A DAY IN THE LIFE OF DEATH

(OR LIFE IN THE DAY OF A DEATH)

Jerry D. Vergeront

Death looked over at Norman Finkelstein. A heart attack, death thought, I'm sure that's what I read in this morning's obituaries. Norman rolled over to his side, sleeping in his own bed, peaceful, except for the nightmare that forced a loud, tired scream from his lips. Or was it his brain tumor? Death couldn't remember and this was bad. He was already in trouble for having the Smithberg kid die from his mother's old potato salad instead of from the farm accident. The board told him one more screw up and he was to turn in his scythe and black cloak. Without the death job, he would end up spending the better part of eternity sweeping purgatory.

Death looked at his wristwatch. He had to make a decision, and soon, for 2:36 in the morning was coming up fast. Well, maybe not fast. He still had 23 minutes left.

22 minutes later, death finally decided that Norman's death style was a heart attack. His decision was mostly based upon careful intuition and partly because Norman was sitting bolt upright in bed clutching his chest.

Death reached out to take Norman, giving him just enough time to call 911, kick the dog one last time, and finally convince his wife that he actually was having a heart attack and not just experiencing gas bubbles from bad pepperoni. As death touched Norman, the energy from the experience of dying coursed through death, changing him into the image expected by Norman.

Death looked down to see what Norman was expecting. A three piece plaid polyester leisure suit, with shiny black shoes and an orange tie that was way too wide for any normal man. At first death was relieved. At least it's not that Angel-of-Mercy bit, death thought. It always bothered him to look down and see himself with a flimsy dress and a pair of boobs. Then it dawned on him. He shuddered as images of Edsels, Yugos, and commissions crossed his mind.

"Who are you?" Norman asked death.

"My name is Ralph Flingermeist, I am death, and I've come for you." It was the standard line, complete with a 'fill-in-your-name-here space,' required to be said by all deaths. "And have I got a deal for you." Death stopped, stunned by the words forming in his mouth. He closed his eyelids and rolled his eyes underneath. Great, he thought, Norm here is expecting some kind of used car salesman. Apparently he wants to barter for his death. Why couldn't he expect the traditional black cloak and scythe bit and come easily? Death opened his eyes, straightened his toupee, licked his greasy moustache, cleared his throat, and with an acute drawl similar to T.V. evangelists said, "Norm, may I call you Norm? Death is a once-in-a-lifetime experience. And you are going to love it. Death runs like a dream. Why, this could be the last death you'll ever need. All I'm asking for this experience is your soul and everlasting servitude."

Norman paused and thought a moment, more theatrics involved than real thought. "I don't know," he said. "The price is pretty steep; after all, you do have my life as a trade-in."

Death reached in to the side pocket of his polyester jacket and found a business card and a pen that barely worked. On the back of the card, he wrote down 'NEW DEATH. LIFE TRADE-IN.' "I don't know, I'm going to have to check this out with my supervisor. Why don't you wait in the living room while I check?" Death wanted Norman to wait outside of the bedroom because he knew that the paramedics would be arriving soon to work on the body, and it wouldn't be a good idea for Norman to watch his own heart massage.

After leaving Norman in the living room, death went into the kitchen. I hate these role-playing episodes, Norman thought. The light at the end of the tunnel bit is always a crowd pleaser, why couldn't he have opted for that?

Death re-entered the living room without talking to anybody but himself. "All right, my boss has evaluated your life trade-in. You didn't have that great of a life, but we're willing to take it off of your hands. In return we'll knock off some servitude time. So how about," death paused to do some scribbling on the back of the business card, "death for your soul and servitude only on the weekends."

"I'm sorry," Norman said, "but I can't make those weekly payments. Listen I've got my soul in hand, no credit. Does that change anything?"

Death paused and scribbled more words on the back of this card, making a big scene with plenty of Hmmmmmm's and mmm-mmm-mmm's. "Okay, I know I'm going to get in big trouble for this, but you seem like a good guy. I'm willing to let you have death for only your soul. How does that sound?"

Norman nodded in agreement and smiled one of those I-beat-the-salesman smiles.

"Good," death said, smiling one of those plastic at-least-I-still-get-a-commission smiles. "What religion are you?"

"Jewish."

Death shuddered, he hated going to the Jewish section of afterlife. The gates were guarded by two of the burliest angels around and the old keeper of the gates was always accusing the new people that they weren't deserving of entering. But the worse part was that any death going up there was given a tongue-lashing for being a gentile. Why couldn't Norman believe in Valhalla? Death lamented to himself. I wouldn't mind seeing those Viking chicks with the horned helmets and the big metal chest plates again.

