Only Two Things in Life are Certain
BANG! BANG! BANG! “Who’d be knocking at 3 in the morning on a weekday?” I thought to myself as I tried to drown out the noise. I had to go work in four hours and was NOT ready to get out of my comfy bed. BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! “Alright, alright, jeez!” I threw on some old clothes as I slid out of bed and walked down the stairs, ready to give whoever was at my front door a piece of my mind.
“What do you want?” I asked, still half-asleep, my vision blurred. “If you’re trying to sell me a timeshare or your faith, come back later.” No response. “Hey, don’t waste my time bro! I said what do you want?!” I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes completely to see a dark robed figure standing before me.
He was at least seven or eight feet tall, much taller than a dwarf like me could ever hope to be; I’m pretty sure in the right light, you could confuse me for a small child (I know, it sucks). I couldn’t see his face beneath his hood, but I got a good look at his bony hands (and by bony, I mean they were LITERALLY bone). One hand held a massive scythe, the other a brown clipboard with a bunch of stickers from Death Note, Darksiders, Soul Eater, and a few other pop culture references.
“So, are you some sort of cosplayer or something? Your clipboard says you’re either a sweaty nerd or weeb garbage,” I said nonchalantly.
“JONATHAN WILCOX!” the figure boomed. “YOUR TIME HAS COME! YOUR SOUL IS MINE!”
“Oh, so you’re a fan of Mortal Kombat, aren’t you, Shang Tsung? Or are you trying to be Gul’dan? The line is, ‘Your soul shall be mine!’ Just giving you a heads up,” I retorted as a gave a sarcastic wink.
My jab was cut short when the figure swung his scythe right at my neck, stopping just before swiping my head clean off. I felt a small trickle of blood drip down my neck. At this point, I knew this guy wasn’t screwing around.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, man! What the hell?! You could have killed me!” I shouted.
“THAT’S THE IDEA! NOW, JONATHAN PERCY WILCOX, YOU MUST DIE!” the figure responded. He pulled his scythe back, readying another swing. The blade’s reflection revealed a skeletal face, eyes glowing red like embers, teeth gritted in a wicked smile.
I was paralyzed with fear. I felt my heart sink at the thought of my impending doom. My knees buckled as I fell to the ground. Looking up at the figure, I asked, “Jonathan P-PERCY Wilcox?”
“YES! THAT’S YOUR NAME, IS IT NOT?” the figure answered.
“N-no, that’s not me, sir… M-my name’s Jonathan HAROLD Wilcox…”
“WHAT?! PROVE IT, TINY MORTAL!” I reached into my wallet to grab my driver’s license and flashed him the ID. The figure snatched it from my hand, examining it closely.
“Born April 19, 1989, expires on July 1, 2020, ID number, yadda yadda yadda, Jonathan Harold Wilcox…wait, HAROLD?!” the figure exclaimed as he scanned my ID.
“Y-yeah, that’s my name, honest to God!” I stuttered.
“Son of a…this is why I don’t trust interns. Crazy kids don’t know how to do the job the way vets do,” the figure muttered, placing a palm to what must have been his forehead.
“Um…who are you?” I inquired.
“Oh, my goodness, my apologies, tiny mortal,” the figure responded in a much more reserved tone. “I am known by many names: Death, the Grim Reaper, Thanatos, La Calavera Catrina…now that was a fun time! Most folks around the office call me ‘Grim.’”
“So, ‘Grim’…what brings you to my doorstep at 3 AM?” I clearly hadn’t expected Death to be so…professional.
“Death is not concerned with mortal concepts like daily sleep. There is only one true sleep, and it is the one I bring!” spoke Grim as he laughed maniacally. “But for what it’s worth, I’m sorry for waking you up this early in the morning.”
“Oooookaaaayyy. So, you called me Jonathan Percy Wilcox, yes? How did you mess up my name? I thought big spooky people like you were supposed to be omniscient or something?”
“Who told you that nonsense? No, that’s not the case at all! You see, even in Heaven, Hell, Purgatory, or whatever stage of the afterlife you believe or don’t believe in, there’s still plenty of paperwork and business hierarchy that needs to be maneuvered.”
“So we’re doomed to cubicle jobs when we die?”
“Only for those of us that want employee benefits like affordable housing, tropical vacations, and free soda on the job site. Let me tell you though, despite that, it’s definitely a thankless job.”
“Well, I can’t imagine most people would be thankful for their death. Though considering all these edgy memes I see on Twitter and Instagram, maybe I don’t know anything.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” Grim snapped with a toothy grin.
“Ouch, man. Spare me the ridicule before you claim my soul…” I muttered as I tried to recover from that sick roast.
“Anyway, I was heading out to complete my next job because, you know, souls can’t carry themselves to the afterlife. There’s actually a bunch of reapers like me in the business since there’s no way I can cover all the shifts in a day. A psychopomp’s gotta have a lunch break SOMETIMES.”
“Understandable. Food’s pretty good, and I imagine that guides to the afterlife work better on a full stomach.”
“So, I had this assignment to off a guy named Jonathan Percy Wilcox, but I didn’t know where he lived. I went to the Location Services desk to ask where Wilcox was, but my wingman Phil wasn’t on duty tonight. It was this punk kid Jeremy instead, who clearly doesn’t care about this job at all. I said to him, ‘Hey kid, I’m looking for Jonathan Percy Wilcox, where’s he at?’ ‘Whazzat?’ Jeremy asked, clearly stoned off his ass. ‘Are you deaf and stupid? I said where’s Jonathan Wilcox?!’ ‘Okay, okay, old man! He’s located at 4300 Imperial Avenue in San Diego, California.’ ‘Thanks.’ And with that, I left and ended up at your house.”
“Great. So, you went all this way just to figure out you got the wrong guy?” I asked.
“Yep. Preeeettty much.” Grim replied.
“That’s rough, man. I’m sorry you have to deal with crappy college interns in such a serious job.”
“Oh, it’s alright. You do this gig for over 10,000 years, you’re bound to have some screw-ups along the way. There was this one time where I went to take some poor sap’s soul, only I got the name wrong. Instead of going to the house of a serial killer, I arrived to see a starry-eyed six-year-old staring at me in the doorway. His mother beaned me in the face with a shoe before I left, completely embarrassed.”
“Oof, dude. Big oof right there.”
“Tell me about it. Well, I guess that about wraps up everything here. Again, sorry for waking you up this early, hopefully, we won’t cross paths until later in your life. Unless you want to, I’m not the boss.”
“Sure thing, Grim. I guess I’ll see you later.”
“So long, puny mortal!” And like that, the figure vanished in a puff of smoke before my eyes.
How would I keep on living with this knowledge? That Death knows who we are and where we are at all times, and that our lives can be shuffled like papers in a filing cabinet? Are the only certain things in life death and miscommunication?
“Eh, that’s too much to think about. I’m tired.”
