’m actually new to the city and I’ve been trying to find my way around. Can you tell me where the supermarket is?”

“Oh, yes, it’s,” began Death, but then he remembered what Tim had told him about conducting himself around people. So he said, “I guess you don’t know because you’re stupid,” and he smiled broadly at his success. Surprisingly, the woman did not return the gesture.

“No, I’m not. I just told you I’m new to Hair.”

“Yeah, I’d say you need a new…hair…cut. That one was pretty good, right?”

The woman removed her headphones as though she were just not hearing Death properly. “You’re being really mean.”

“Perfect,” Death muttered to himself. “Um, that’s a stupid shirt.”

The woman stared at Death, who stared back with a wide grin plastered to his face. “You are kind of insane.”

“No,” said Death. “Just really good at making friends.”

“No, you aren’t,” she said, and tears began flowing down her cheeks. “My mother gave me this shirt. It was the last thing she gave me before she died.”

“Oh, well, uh,” started Death. “I’m…I’m sorry?” She was sobbing now, and everyone in the subway car was looking on, wondering why this old man just berated a random woman to the point of causing her to weep. “Wait, aren’t you…working for tips or…something?”

The train stopped and the woman whimpered as she ran out the door. A man with a large beard and wild grey hair took the seat next to him. Death felt something jabbing his side, and looked down to see the man was holding a gun beneath his jacket. “Give me your wallet and we won’t have a problem,” he said.

“Where’s your tin cup?” asked Death. “I don’t have a wallet but I have seventeen dollars left. I can probably have more next week, if you want.” Death tossed the money onto the man’s lap.

“Uh,” started the man. “Well, yes, okay. Thanks. But I said your wallet. You must have more than that. Give me your wallet and we won’t have any problems.”

Death figured that, even though this new companion was not a woman, he was still asking for money and therefore Tim’s advice still applied. So he said, “I think the only problem is your breath.” And he smiled.

“Uh…what?” asked the man. “I’m telling you to shut up and give me your wallet.”

Then Death remembered that Tim had told him to be sarcastic. “Oh, give you my
wallet
. I could have sworn you said give you a
comb
.”

“Hey, stop that.”

“Or maybe some shampoo,” said Death, thrilled at his newfound people-skills.