Death took Norman by the back of his pajamas and felt energy course through both of their bodies. They were transferred directly to Jewish heaven. Immediately upon arrival, the gatekeeper brought up the time when Norman was 12 and stole some baseball cards, then turned his attention to death and shouted something about being a goy. Death left in a hurry.

Once out of earshot of the gatekeeper, death looked down to make sure that his clothes changed into the black robe and that the toupee was gone. They were, and he was happy again. At least he was happy until he looked at the next person on his list: Lugosi Schemlitzelin.

Death remembered reading this guy's obituary write-up this morning. In fact, this write up almost made him choke on his bagel. He was hoping that Morty Shoemaster would be the death in charge of Lugosi, but no such luck, Ralph got this guy.

What shook death up so badly was not the way he would die, for that was easy; a ruptured kidney, a punctured lung, a failing appendix, and trauma to the brain caused by a Doberman attack. No, this guy would die nicely. It was the fact that Lugosi was an existential atheist that scared the life out of death. Not only would the guy not have a niche in the afterlife, he would have to be convinced that he was actually having an afterlife. Death hated bringing these guys to afterlife. In fact, the only people he disliked more than the existential atheists were the suicide cases. Now those nuts were depressing. They always expected some form of surreal, poetic death to take them, then for some reason they always had a medley from 'The Smiths' being played in the background.

Death sighed, then let himself be transported to the St. Richard's Mercy Hospital of the Everbleeding Souls of Eternal Rapture. There, in the emergency room, was Lugosi. He was being worked on by half a score of doctors and nurses.

Looking around the hospital, Ralph saw other deaths working the hospital, waiting to take other patients. One death was standing beside a middle aged man with an arrow through his chest. The death was hideous; his face was elongated with sharp teeth sticking out of his mouth. Saliva was dripping off of his chin, onto scaly body armor. His claw-like hands held a 7 foot battle axe covered with blood. He looked over at Ralph and waved, "Hiya Ralph, sorry to hear that you got the Schemlitzelin case." Ralph nodded thanks, but continued to look at the other death's appearance. "Oh, the axe," the other death said after noticing Ralph's gaze, "another Steven King fan."

Death turned his attention from the axe-wielding scene starting up and looked back at the Lugosi table. One doctor was shouting above the rest. "His interial atriatic fibrical nerve is failing. Pump more corticytozine into him, and for God's sake, perform a credit check before we go any further."

The medical team crowded around Lugosi, making it hard for death to see what was going on. All he could do was listen to the team.

"This guy's in bad shape, low heart rate, low blood pressure, and Nurse Merriweatherby just told me that he belongs to an HMO."

A panicked voice cut in over the din, "No Doctor! Don't cut him there! He's an organ donor; we could use that gall bladder in tact."

Death looked down at his watch. It was almost time. Just think, death thought, 30 minutes ago Lugosi was jogging past Groveland's Dog Emporium when the Doberman broke out. And now, in less than 5 minutes, he'll be just 3 1/2 miles outside of doggie heaven.

"We're losing him, doc. I can't keep him stabilized."

Death tried to get through the crowd to get to Lugosi, but the amount of people kept him away. Death didn't want to hover above Lugosi, because that required him to expend more energy than he cared for. After all, a bagel and some eggs barely give you enough energy to walk through walls.

Time was getting close. Death had to act quickly. Sidestepping a doctor, he made his way closer to the emergency room table. There was no way of getting a clear path to the table. Death looked for any opening by the table. He spotted a small one next to a hearty nurse. Death stepped into the opening, lightly brushing the nurse as he did. The scalpel she was holding slipped from her hands and slashed horizontally across her right wrist. The nurse, hardened by years of work in the emergency room reacted with all the poise of her station. She took in a deep breath, opened her mouth, and let loose a wail that was louder than any other patient in the hospital. Even the guy with the chainsaw through his thigh stood up to see what the commotion was about.

Death ignored the nurse; he knew she'd be all right. After all, brushes with death were common, and hardly ever killed anybody. Instead, death turned his attention to Lugosi. It was time. Death looked down at his clothes, but nothing had changed, Lugosi did not expect anything from death.

Death reached down and grabbed Lugosi by the back of his shirt. He had stopped grabbing people by the front of the shirt after that sexual harassment lawsuit, and grabbing people by the hand was also not a good idea. People tend to grab back, and after two broken fingers, death realized that grabbing clothing was best.

