Questions & Robbers with Parts 1 and 2 of "The Life of Alfred Death"

Questions and Robbers

Several years ago, some curious students decided to determine the most trustworthy people using only physical characteristics. Not only did their study pinpoint my sex, height and build, along with eye, skin and hair colors, they had the audacity to include curly hair and glasses. They could have just posted my picture with the word “boring” superimposed on my forehead. I mention this so you consider it when I write that I’ve had conversations with agents of the FBI and the Secret Service, and have been questioned by police detectives, undercover cops and my mother. This has led to me to conclude three things. One, my life hasn’t been boring (although, I must confess, I truly do like to consider myself trustworthy). Two, my mother demanding answers was far scarier than being questioned by any official. Three, I loathe being questioned and would no more initiate the “Ask Me Any Question” social media game than I would stand with an apple on my head and yell to a drunken archer, “Go ahead. See if you can hit it!”

Now, most stressful situations don’t make me a quivering lump of goo. I can prove it. Once, a guy came into the print shop where I worked with the intent to rob it. I got mad and told him no – it wasn’t his money. He wasn’t happy, but he left. Another time, on my way to work at the same shop, I came out of a nearby gas station convenience store to discover everyone at the pumps being robbed. I had the change from $20 in my hand but over $1400 in my purse for a nonprofit group that I had offered to deposit. I surreptitiously shifted my purse to my back while simultaneously handing the robber the change from the $20. He never noticed my purse. Trustworthy and fast-thinking – my superpowers defined!

Wait. I have an even better robbery story about the same shop. You do get the idea that it was located in a sketchy part of town, right? Perhaps then you’ll understand that despite the owner’s great height why he also kept a gun in the shop. For a time, he lived there, sleeping (ahem) au naturale in the dark room. One night, a thief broke in. The owner appeared, almost supernaturally, from the blackness of the dark room with his gun aimed at the terrified would-be thief, and he softly said, “Now you’re going to call the police and you’re going to tell them that you tried to rob my business.” The thief nodded mutely and dialed. He found his voice again when the police answered. “I was going to rob this shop but there is a really tall dude with a gun. And he’s naked! You have to save me!” For some reason, it took him awhile to convince the cops that he was serious.

Okay, back to the topic at hand. I have a solution. I could answer questions that were submitted in writing and slipped under my door as long as I could respond in the same format with the option to respond with “no comment.” 

The Life of Alfred Death (Parts 1 and 2) 

Part 1:

As he strode through the night-darkened and chilled halls, Alfred smiled as a young nurse pulled her sweater closer against his presence but he didn’t slow his pace. Still, it was always nice to know he had some effect on their world. Well, beyond the obvious one. He was almost to the designated hospital room when he heard a low, demanding voice.

“Come on, Death. This one has suffered too much. Hurry up!” He took in the scene in a moment. The older, heavyset nurse held a thin, unconscious baby who moved once reactively to pain. He flicked his hand as if tossing off a bug, and then lightly touched the baby’s skull. The baby relaxed before giving up its last breath, corresponding with a deep sigh from the nurse. She stood and carefully laid the baby in its bassinet, arranging the blanket it no longer needed. He paused and just when he thought she wouldn’t speak again, he heard a soft “thank you.” Alfred nodded, as if she could see him, before leaving the room.

He retraced his steps at a much slower pace, not yet feeling the compulsion to take the next dying soul. It was at times like this that he read over unsuspecting shoulders, watched television or just observed.

Loud laughter caught his attention, an unlikely sound this time of the night in the hospital. He paused outside the door for a moment, he then moved through and saw a handful of people talking around crib. For a split moment, no one reacted. Then he noticed they, with the exception of the baby, were dead and in the same moment, they realized he was Death. Perhaps not their Death, but Death all the same. The room silenced. A tall, old woman in a florid orange dress reminding him of the 1960s frowned at him. “No, she is doing better!”

A soldier wearing World War I field gear stepped forward. “Sir, she has a destiny.”

Death sighed internally. “Private, I’ve doing this for over 130 years, and if there is one thing I’ve learned, it is that everyone has a destiny.”

“He doesn’t look over 20!” a youngish man commented. He, too, was dressed in clothes reminiscent of the 1960s.

 He gave them a small smile. “We only age under certain circumstances.”

“What circumstances?” Orange dress asked. He didn’t respond. Honestly, he didn’t know the answer. He had just seen it happen, like to Mary who now looked as if she were in her late 70s, in living years. Instead, he allowed his eyes to narrow slightly and he took a step towards the crib. Most of the group made way for his office, but one older, thin man in a traditional black suit, white shirt, and thin black tie stood his ground, raising a chin slightly.

