Death in the City (4 page)

“Wait, did I hear someone say they wanted a job?” said a voice from behind Death. He turned around to see a very tall and bulky man walking towards him. “You, did you need a job?” he sounded stressed, but his voice was bright and effeminate.

“Yes,” said Death. “I need a job, a man told me to get one. Are you hiring?”

“Well we are busy as all hell and we need as much help as we can get right now,” said the man, waving his hand towards Death. “Can you start right now?”

“Well, I guess,” said Death. “But don’t you want to…you know, ask me random questions about stuff? Like how much experience I have?”

“Sure, how much experience do you have?” asked the man.

“None, I guess,” said Death, shrugging.

“Okay, you’re hired,” said the man. “My name is Bobby Carter and I’m the deli manager here. Follow me, come get your apron and we’ll get to work.”

Bobby Carter led Death to the back of the store, where the deli was located. A big glass case with a variety of meats and cheeses was almost entirely obscured by a large group of shoppers shoving each other about, shouting out their orders. A lone man, very old and tired looking, stood behind the counter cutting meats slowly and precisely as the crowd raged behind him.

“Hey, Al, you want to pick up the pace a little? These people are waiting,
hello
,” said Bobby. The man named Al turned to Bobby and gave him a deadly cold stare, which Bobby did not seem to notice. “Well, Al, this is our new employee. His name is…wait, what is it?”

“Death,” said Death.

“Excuse me?” asked Bobby.

“Uh, that is, Derek,” said Death.

“Oh, alright, this is Derek then. Al, why don’t you show Derek how to do everything around here?”

“How you doing?” asked Al as Bobby walked through the back door of the deli. He cast a look of unswerving petulance over his hooked nose and thick glasses. “First thing is, you need to put on some of these latex gloves. You change them whenever feels right for you when you’re handling meats, but you absolutely must change them when going from the fish case to the meat case. Get it?”

“Yeah,” said Death. Bobby returned with an apron and hat and handed them to Death, who hurriedly put them on over his suit.

“There you go, new employee,” said Bobby, who then turned to Al and said sharply, “Hello, Al, anyone home? You have customers waiting on you.” He pointed to the group of people shoving and fighting to get to the front of the counter. Bobby left and Al acted like he had not heard him.

“These machines, they’re beautiful,” said Al, running his fingers along the base of one of three silver deli slicers behind the counter. “I’ve been working in delis ever since I got out of the army. Nothing is quite like the feel of a freshly cleaned slicer, of the meat running along the blade, of turkey zest spraying gently in one’s face.” He had his eyes closed and was being positively poetic, almost sensual. Death grew uncomfortable. The crowd raged behind them, louder than ever.

“How do I use it?” asked Death, trying to get the same appreciation for the machine that Al had shown.

“Well, why don’t you try it?” asked Al eagerly, retrieving a turkey from the glass case and setting it gently on the slicer. “Just turn this dial to get the right thickness, and press this button to get it spinning.” He was indicating the steps quickly and Death struggled to keep up. “Grab hold of this handle here and slice away. Then gently put it on this piece of wax paper.” He took a square piece of plastic from one of many bright yellow boxes and set it down on the base of the slicer. “Try it out,” he said, smiling and gesturing to the meat. Death noticed that Al was dripping in sweat.

Death found slicing the turkey to not only be easy, but fairly fun. Al clapped in enjoyment at the sight of his new trainee. “Wonderful, bravo,” he said. “Now you need to set it on the scale.” He set the meat down on one of four digital scales and pointed to a sign that was taped to the door of the glass case. “Each meat and cheese has its own code. They’re posted here, but you’ll memorize them soon enough. This is Thin ‘n Trim Roasted Turkey, 706.” He punched in the code on the scale and a sticker printed out with the price and weight. “Bag it, sticker it, and hand it to the customer.” He held the bag of turkey out to a skinny old man who looked disgusted.

“I didn’t order that, idiot,” said the man. “I ordered Krakus Ham.”

