The doorbell rang. He jumped from his chair. He was fully expecting – no, dreading, this visit. He walked to the door deliberately stepping to avoid tile lines. It was a habit acquired from childhood. Stepping on a line was certain death and to be avoided at all costs. He took a moment to compose himself; a cheerful smiling face was required, however forced. And it was forced – he loathed every visit. Just the thought of this man turned his stomach. He took one final breath, put his hand on the knob and opened the door.
“Ahh, Mr. Rappier, so good to see you”, he faked.
There stood an unimpressive man, in his 50’s with receding hairline, glasses and red patchy skin. The visitor wore a jacket and tie ala JC Penny. If ever a person could be “gray” this man was it. He was King of the Gray People, a living monument to mediocrity.
“Please, come in.”
The man walked in silently carrying a scuffed-up briefcase. His government I.D. hung round his neck, flashing repeatedly. That was a recent change. Apparently, individuals were impersonating officials from the Department of Human Services and gaining access to people’s homes. These scoundrels, once in the home would proceed to rob and rape the duped homeowners. The government, in an effort to make reproduction of I.D.’s more difficult, devised a laser light that could be installed in the badges. The light emitting from these badges was a unique color never seen before. It was at once both red and green. That seems impossible, especially if you consider red and green are opposite. Yet it was so. Human Services had acquired the technology from an artist who, after years of taking female hormones, went berserk and was committed to a sanitarium. Or so they say. The tranny inventor was never heard from again. Rumor has it anti-testosterones left her in such bliss she never uttered another word and spoke only in sighs. Government kept great secrecy over their newfound color and the technology behind it. Counterfeit I.D. tags were a thing of the past. It was said the laser light had miraculous calming effects. Human Services distributed public notices purporting the beneficial effects of gazing into The Light. They encouraged all citizens to take a few minutes each day, find a nearby official and look deeply into the flashing light. It was reported that as your brain internalizes the two colors simultaneously it releases endorphins and promotes an overall sense of well-being. The government saw this as a simple method of controlling The New Anxiety, or the Black Anxiety as some called it. “Black Anx” permeated all of society. Everyone suffered from it. People walked the earth with dread in their hearts and worry in their souls. Some curled into balls on the kitchen floor and would remain there for days. Some even curtailed their incessant daily masturbation. A collective psychological trauma resulted from the proliferation of Home Depot and Target stores littering the landscape. Apparently, repeated slashing of the Earth for retail exploitation had left society feeling unimportant, as if their lives as individuals no longer mattered. People walked about aimlessly, stripped of any self-worth or purpose. They were just consumers. They knew, deep in their hearts, they made no difference.
Maerkin didn’t buy that story. He recognized the danger of gazing into unfiltered light. The Light could be, and probably was, loaded with propaganda designed to manipulate one’s values. Human Services stated clearly four tasks to be carried out in the following sequence. You are to:
1. Shut up
2. Do your job
3. Don’t make waves
4. Die at the right time.
Maerkin much preferred dealing with the anxiety rather than allowing H.S. to redirect his thoughts. There were times when he was out with friends and an official would pass by with the mesmerizing I.D. tag. The group would circle around the official and gaze deeply into the light. Maerkin always faked it. He would pretend to gaze into the light but deliberately looked off to the side, avoiding the light and its ability to enter his mind. He was one of the few holdouts. He never shared his repulsion of The Light with anyone, not even his closest friends.
‘Have a seat, Inspector Rappier”, he said gesturing to a wooden chair surrounding the kitchen table.
“Thank you. No need for formalities, Maerkin. You may call me Grimes.”
The Inspector set his briefcase atop the table, rolled the combination numbers, all twenty-seven of them, and using both hands popped the latches simultaneously. He pulled out a thick 11 x 14 manila envelope containing Maerkin’s case file.
“Hmmm, let’s see now, where is your Case Status Report…” mumbles the Inspector as he shuffles through papers. “Maerkin, do you recall where we left off last time?”
“I believe we were discussing funeral arrangements and cost of burial”, he replied.
“Yes, yes, that was it. And as I recall you expressed concerns and resistance, yes?”
“Um – no, not really. I mean, who wants to talk about this bullshit anyway?”
The man’s face turned from kind to cold. He paused so as to create an awkward moment of silence (gov’t discussion tactic #307-2A).
“Maerkin, Maerkin, Maerkin…” (Say subject’s name three times in a row, gov’t discussion tactic 411-911B, supposed to disarm a defensive individual).
