A Second Life for Death

“Here’s the thing,” said God. She shuffled a few of the gleaming tablets on her desk. “You’ve been with us for, what? Around 200,000 years? And no one is saying that you haven’t been loyal, that your performance and peer reviews aren’t spectacular. You’ve always been on time, never called in sick once, not even during the flood or any of the plagues.”

Death sat silently across from Her. His raven-black cowl was a bit dusty; his robe had an annoying loose thread that dangled from his left sleeve. He was missing one incisor tooth. His eye sockets were unfathomable, just two abysses that said they had nothing to say. He’d been summoned directly from a tour bus crash in Mongolia, with no time to tidy up.

“And I don’t want you to take this personally,” God continued, almost nervously. Of course, She was never nervous, but Her essence seemed to shift even more swiftly, at one moment appearing as a radiant Nubian princess that would make your heart miss a beat, and in the very next just the smell of first-mown summer hay, and then a small congregation of hummingbirds. “The thing is, change is good. Everything changes, sooner or later.

“Last month, I put together a smallish focus group. I had the angel Studs Terkel moderate it. The screener was humans: must be alive; ages 16 through 72. A variety of topics were explored, mostly centered around—well—existential satisfaction. And your name kept coming up. Not regarding execution, per se, but, ahem, your brand, mainly. Your appearance.”

Death shifted slightly in his folding chair, causing his sickle to fall off the back where he’d hooked it. It clattered to the floor.

God plowed on. “So, in short, We’ve decided to let you go. A well-deserved retirement, as it were. We’ve set you up with a fantastic package. And here’s a pamphlet with some dandy resources. A pension, of course, paid monthly in rubies or Ethereum, your call.”

“And don’t be a stranger,” God said. “I really hope you’ll stay on the softball team.”

On the way out, Death paused outside the main boardroom. Inside, he could see a host of cherubim, busily inscribing notes in the air. A vast smart board stood at one end of the room, with a title that read “Death 2.0— A Happier Icon.” Below it was a colorful figure that looked like a cross between an Easter Bunny and the mascot for the Red Robin hamburger franchise. Instead of a scythe, it held a shimmering, pastel wand. Its smile was as wide and bright as anyone’s from Minnesota. It had a little fascinator hat made out of tiny felt kittens.

Death walked on, down the celestial corridor, his metatarsals click-click-clicking on the immaculate marble.

“Location, location, location, amirite?” said MaryEllen Dubois, third-most-successful-for-the-fifth-year-in-a-row real estate agent for Century 21, Upper Western Florida division. She opened the door for Silver Shoals condo 36-B and ushered Death in. “Be it ever so humble,” she chirped, flicking on the lights.

Death looked around. The unit was, in essence, a shotgun cottage. A kitchen with a window overlooking the parking lot. A living room with a sliding glass door to a cement patio. It was furnished with a hulking CRT tv set, a dowdy leather sofa, a saggy recliner, and an absurdly large painting of two morose herons standing in a lagoon. Death knew the painting was not an original. It was a print on canvas, made in China, such as one might find in any coastal Salvation Army store.

“There’s a bedroom, too,” MaryEllen said as if announcing an amenity. She strode to the closet and boldly slid its door open. Inside there was a single barbell, a diaspora of paint-flecked work boots, a pair of pink flip-flops, and a snarl of hangers. Some of the hangers still sported T-shirts in varying sizes and colors.

“Oh my,” MaryEllen said. “We’ll get those cleaned out right away. Unless, maybe, you’re looking for some extra wardrobe items?” She glanced meaningfully at Death’s robe. “Something more summery?”

“A couple of things to note,” MaryEllen said, looking at her phone. “There’s a strict noise ordinance. No loud music after 9 pm. Compost and trash pickup’s on Wednesdays. Park only in your allotted space. Sign-up sheets for golf and shuffleboard are in the main office. You must—and I’m sure I don’t know why this is so important—shower before using the pool. There are clubs for bridge, mahjong, poker, books, macramé, Bible study, and—ohmigosh!—chess. I bet you’re a chess man. I have a nose for these things.