“Aha,” shouted Al. “Very sorry sir.” He leaned in to Death and covered his mouth to whisper, “Now we can eat this one.” Death nodded and laughed as Al went for the ham.

“Well, I think Al could learn a thing or two from you,” said Bobby, who had been watching from the doorway. Al stopped slicing and looked at Bobby, then Death. His face showed a powerful glimpse of heartbrokenness, then he was utterly seething. Bobby walked out the back door again.

“He seems nice,” said Death. He looked at Al, who was still frozen as the blade of the slicer spun menacingly. He was a horrifying shade of red, his jowls jiggling in rage, his eyes wide with disgust. “Al? Al? Is something wrong?” Al did not answer, but went back to cutting the meat. When he was finished, he leaned against the counter with arms crossed and let Death take care of the rest of the customers under his awful glare. Death felt so uncomfortable that he could not even bring himself to speak.

“Oh, don’t mind him,” said Bobby hours later as Al removed his apron and power-walked out the front door of the supermarket. “Look, I want to thank you for your help. Here’s fifty dollars just for today. You aren’t in the computers yet so today won’t be on your next paycheck, but you would have probably made a little less than this anyways.” He held out a fifty dollar bill, which Death took and pocketed.

“Wow, thanks a lot,” said Death, smiling.

“Good to have you on board, Derek. Get a good night’s rest. I’ll see you tomorrow at nine o’clock in the morning. Next week you’ll be able to pick up your check at the customer service booth. You can cash them there, too.” He left out the same front door Al had sulked his way out of. Death followed soon after.

The man was still outside, asking whoever passed for money. Death took the fifty out of his pocket and slipped it into his tin cup. “There you go, I should have more next week,” said Death, and he walked off as the man watched him leave in stunned silence.

For the next week, every time Death passed the man, they nodded at each other as though they were old friends. When Friday rolled around and Death retrieved his first paycheck ($179), he walked out of the store and plopped it in the man’s cup without hesitation. The man still had no idea what to say, and could only laugh with happiness.

Death Goes Speed Dating

U.S. IMPLEMENTS “KILL EVERYONE” TECHNIQUE

Damascus, Syria – Three weeks after the United States declared war in Syria, not a single casualty has occurred. The anomaly has officials worried.

“You can’t have a war where no one is dying,” General Patrick Brand, commander of the International Security Assistance Force (ISAF), said. “It makes no friggen sense.”

The ISAF decided to implement what it calls the “Kill Everyone” technique. “The technique involves leading our troops into a land combat with the enemy and hitting the entire area with a napalm strike,” Brand said.

“Yeah, that will probably work pretty well,” President Obama tweeted to the Associated Press last night.

“The groundbreaking technique should lead to some deaths, which we can only hope will lead us to a win,” Brand said.

When asked how killing our own troops would lead to winning a war, Brand shrugged and muttered something about having his head waxed.

“You know, Derek, my girls are good for lonely men,” said Tim. He was sitting at the usual table with Death, having the usual coffee and sandwich for lunch. “But I feel like you deserve a nice girl. Have you ever been in a relationship?”

“With a lady?” asked Death. “No, I guess not.”

“I really think you should go out there and find one. I’m sure you want a woman to make you feel good about yourself,” said Tim.

“But I don’t,” said Death. “Not particularly.”

“There’s this place down on Parakeet Street that does what’s called speed dating every Thursday evening. Have you heard of it?” Death shook his head and sighed. Thim continued, “Since today is Thursday, why don’t you try it tonight? I hear it’s really something else.”

“Sure,” said Death, who did not, as usual, have any plans in particular. He figured if his friend Tim talked highly of it, it had to be fun.

“All you need to know when it comes to women is what to talk to them about. What kind of interests do you have? What do you think they’d like to know?”

“I could talk about car accidents,” said Death thoughtfully, not noticing Tim’s horrified expression. “Or when people jump off bridges. Or I could talk about my friend War. Or even Satan, he’s a pretty fun guy.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” said Tim, choking on his coffee and waving his hands in the air. “Uh, Derek, buddy, you can’t talk about crap like that. And you wonder why you’ve never had a relationship before?”