“Look, Maerkin, we’re here to discuss your death. You know that. Human Services needs to update your case status. It’s not me, Maerkin, really it’s not.”
Maerkin looked down to the floor, shuffled his feet nervously and then told the Inspector what he wanted to hear: that he would prepare for his death in advance. That he would not be a burden to society. That he would die at the right time. That he would die without vengeance or resentment, that he would donate his body to science, that he would watch his life pass before his eyes in the final seconds. He recited a key paragraph from the Manual. The inspector seemed pleased with his mini recital. He checked a row of boxes on the form, and then looked up at Maerkin with an apologetic smile.
“Look, Maerkin, H.S. tells me to do something, I do it. H.S. tells me, ‘talk to Maerkin about his death’, you know what? I talk to Maerkin about his death. It’s nothing personal. I’m just doing my job.”
“God, I fucking hate that”, whispers Maerkin below his breath. “People say that shit all the time- ‘I’m just doing my job- nothing personal’.”
“Now, Maerkin, you know its bad to hate. You can’t take hate with you. You know that.” There was a moment of silence. Rappier was right. It was bad news to take hate to the grave. Research had proven unresolved hatred was the root cause for ghosts and apparitions.
“Grimes, let’s get on with it.”
“Still live alone, Maerkin?”
Maerkin looked at his watch. “Maybe we can be done by five…of course I live alone. Don’t we all?”
“Last we spoke you expressed a desire to die in your 70’s, correct?”
“Yes, I’d like to drop dead around 74, 75, something like that.”
“”H.S. wants to know what you’re doing to ensure you’ll reach your mark. What about epidermal protection. Are you diligent in your applications?”
“No.”
“Air filtration. When’s the last time you changed mask filters?”
“Filters?” He laughed. “The only filter I’m changing is on the end of my cigarette.”
Rappier stopped for a moment and stared at Maerkin. He made a few notations to the sheet on his clipboard.
“Maerkin, Maerkin, Maerkin. You are a funny man. You espouse all that is right and yet you practice none of it. You want a long life yet you live like a man who will die in his forties.”
Maerkin rolled his eyes.
“All right, I get it. I’ll be more diligent in my life-extending practices.”
“OK. Tell me, what would you say was your happiest moment? Describe to me a time or moment in your life that offered true serenity. H.S. would like to include the highlights of your life in their case file, not just your struggles.”
“My happiest moment?”
“Think of a time when all was right with the world. Describe it in all its detail.” Rappier paused to allow Maerkin time. Maerkin gazed into the diffused morning light entering through his kitchen window. A moment peaked its head from the blur of his past. It came to him.
“I was 28 or 29. I had been dating a beautiful young lady, who would eventually become my wife. We were just getting to know each other and love was in the air.”
“Describe the setting.”
“Blue collar New Jersey. Elizabeth. Garden apartment.”
“Aah, yes. Elizabeth, I know it well. I have an uncle buried in the Jewish Cemetery just off Routes 1 & 9.”
“Cubicle-style living where the occupant gives empty rooms warmth and comfort. Otherwise, the space remains generic and the tenant is a faceless, nameless organism taking up space.”
“What room?”
“Bedroom, of course.”
“Would it help to gaze into the Light, Maerkin? Would that make it easier to recall?”
“Um, no, but thanks.”
“What year was it? What objects exist within the room? Are there any other living souls involved in this memory?”
“It was autumn 1995, the room is filled with second-hand furniture I’d acquired- a small TV given as a gift, a bed from an old girlfriend, a few books and my two cats, Boycat and Girlcat.”
“Those were their names?”
“Those were their labels.”
“And what made this moment a highlight, Maerkin? Why this particular moment?”
“I’m not really sure. It jumped out to me; a moment frozen in time, encased in happiness. Times were simple. No career. No children. Life was a ball of clay I could shape to my desires. There was awesome control.”
“I see. Yes, that is attractive. Direct control over your destiny might emit a strong sense of happiness.”
“I was on top of my direction. The forces that governed would submit to my will. I exerted more control over these forces than they did me. I was Master of my reality.”
“Of course, I understand. Very few people reach that place.”
“But I did. I swear, I was the Master. Wind swept around me, rain rolled off me, or so it seemed…”
“And was that it? Was there something else? What about your girlfriend? Was it a love theme? A passion theme? Could this moment be duplicated in a heliogram to be played on the TV screen of your tombstone?”
