The Not-So-Grim Reaper

END OF DAZE

1 END OF DAZE

The time I died sucked. Well, any death would, but this one sucked way more than anyone else’s. I’d always imagined I would croak saving an overweight orphan from a burning building, or lying deep in Scarlett Johansson’s beautiful bosom after I’d dived in front of her and taken a bullet to the chest. But not like this. What kind of a fool slips on a crushed soda can, does the tango in thin air then smashes his skull into the blunt corner of the receptionist’s desk? Worst. Death. Ever.

I lay there. Numb from my head to my feet. In total darkness. Deader than creativity in the music industry.

“Yowzer! That looks like it stung,” a guy commented.

Was this voice in my head?

“No, Claudio, I’m not a voice in your head,” he said. “I’ve a far manlier voice than you.” He chuckled madly at his own unfunny joke.

I panicked, as much as a corpse could. “How do you know my name?”

“You’re worried about how I know your name and not about how I know what you’re thinking? Sheesh, buddy, no wonder you’re lying where you are right now.”

What a nasty thing to say to someone.

“You’re right. I do apologise for such an inconsiderate remark.”

“It’s okay.” No point holding a grudge when you’re dead, right?

“That blow does look really bad, though. Have you ever seen Terminator 2?”

“Yes.” I mean, who hasn’t?

“Your head looks exactly like the T-1000’s after it was shot with a shotgun. You know, curved like a car’s bumper and the odd hole or two. It looks cool, though, in a gruesome sort of way.”

The vivid imagery did nothing for my dwindling self-confidence. “Can we please stop talking about my head?”

“Oh yeah, sure. Sorry.” The silence didn’t last too long, though. “So, where were you going before”—he paused—“this happened?”

This guy spoke a lot. Too much. “I thought you could read my mind.”

“I can, but you aren’t exactly being forthcoming with information, so I thought I’d ask before prodding around inside there.”

I mumbled, “I was on the way to a job interview and I slipped. Cracked my skull on the receptionist’s desk, as you’ve so eloquently pointed out.”

“Wow, that’s rough, dude. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of anyone dying like this. I mean, people die in car accidents or get flattened by trucks while walking across the street, but like this? Rough!”

I wished he’d stop talking. It didn’t make me feel any better.

“This is probably the lamest thing to happen to anyone, ever,” he prattled on. “Like the worst luck in the world… No, make that the universe.”

“Look, if you don’t mind, I’m trying to embrace death now.”

“But that’s not how it works, Claudio.”

How would he know?

“Just open your eyes.”

Our conversation hadn’t made any sense up until now, so I figured I’d have nothing to lose if I did what he said. At the very least, it would be a laugh for the both of us if an eyeball popped out. That would’ve made my death slightly more memorable and less sucky.

Unfortunately, no laughs or eye pops occurred, yet I did see the light (the building’s skylight, not the other one). Eight or nine people surrounded me. The concerned faces circled me like a herd of border collies, but one cloaked figure, in particular, remained out of focus. Hazy. I fixed my dazed gaze until I could make out who, or what, it was. His skeletal hand waved a scythe, excitedly.

“What? Is this some kind of prank?” I asked.

He gnashed his milk-white teeth at me.

“Jeepers creepers! The grim reaper!” I blurted.

He shook his head. “Nah, dude. Not the grim reaper, a grim reaper. But you can call me Gee.”

Like a hairless cat on its back, I flailed my arms wildly while emitting a strange gurgling noise akin to the same sound I made when forced to eat my grandmother’s boiled steak, yet, no one budged an inch nor attempted to help me out of the predicament. They only remained frozen in their statuesque stares, like clothing store dummies. Why weren’t they helping? Didn’t they see the scythe looming above me?

“Why are you screaming?” he asked me, as he leaned on his scythe, looking quite comfortable despite the sharp point poking into his side.

“Holy whiskers! I’m dead and you’re the Angel of Death!” I replied.

He shot me a disapproving glare. “So? I thought you’d already established that you’re dead. Do I really make a difference?”

He made a good point. “Fair enough,” I said, looking around at the faces still glued to me. “Now what? Is this purgatory or something?”

“Purgawhat? No, man, you’re just suspended in time. When you get to your feet, I’ll accompany you to the offices and then the suits there will send you off to your final destination.”

The unpaid traffic fines. The late rent. The terabytes of illegal music, movies, TV series and “other” material. The copying of maths homework in high school. The gravity of the situation finally dawned on me. “Am I going to Hell?” I asked.

“I can’t say,” he said.

“Come on!”

“Sorry, man.”

“Not even a hint?”

“No can do, C-dog.” Witnessing my obvious disappointment, he added, “You seem like a decent dude, so I’ll put in a good word for you, though.”