“I’ve never wondered that,” said Death matter-of-factly.

Tim took a napkin from his plate and retrieved a pen from his jacket pocket. “I’m going to write up a list for you, of things you can talk to women about. It doesn’t have to be much, just a few starter points. You can take it from there, as long as you don’t start talking about…you know…car crashes and stuff.” He scrawled quickly on the napkin, taking little time to ponder his decisions, and handed the paper to Death proudly. The list read:

-Bourbon whisky

-The second amendment

-The post-apocalyptic world

-Overtaxing on tobacco and alcohol

-Led Zeppelin

-The disadvantages of big government

-Chewing gum

-Bean versus onion dip

-The Boston Red Sox

-Football

-Cowboy boots

-The Food Network

-Texas Hold ‘Em versus five card poker

-Ankle-highs versus knee-highs

-Puppies

“You know, just basic stuff,” said Tim. “Girls are simple creatures. Easily amused. Not much going for them.” As Death marveled at Tim’s vast knowledge of the human race, the two friends looked up to see Maria the new waitress looking at them, disgusted. Tim winked at her and she threw a single finger in the air and walked off. Tim turned back to Death and said, “See? Easy.”

“Wow, thanks,” said Death.

“Yeah, no problem. So, you’re getting this meal, right?” Tim squinted his eyes and gave Death a thin-lipped smile.

“Uh, what?” asked Death. “You…you want me to pay for this?”

“Yeah, you have a job now, don’t you? They’ve been giving you money, haven’t they?”

“Oh, yeah, sure,” said Death. “And money, that’s how…uh, that’s how I get a meal for us?”

Tim placed his palm on his forehead and closed his eyes. “You don’t have any money on you, do you?” he asked quietly.

“No,” said Death, looking at the table.

“Okay, listen,” said Tim, opening his eyes. “I’ll get this one. But you need to cash your check and bring the money here, so you can pay for the meal you owe me. Okay?”

“Yes, sure,” said Death, nodding. Tim tossed a few bills on the table and sighed.

Hours later, Tim and Death were parked outside a brick building on Parakeet Street. “Good luck, buddy,” he said. “With your good looks, you’ll knock them dead.”

The function hall was full of men in brightly colored polo shirts and women in short skirts. Static emitted from a PA system and reverberated across the brick walls, punctuated by announcements such as, “Only give out personal information if you are legitimately interested in the person to whom you are giving it,” and, “Beverages and snacks are available in the lobby,” and, “Colton Cassanelli, you left a box full of contraceptives at table number five, please pick them up at reception.”

Upon entering, Death made his way into the group of men, who seemed to be purposefully sequestered from the group of women. One of them, a hulking man with spiked blonde hair and rippling arm muscles, dug into a box of ice and pulled out a beer.

“Heineken,” said the man as Death took the bottle and undid the cap. “My favorite.”

Death took only a small sip before spitting the bitter liquid on the ground. “Dear Lord, that is horrible,” he said, wiping his mouth.

“Yeah, isn’t it good?” asked the man, chugging half of his own bottle. Death took another few painful sips and the crowd went silent when a man in a beige suit and an off-kilter wig blew a whistle.

“Hello, everyone, and welcome to our weekly Parakeet Street Speed-Date-Off. I’ll be your host, Edgar.” The crowd whooped and applauded, and Death joined in. “We’re going to get started in just a few minutes here. I want everyone to get to a table and meet up with a member of the opposite sex. I’ll give you five minutes with each person, then it’s off to the next table. We’re going to get in a circle here, so if we could just have each male go to the table to their right, we should be able to work this out. So go on, everyone get to a table.” People scrambled all around for their seats. Death found the very last one available, across from a woman with heavy black eye makeup and a somber expression. Death smiled at her, a gesture she did not return. “Okay, boys and girls,” said Edgar. “On my whistle…and…go!” A shrill screech, and Death was officially on his first date ever.