“Uh- probably not. WE were both high, naked and having wild sex.”
“OK, can’t use it.”
“Well, I don’t see why not. It is after all, my happiest moment.”
“Sorry. H.S. clearly states in Rule 5:22.3(d) no sex or drugs on tombstone screens, you know that Maerkin. However, we can at least incorporate it in your file. Go on…”
“The moment begins as I cue up a Roxy music record. I get up from the bed, naked, walk to the stereo, pull out the Roxy Music album and play the song, ‘More than this’. As the song begins I walk to the bed where she lays in waiting. I pull the covers over us and plant a locking, breathy kiss on my beauty. We are joined at the lips. Then we hear Bryan Ferry’s angelic voice:
I could feel at the time
There was no way of knowing
Fallen leaves in the night
Who can say where they’re blowing
As free as the wind
And hopefully learning
Why the sea on the tide
Has no way of turning
More than this - there is nothing
More than this - tell me one thing
More than this - there is nothing
“As the song plays the lovers entwine in each other. They gently roll across the soft surface of the bed, attached by their lip-lock of love. The camera, if there was one, would hover directly over them in the dimly lit bedroom, illuminated only by a glowing red exit sign just above the bed. It was originally purchased from a building supply catalogue and installed as both a joke and reading light.”
“That’s some pretty racy stuff, Maerkin.”
“The connection is so deep and personal. I remember loving every part of her physical makeup. I loved her breath. I could smell and taste it from the deepest part of her soul. It was pure sweetness. It could be bottled and sold beyond the price of a diamond. We were unguarded and open. There are few moments in a person’s life when romance like this is found. They should be treasured but it seems we always take it for granted…as I neared climax we held each other tightly with closed eyes. The magic moment came and shook me. I had a vision of cliffs falling into oceans; a vivid bird’s eye view of miles of cliff collapsing into water, not unlike those images of icebergs melting in Antarctica.”
“So what happened?”
“We married, had kids, argued and finally divorced. You know, the usual.”
“Was it really love, then?”
“When you fall in love there comes a point where she becomes all women; she is Every Woman. She embodies all that is feminine, soft, voluptuous and loving. It is at that moment that you are unguarded; it is at that moment you drop the shield and explore the magic before you. It is at that moment you are at your most vulnerable. It is at that point she owns you.”
“Are you suggesting it’s all downhill from there?”
“Pretty much.”
“That’s not very optimistic. Are you sure this is your happiest moment?”
“I don’t seek optimism. It’s realism that calls me. The beauty of the moment was in letting my guard down and confidently, faithfully…(a moment of silence)…idiotically, handing myself over to her. One soul entrusted to another. It is the fruit of one’s labor…the apex, the pinnacle and final step of a process that started with a chance meeting at a cafe...
“Then why do you say its all downhill? I don’t follow…”
“It’s all part of the natural rhythm in life. We see these patterns again and again. A flower spends months becoming a bud, then another few weeks flourishing into the vibrant wonder it is. It remains in its highest state of beauty for a few weeks, a small fraction of its total life. Look at an athlete’s career. An athlete is reared for eighteen years, and then sent off to college where he/she excels and gains attention. Years are spent honing their craft at top-notch level. Finally they burst on the professional scene and shine in the spotlight for three to five years. Many less than that. Their career peaks then downslides and eventually they’re bounced from team to team finally retiring. We, as living organisms, peak briefly. It is the nature of things. And it is true for love, too.”
“I’m sorry but I must disagree with you. What about the countless couples who live their lives together, grow old and pass away side by side?”
“That is a lie. That is the second greatest lie perpetrated by society. That is not love. That is tolerance and acceptance.”
“Maerkin, you are so cynical and pessimistic.”
“You call it cynical because it is unpleasant. People are designed to live alone. We are born one at a time, from one mother, and we die alone. One at a time. Even multiple deaths like a car accident or plane crash; we think of it as one instantaneous collective death. But it’s not. Each person dies a separate and personal death. Even the crash itself is experienced individually and unlike any other victim’s experience.”
“We must all face our Maker.”
“I’m getting to that. Even worse, we try to cushion the blow with false hopes of Heaven. Life after death. The Savior. Our Salvation. It is the greatest lie ever told.”
“Some would be deeply offended by your remark.”
