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.”
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