“I’m just here to look,” Death offered.

The baby lay quietly, just her, restrained by a myriad of tubes and devices. She was probably a year-and-half-old with wispy patches of pale red hair. He wondered for a moment if she was sedated but then he found her hazel eyes focused on him. 

“Her parents work and have three other children. They come when they can,” the older man offered.

Death paused and tilted his head, considering. “You know, you remind me of Gary Cooper. Do you remember him? The actor?” Death asked.

The man’s face lightened. “I’ve been told that before.”

“Mr. Deeds Goes to Town. I must’ve seen that movie 20 times.”

“I saw that once, but it stuck with me. Him and his tuba playing.”

Death nodded. He turned back to the baby and briefly wondered about his own motive in insisting on learning a bit about her. He put his hand out, stopping short of touching her, and felt the tension rise in the room. He glanced at the older man, intending to reassure him, when he felt the baby move into his touch. The full contact brought a flood of images. He quickly pulled back his hand, holding onto the crib to reorient himself.

The baby smiled at him and moved as if to hold out her own hand. He stepped back further. He looked at the older man who’s face reflected confusion.

Orange dress spoke, surprisingly reverently. “She has a destiny with death and not just any death, but this Death. Oh, my!”

Death decided it was time to make his exit. It wasn’t appropriate, given his office, for the others to notice how flustered he felt.

Part 2:

He stood silently, his black over coat unmoving. Immediately in front of him, waves of heat rippled up from the ground in the late summer sun. He wasn’t affected by the temperature, but he didn’t even notice the phenomena as he watched her standing in a shorn field, wearing baggy red shorts, a blue top and sandals. Her hair hadn’t grown much since he first saw her more than two years ago, but it was a darker red and stuck out oddly. She was watching the house intently, or more precisely, watching the people outside the house.

He walked to her side and squatted down next to her, unspeaking.

She gave him a quick look, and as always, he was surprised at how completely she saw him.

“I’m thinking,” she announced, not welcoming the interruption.

“About what?”

“I want to be her. She can be me,” she responded. He looked until he saw another small girl. She was laughing as her father picked her up and set her on his shoulder, her blonde hair curled in ringlets, and he supposed the blue ribbon on her yellow dress matched her eyes.

“Why?”

That earned him an irritated look. “She’s never sick. Aunt Abby tickled me. I puked on her shoes.”

To his credit, he didn’t laugh.

“I can trade us. I just need to think. Hard

She seemed determined, and it wasn’t as if he could blame her for wanting to be the healthy kid. “Your mother has worked very hard to keep you alive, you know. How do you think she’d feel?”

As if to demonstrate his point, her mother wiped the late summer sweat from her forehead, looking tired and overheated even from this distance.

She didn’t respond for a long time but he didn’t prompt her to answer. “She’d be mad,” the girl finally conceded.

“Jess! Come back inside. It is too hot out there for you,” her mother called.

She didn’t answer but she did start to walk slowly toward the house.

She stopped several yards away from him, and turned back.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Alfred, honey. My name is Alfred,” he answered, knowing in the same moment that it was unwise to tell her. He had given her the power to call him, even if she didn’t know it.

She thought for moment, and then nodded, as if the name suited him.

“My name is Jessie Mae,” she offered.

“I know.”

 

Three Free Verse Poems and 2 Short Essays

The Dinosaurs are Stuck

A free verse (albeit rhyming A,A,A,B) poem, intended for children.

The museum door squeaked welcome for those not afraid,
to a room full of dinosaurs, so dark and so grayed.

One step too many and the dinosaurs’ song, it played.

A small girl, tingling with fear, froze.

The dinosaurs were ready to either hunt or be slayed,

she knew those fierce teeth were as sharp as a blade.

“They aren’t real,” claimed Oma, “they are just man-made”

but the girl stood firm in her soldier-still pose.

“They are big, big toys, like those from a fair or arcade,”

Oma even jumped up and down to prove the awful charade.

The dinosaurs came no closer, no, they had not swayed,

but the girl didn’t twitch so much as her clothes.

Oma frowned and worried that the girl was so dismayed,

“Honey, look at their feet,” whispered Oma, soft, unafraid,

“the dinosaurs are stuck.” Their secret was now betrayed.

The girl slowly, slowly peeked at their toes.

Despite their loud and horrible song, in place they’d stayed,

The girl breathed deeply and yelled, her fears allayed,

“The dinosaurs are stuck!” (Her indoor voice was quite mislaid.)

“They can’t bite my face or even my nose!”

Should they leave, Oma wondered, gently tugging at her braid,

but the girl went to a small boy, crouching in a bit of dark shade,

sharing that the dinosaurs were stuck and with that news conveyed,

she stated, “Let’s see where the next hall goes.”