“Life after death is not the idea. It’s death after life. That is what we can believe in. Death after life: we can say this for certain. If we choose a religion it should be based on this concept: no life after death but death after life. To my knowledge, no such religion exists.”
“But people need religion. They need a God. They need to know there is purpose to all this.”
“Exactly. But the truth is, we don’t need it. We think we do because it’s drilled into our heads from infancy. We are the Self-duped. The Self-deceived. We create religion to cushion the blow. If you told a long-distance runner he could stop running in a mile he would take solace in the knowledge that relief was on its way. His attention would focus solely on that moment when the pain of running ends. That is false hope. Tell the runner nothing and he will keep running. He'll find the wherewithall to maintain. He will pace himself with the knowledge there’s no relief in sight and he must endure. He will run with no hope.”
“So then what is the truth?”
“The truth is the dead cat on the side of the road.
“I don’t follow…”
“The randomness of this cat’s life and death. There was no good reason for this cat to die. Perhaps a rushed commuter drove the car. Had that driver stopped for coffee first, maybe the cat would have safely crossed the street. Then again, maybe another driver in another car would snuff out the cat. Imagine the cat stopped first to chase a mouse in a field, perhaps the timing would have changed to provide safe crossing. Perhaps not. The point is we can fabricate Divine reasons for this and attribute Godly reasons for that but it’s all fluff. It is fiction. It's our way of justifying a random existence devoid of true meaning.”
“You fail to recognize the accepted way. You must find your Savior. You must find your inner peace for Death will come quicker than you realize. You know what they say, Maerkin, when death smiles at you, all you can do is smile back.”
“Hmmm, I remember it different. When death smiles at you all you can do is tell him to go fuck himself.”
“Your talk borders on treason. H.S. will not be happy about this.”
Rappier’s face turns an ashen gray. It is ominous and glaring. Gone is the meekness replaced by authority and threat. He shuffles his papers, inserts all in his briefcase and snaps it shut with a tone of finality. Maerkin crossed the line and knows consequence awaits. His defiance was uncontrolled. His intolerance for government imposition expelled itself.
“Take your case file and go. Go now, before I roll you.” He takes his foot and exerting pressure on Grime’s chair, tilts it back. Gravity takes on the remainder of the task, flipping man and briefcase backwards to the floor. Maerkin himself is a bit surprised at his physical provocation.
Grimes stands quickly. Strangely, he seems taller than before and appears growing still. His meek stature is now a looming, menacing presence. His face, too, appears to be changing. The eye sockets recede. A demonic aura emanates. A hellish glare glows from his eyeballs, his cheekbones rise to the surface, the flesh melting so it seems. His jacket and tie blur and reform themselves as a black cloak while his briefcase elongates in material and shape, becoming a long sharp scythe. He almost cannot be contained by the confines of the eight-foot ceiling and hunches to fit in. His face is but a skull shrouded by hood. There before Maerkin in all his glory, stands the Grim Reaper.
Most would cower at the site but Maerkin is nonplussed.
“Oh yeah, I get it. Grimes Rappier- Grim Reaper. Good one, you think I didn’t have that figured out?"
In a low demonic voice, the Grim Reaper replies:
“Your time has come.”
The Reaper needs this voice to emphasize his role. Years earlier he had a lisp, pronouncing his S’s with the ‘th’ sound. People didn’t take him seriously and thought it was a prank. But this went against the entire nature of his role. He needed people to fear him. So he enrolled at a local community college in Long Island to repair the deficiency.
The Reaper leans back and delivers his first mighty swing of the scythe. Maerkin ducks, barely dodging the blade. As the Reaper stands in after-swing position Maerkin quickly dropkicks his opponent squarely to the ribcage.
“Ughh!” he calls out as he falls backwards, scythe and all.
“No, asshole, your time has come!” yells Maerkin. He almost can’t believe he’s laid out the Grim Reaper. “Come on, come get me, Death-boy.”
The Reaper stands again and pulls back for another deadly swing. Maerkin is ready. He jerks back and feels the breeze only a hair removed from his throat. The breeze has a horrid smell of decay. Maerkin moves in quickly and while his opponent again stands vulnerable he lands a punch to the skull. Another punch. The hood falls back. He pounds him with one blow after another. Maerkin grabs the weakened Reaper and shoves him to the door. The Reaper falls as Maerkin kicks him repeatedly while opening the entrance door. He holds the doorframe for support and with one final shove of his foot, hurls the Reaper past the entranceway and back to the street.