“Of course, your rent, utilities, and dues are paid up for the year. Your employer’s been very generous! I’ll leave my card here in case anything comes up, and, of course: here!” She took an elastic wrist band with some keys and a Publix supermarket loyalty card, and gingerly stretched it over Death’s right wrist. “Tada! You’re a true Silver Shoal-er!”

After she left, Death went into the bedroom and shut the blinds. He opened the dresser drawers and found a pair of gym shorts and a mousetrap. He looked long and hard at the mousetrap, then threw it away. He removed his robe and hung it carefully on a hanger. He put on the shorts, and the flip-flops, and selected a T-shirt. It said:

I FED MONGO AT GATOR WORLD!

He padded over the shag carpet to the bathroom. There was Saran Wrap stretched under the toilet lid and over the bowl as some form of hurricane plumbing protection. Death left it in place and closed the toilet lid. He looked in the mirror. Without his cowl, in the wan fluorescent light, his skull looked very, very white. His eyes continued to tell a different story.

Death lowered his bones onto a lawn chair on the patio. The air was muggy. A foursome of men was playing the 3rd hole, barely a stone’s throw from where he sat. Heat lightning zapped the horizon. A mosquito landed on Death’s ulna, reconsidered, and then buzzed off.

One of the golfers was Corky Rubinstein. He was lining up a putt. Suddenly, he dropped his club, clasped his chest, and said loudly: “Oh, boys, looks like that $20 is yours!” He seemed to teeter.

Death raised his arm and pointed one finger bone at Corky. But Corky suddenly recovered and laughed. “Gotcha, suckers! Now watch me sink this motherfucker.” Then he made the putt.

Death looked at his finger.

Way over by unit 71C, Marsha Laveen was walking her Chihuahua, Rocket. Rocket had paused to take a shit, but it wasn’t going well. The dog crouched, shivering and straining. Death pointed at Rocket, but the dog produced a minuscule turd and then shook itself off. Death pointed at Marsha. No dice. Death pointed at a Southwest jet in the sky, as it snaked south toward Fort Lauderdale, leaving a luminous contrail behind like the handwriting of a minor cherub, tinged with azure and rose, and the inscrutable signature of Our Lord and Mother.

The jet continued. Death pointed at himself. A faint breeze finessed the ornamental grasses outside the patio.

Death watched tv all night. He watched Say Yes to the Dress, three episodes of SVU, The Deadliest Catch, an infomercial about a combination air fryer and convection oven, and QVC’s It’s Coming Up Christmas special.

About 3 am, a skunk walked into Death’s condo, through the patio doors he’d left ajar. It looked at him and he looked back. Death got up and went into the kitchen. He poured some tap water into an ashtray marked with the logo of a riverboat casino. As soon as he set it on the linoleum, the skunk guzzled up the water. He repeated the offering, and again the skunk lapped up the water. Then it rubbed itself against Death’s ankles, weaving like a cat before leaving.

At sunrise the next day, Death walked to the small mall near his condo. William Burkes III was going through the trash cans outside Publix. He wore cut-off camp cargo shorts and a wife-beater. Death offered him an index card. On it, scribbled in ballpoint, was the message: GOT JOBS?

William Burkes III laughed a phlegmy laugh at Death. “You kidding?” he said. “I’ll tell you what, though. People are cretins. I learned that long ago. I learned that lesson as a POW, amigo. In Korea and in ‘Nam. Morons.” He held up a fistful of crumpled lottery receipts. “See these, compadre? Pure gold. Folks don’t realize they’re all good for a second chance drawing. So, like, one man’s trash is another man’s lucky day, you get me? But you gotta find your own turf. This here’s my goldmine.”

Death walked down the sidewalk toward a tattoo parlor. He looked in the trash can. He saw a deflated unicorn pool float, a syringe, and a whole mess of half-eaten barbecued ribs.

Death went into Dunkin’ Donuts. He handed an index card to the young man behind the counter. “Holy shit,” said the young man, whose name was Malcolm. “You are a godsend.”

Death stood very still. Malcolm brushed his dreads away from his eyes. He reeked of patchouli. “Look, dude. I just got these made up.”