Lugosi ignored death at first, and instead looked at his own body lying on a surgical table next to the team of doctors who were busy helping a nurse with nice legs and a slashed wrist. "Whoa," Lugosi said to himself, "an out of the body experience. I can't wait to tell my friends about this. Cool."

"My name is Ralph Flingermeist, I am death, and I've come for you."

"You're who?" Lugosi asked incredulously.

"I'm Ralph Flingermeist. I'm death. Well, actually a death. You see there are many deaths, I am one of them, and I've come to take you. You are dead."

"No way. I'm only having an out of the body experience. As one of the greatest philosophers of my, our time said, 'Death is a state of non-being. That which is not, does not exist. Therefore death does not exist.'"

Death thought about that a moment "Which philosopher said that?"

"Woody Allen. So, since death doesn't exist, I'm obviously having an out of the body experience."

"Listen, Lugosi, look-"

"Call me Legs."

"Legs, look at your body. Look at your heart monitor, its flat. Look at the orderlies rifling through your wallet. You're dead, man."

"Listen, bub, this must-"

"Call me Ralph."

"Listen Ralph, this must be one of those near death episodes, 'cause if I were really dead, there would be nothing. All would be blackness and solitude."

Ralph was prepared for the comment. "Legs, you described death as 'blackness and solitude.' Since you were able to describe it, then it has to be something, for you can't place a word-label on a non-entity." Ralph paused from the company's standard existential argument just long enough for his words to confuse Lugosi. "Thus, since you are wrong about death being nothing, then what makes you so sure about the blackness and solitude part? Face it, you're dead."

Lugosi paused and thought about this, and finally came to the realization that he was dead. Not because of Ralph's argument, but by watching the organ donor people take out all of the organs he donated, plus a few that they figured he wouldn't miss.

"Okay," Lugosi said, "I'm dead. But, I've got a question." Lugosi paused for dramatic effect. "If I'm dead, can I still be an existentialist?"

"No. Now let's go."

Lugosi didn't ask any more questions but followed death, still trying to figure out a way that he could be non-existent and still be in an afterlife. Finally, Lugosi quit trying to figure out his mid-death crisis, and instead, questioned death about the situation he now faced.

"Ralph, I'm hungry, can we get a McDeath burger or whatever it is you eat around here?"

"In a moment we'll be transported to afterlife. From there you'll be assigned a duty sponsor, and afterwards, your sponsor will take you to the cafeteria to grab a bite to eat."

"What about heaven, man? What about that place where everybody hangs around and plays a harp and keeps the bird poop off of their wings?"

Sorry, Legs, heaven's for people who had a belief during life. You are an atheist, you had no beliefs." The transport to the afterlife started, the energy surprised Lugosi, but death, a seasoned veteran, took it with only mild hyperventilation.

Death was a little surprised. Instead of finding himself in front of the in-processing window, death found himself in front of his boss's office with Legs by his side. Death caught himself thinking about the nurse and getting nervous. Did I screw up? What was it this time? Why would Mr. Pendlebranth want to talk to me?

The huge door squealed on its hinges and opened by itself, with a little help from Darvin Kaslowinski, Mr. Pendlebranth's assistant. The interior of the office was long and bare. The walls were not unlike oak, except that they were white and perfectly smooth. At the end of the room sat a huge desk with a huge nameplate that read 'R.W.J.K. PENDLEBRANTH-DEATH COORDINATOR'. Behind the huge desk was a huge chair with a man sitting in it. Actually, the man was standing in it; for Mr. Pendlebranth was roughly 3 feet 4-1/2 inches tall (give or take a quarter of an inch).

"Ralph," the voice boomed in a small, tinny way, "I'd like you to meet your new partner, Lugosi. He's a new death trainee and you're his sponsor, assigned to teach him everything you know. Wait; let me back up, you're assigned to teach him everything you know that is correct. Now, take him to initial issue and have him pick up a black cloak and a scythe."

Death and Lugosi left the office. Lugosi was looking at death like he did all former teachers, with a look of pride and confusion. Death took the new recruit with professional grace, unless you consider the string of profanities he was declaring as negative.

"Listen," death said to Lugosi, "I don't like new trainees. They take up way too much time, ask too many stupid questions, and tend to spoil days at the beach. So, for us to get along don't ask me any stupid questions. Just listen to what I have to say, and try to keep up."

"Sure thing, Ralph. I only have two questions. First, where's the cafeteria you mentioned earlier? And, second, since trying to figure out the reason for life is moot, what's the reason for dying?"