Christoph’s Girl

A poem in free verse form.

In the lightness of youth,

devotion,

lost in passages,

remembered as was.

Yet.

Hearing of

a father’s precious girl,

eyes unseeing

of any path not darkness

lays waste

to time and duty,

abandoned in a maze of sorrow,

dear time-worn boy.

Tia Lucia Bedelia Maria

A poem in free verse form.

She self-describes as colorful, fun and funny,

smart, nice (when she isn’t stressed), a momma’s girl,

sporty, lovable and loving.

She is eight.

She rarely sleeps.

She is more empathetic than most adults.

She has little self-control.

She is the top reader in her class.

She cleans by stuffing everything under her desk.

She loathes combing her hair.

She takes medication that makes her hungry.

She purposefully mismatches her clothes.

She understands great depths.

She requires the patience of a saint.

She threatens to kill herself.

She is eight.

Ah, October! There is a meme about it being the month where having cobwebs is considered decorating, and I’m on board with that. The wreath on my front door is so completely covered in cobwebs that I’m not touching it. I rarely use the front door so it wasn’t a huge surprise when a spider fell from the wreath when my daughter opened it. In fact, I’m sure it was quite comfy before that moment. I thought fast, yelled at her to get rid of it, and slammed the door in her face. Before you judge me as an evil parent, please allow me to explain that spiders don’t bother her in the least. She remains calm and can slay them, ignore them, or set them free, depending on the circumstances. She does not get this from me. I’m sure it is from her dad, a renowned mosquito slayer in his own right. He who was loathe to get out of bed for an earthquake would be up in a flash if there was a mosquito in the house, and he wouldn’t stop until the battle had reached its inevitable conclusion.

In related news, this week I was forced to turn on the furnace. By the cat. He doesn’t understand that I’m leery (okay, fine, I’m afraid) to turn on the furnace. My delay in turning on the magic heat-generating machine meant feline retribution including snagged clothes, an inability to use my lap for the computer (it belongs to him when he is cold), and the infamous corner-claw. This is where he hides behind a corner, waits for me to walk by, and then he claws my ankle.

I conceded defeat and turned on the heat, but let me tell you my story.

Two years ago, on a similar chilly October night, I turned on the furnace for the first time that season and blithely returned to my computer. After a time, I went into my bedroom and there was the biggest black widow I’d ever seen sitting on the corner of my jewelry box. It was so large that I thought it was a plastic toy. For a moment, I thought my daughter had put it there for a joke, and I was mad. Then it moved. I ran for the fly swatter and beat it until it was the thickness of a dime. I considered the remains for a moment, decided it was likely dead, and then continued to beat it until it was the thickness of paper. In fact, if you come over, I can show you the exact place where this horror took place.

I called the furnace repair man, told him of spiders living in he ducts, and he found a spot where the ducting had split just enough for spider incursion. I wanted to move, but he convinced me that it was repaired. I still have visions of flashing lights and neon arrows pointing to a new spider entrance under my house, but it just isn’t feasible for me to move right now.

In other news, I was talking with my cousin about our grandad’s second wife, a lovely woman who always had orange candy circus peanuts in a big jar near the kitchen sink. “Can I give the kid peanuts?” she’d ask my mom. Mom would nod, and off we’d go into the kitchen to eat candy. It was great. (I was ten. Stop laughing at me.) I told my cousin that I have a couple of Grandma’s aprons and would be happy to ship one to her. “Oh no,” she responded. “Thank you, but I’m not sentimental.” You would think someone had put a dump truck load of boulders in my mental path. What does that mean? Is she not sentimental emotionally or does she does not collect items of sentiment? I think I understand the latter. I’m not that person, but like to think I can expand my brain to encompass that reality.

Well, or perhaps not.

I need to throw out my old comforter. After his 1980s blue, cotton, calico print was long out of style, Blankie (I didn’t name him) spent his days in the closet but his nights with me, a faux body pillow, malleable to any shape. He has been there for me in sickness and health. He is also the cat’s favorite blanket for kneading. And he simply cannot withstand another washing. There is nothing left to stitch to keep his few remaining clumps of stuffing inside. There. I admitted it.

Last night, I used the comforter from the guest bed while Blankie sat in a sad clump in the corner. Today, I will put him in the trash. Or tomorrow. Today, he can sit in the guest room, enjoying the autumn sunlight. Or I could spray him with Febreeze and stick him in a blanket bag. In the spring, if I haven’t needed him, I can put him in the trash. Or I might, might, be able hand wash him enough to use him as part of a new comforter. He could live again!

Wait. I just failed the “not sentimental” test, didn’t I?