I feared the worst. First thing I did was sniff the air, to see if it’s true what they say about what happens when you die—well, let’s say my pants were no longer useable. Sitting up, I cautiously lifted myself and avoided bashing heads with my captivated audience, mostly for their own safety, since it was too late for me. I rubbed my head, feeling the newborn groove and oozy brain matter squirming around on my fingers. I didn’t know whether to flick it off or put it back in, so I wiped it on my soiled pants instead. I whimpered a little bit when I realised what I’d actually done. At this point, my dignity was non-existent.

The crushed soda can stared up at me. Diet Coke. It wasn’t even the good stuff that had killed me, but the “healthier” version. Go figure. When I looked over at the receptionist’s overflowing dustbin and the empty brown Nando’s bag, I put two and two together and understood where the can had come from. Sadly, cleanliness wasn’t high on this company’s priority list.

Gee whistled as he swung his scythe around, showing off his really bad martial arts moves. He did look nimble on his feet, though, even if his exterior shouted for a double hamburger and fries. “So, how important was this job for you? Did you really want it?” he asked.

“I guess.” The small talk calmed my nerves, if they were even still there. “I’ve been looking for work for about six months now.”

He stopped the tomfoolery. “What did you do before?”

“I used to work in advertising. Then I left.”

“Why’d you leave?”

“Because I worked in advertising.”

“Oh, I get you.” He guffawed loudly. “That’s a good one. I must remember that.”

I poked at the groove in my head again. “Yeah, at least at this place I would’ve been able to have pension, medical aid and decent working hours.”

He casually flipped through the book at reception. “What do they even do here?”

“Text for greeting cards.”

“Oh,” he said, uncomfortably. “That’s”—he paused, undoubtedly trying to think of the right condescending word—“cool.”

“It would’ve been a great gig,” I said. Oh, who was I trying to convince?

“Sure.” Even the Harbinger of Sorrow saw me as the saddest creature he’d ever seen. Eff my life.

Gee tapped his fingers on the desk and shifted his eyes away from mine.

“Claude. May I call you Claude? Heck, I’m going to anyway,” Gee said. “Claude, you seem like a really good guy, and I think life didn’t give you lemons, it threw you a soda can.” He waved away my raised hand. “Yeah, I know about it. I dug around in your head to find out the whole story since you weren’t being too forthcoming with information. So what? Sue me.”

His revelation slightly violated me.

“But look, I think everyone deserves a break once in a while, so I’ll tell you what.” He leaned in and whispered, “I’m going to do you a solid and overlook your death.”

My question was, how did one simply overlook death? As far as I knew, it was, uh, pretty everlasting, like damning photographic proof of a mullet hairstyle. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but how does that work?”

“I just won’t report it. I’ll say it was a false alarm and you lived.” He made a silly gesture of locking and throwing away the key. It looked even stranger since his face had a permanent toothy grin.

“What about my head”—I pointed to the gushing wound—“and my…deadness?”

“Come here.” Gee raised his bony fingers towards me, and I flinched. “Relax. I’m not going to baptise you.” Reluctantly, I approached him and let him lay his hand on my head. As his fingers touched my temples, I didn’t feel any coldness from them, and his hand actually smelled like the lovely lavender hand wash I had at home. He incanted some gibberish and the light brightened to a burning point where I had to shut my eyes tightly.

When I reopened them, I found myself still in the reception area. However, the zombie people had been reanimated, whisking past and rudely bumping into me as I stared at the blasted soda can on the carpeted floor.

“Hurry up or you’ll be late,” Gee said.

I looked over my shoulder. The people were so preoccupied with their comings and goings they didn’t even notice the skull-faced fellow standing among them.

That wasn’t my primary concern, though. In fact, I didn’t even know which question to ask first. So, I squeezed my hands into fists, as hard as I could and until my nails sank into my palms. It hurt. It really hurt, as if I were…alive.

“I’ve transported you to exactly four seconds before you died. So don’t do anything stupid now,” he said, side-eying my nemesis, the Diet Coke can, on the floor.

I touched my head. It was as smooth as the delicious full cream yogurt I could never afford. The ooze and the fissure gone, as if nothing had ever happened. I was me again, and not the T-1000’s stunt double. A lump formed in my throat, affording me a moment to take stock of it all. I didn’t know what to say. This was really my second chance. With cloudy eyes, I mouthed to my saviour, “Thank you, Gee.”

He shrugged off the thank you. “It’s nothing. Now go in there and knock them dead, kid, but not too dead!”

Reenergised, reawakened and reborn, I marched to the receptionist’s desk with a clear purpose, carefully avoiding the crushed can this time round. I would make this godsend count. I would turn my life around. I would become all I was meant to be, since I first came into the world, pooping and screaming (but mostly pooping).

“Oh, just one more thing,” Gee interrupted my period of self-motivation, “please don’t tell anyone about all of this, okay?”