Malcolm handed Death a sheaf of flyers. “I’m DJ’ing tomorrow at the Black Dot. Right next to Lorelei mini golf. You put these babies out on every windshield in the parking lot. F’reals, no bullshit like tossing them away. And I got you for 40. No lie. You look honest.”

All morning, Death put Malcolm’s flyers under windshield wipers.

In the afternoon, he still had a stack of the advertisements. He stood out by the road and watched traffic. There was a smell of diesel mixed with fish fry. A woman with a baby in a backpack came up next to him and started to cross against traffic. Death pulled her back. For a split second, he thought he saw something on the road. A brightly feathered image, like a cartoon Quetzalcoatl, brandishing a wand.

“Creep,” the woman said, shrugging off Death’s touch. “I hate Gatorworld, by the way. That’s totally me-too shit. Believe me, I know. That fucker Jimbo fingering everything up in a skirt.” Then she crossed with the light, this time safely, her baby bopping like a bobblehead doll. Death tossed the remaining flyers in the trash and went home.

The skunk came back at dusk. Death gave it more water. Together they watched tv. Death bought a set of Ulla Popken beach towels.

“Ok,” said Verne. Verne held one of Death’s cards. They were in the Silver Shoals clubhouse.

“It’s not glamorous, but it needs to happen. A lot of our Silver Shoal residents lose their balls. Fuck, they don’t go far. The balls, not the residents. They wind up in the pool, in the shrubs, wherever. But if you need a little extra, here’s what we’ll do. A dime per ball. Doesn’t sound like a lot, but Christ it adds up. And here’s the thing—” Verne winked. “Doesn’t count against social. Under the el table-o, if you catch my drift.” Death nodded knowingly.

Three months later, Death landed a real job. He started driving a golf ball collection vehicle at Stewart’s Finest, a tourist attraction with a driving range, bumper boats, and batting cages. He did not mind the bullet ping of the balls ricocheting off the cab’s metal roof or the perpetual hail on the greens ahead of him. The cart had a radio and he listened to WFOP, which had recently switched its venue to golden oldies, all the time, all the good times. Death loved Elvis, in particular.


Death named the skunk Pippa. He knew she was a she because she’d brought her kits into the condo on June 15th. Her children skittered nervously over the carpet until Death opened a tin of herrings and set it down in the kitchen. He also dumped out a mess of Publix’ fresh-cut kiwis and it became a party. Death did not bother to clean up the dung.


“Ladies and germs,” said Malcolm. The mike was too close to his mouth and there was a brief screech of feedback. “Welcome to the Black Spot; Stewart, Florida’s premiere karaoke joint. First, up, let’s get the place jumpin’! Mr. D, c’mon up. Let’s hear it for Mr. D., y’all.”


Death clambered up onto the small riser. The screen blazed behind him like a basilisk’s neon eye. He was dressed in a brand new sweatsuit with laceless Timberland work boots and a New York Yankees baseball hat. His one diamond-studded incisor glinted like a star that kings could follow. He sported a cheap seahorse pendant around his neck.


Malcolm hit play, and the karaoke version of Lorde’s We’ll Never Be Royals swelled to fill the bar room. But even as the lyrics began to bop across the screen, Death remained silent. Instead, he sat on a stool and slowly picked away the dried ligaments that held his left foot together. A smell like dried kelp and papyrus dust overpowered the reek of lager and quesadillas. Then Death began tossing the smaller bones of his foot into the audience. 


Later that night, Death gives the skunks shredded cabbage and raw hamburger. The sky is filled with stars and satellites. Death looks out on the unlit 3rd hole. He remembers. A runaway Mississippi slave looks at him longingly, a fresh cut on her arm. A Jewish infant gurgles at him, even as gunshots ring out on the train. The oldest woman he’s ever known strokes his cheek in the Outback. An entire village, illuminated with Napalm, welcomes him. Two hundred and four drowning Vikings reach for him. A crucified thief spits on his chin. He remembers.


When the brightly-feathered, happy-faced spirit appears, Death is ready. 
If he could sigh, he would.

It’s last call, last call, last call.