He slams the door quickly, locks the deadbolt, grabs the couch and shoves it in front to block the door from opening. He takes a deep breath and feels his pulse coursing through his body. It was everywhere; his head, his hands, his belly, his legs, his spine. He was alive. Maerkin was the first to elude the sweep of the scythe. He had escaped Death’s calling. This time. But Death would be back…maybe as a tax collector, or an insurance salesman, or a travel agent. He would return and get what he came for.
“That’s okay,” thought Maerkin. “Let him come.” He wasn’t bothered by the thought. Yet he was troubled. He wondered:
“Why do I fight like a lion when I’m the first to say life has no meaning? Why does my instinct betray my intellect?” This was his plight.
“If life is truly meaningless, why should I care to live another day?” he thinks. Maerkin turned off the lights, pulled out a pack of Newports and lit a cigarette. He looked into the blackness and paused. He watched as the glow from his cigarette danced in the dark. A smile crossed his face and he knew his answer:
“Because it’s fun.”
“Ahh, Mr. Rappier, so good to see you”, he faked.
There stood an unimpressive man, in his 50’s with receding hairline, glasses and red patchy skin. The visitor wore a jacket and tie ala JC Penny. If ever a person could be “gray” this man was it. He was King of the Gray People, a living monument to mediocrity.
“Please, come in.”
The man walked in silently carrying a scuffed-up briefcase. His government I.D. hung round his neck, flashing repeatedly. That was a recent change. Apparently, individuals were impersonating officials from the Department of Human Services and gaining access to people’s homes. These scoundrels, once in the home would proceed to rob and rape the duped homeowners. The government, in an effort to make reproduction of I.D.’s more difficult, devised a laser light that could be installed in the badges. The light emitting from these badges was a unique color never seen before. It was at once both red and green. That seems impossible, especially if you consider red and green are opposite. Yet it was so. Human Services had acquired the technology from an artist who, after years of taking female hormones, went berserk and was committed to a sanitarium. Or so they say. The tranny inventor was never heard from again. Rumor has it anti-testosterones left her in such bliss she never uttered another word and spoke only in sighs. Government kept great secrecy over their newfound color and the technology behind it. Counterfeit I.D. tags were a thing of the past. It was said the laser light had miraculous calming effects. Human Services distributed public notices purporting the beneficial effects of gazing into The Light. They encouraged all citizens to take a few minutes each day, find a nearby official and look deeply into the flashing light. It was reported that as your brain internalizes the two colors simultaneously it releases endorphins and promotes an overall sense of well-being. The government saw this as a simple method of controlling The New Anxiety, or the Black Anxiety as some called it. “Black Anx” permeated all of society. Everyone suffered from it. People walked the earth with dread in their hearts and worry in their souls. Some curled into balls on the kitchen floor and would remain there for days. Some even curtailed their incessant daily masturbation. A collective psychological trauma resulted from the proliferation of Home Depot and Target stores littering the landscape. Apparently, repeated slashing of the Earth for retail exploitation had left society feeling unimportant, as if their lives as individuals no longer mattered. People walked about aimlessly, stripped of any self-worth or purpose. They were just consumers. They knew, deep in their hearts, they made no difference.
Maerkin didn’t buy that story. He recognized the danger of gazing into unfiltered light. The Light could be, and probably was, loaded with propaganda designed to manipulate one’s values. Human Services stated clearly four tasks to be carried out in the following sequence. You are to:
1. Shut up
2. Do your job
3. Don’t make waves
4. Die at the right time.
Maerkin much preferred dealing with the anxiety rather than allowing H.S. to redirect his thoughts. There were times when he was out with friends and an official would pass by with the mesmerizing I.D. tag. The group would circle around the official and gaze deeply into the light. Maerkin always faked it. He would pretend to gaze into the light but deliberately looked off to the side, avoiding the light and its ability to enter his mind. He was one of the few holdouts. He never shared his repulsion of The Light with anyone, not even his closest friends.
‘Have a seat, Inspector Rappier”, he said gesturing to a wooden chair surrounding the kitchen table.
“Thank you. No need for formalities, Maerkin. You may call me Grimes.”
The Inspector set his briefcase atop the table, rolled the combination numbers, all twenty-seven of them, and using both hands popped the latches simultaneously. He pulled out a thick 11 x 14 manila envelope containing Maerkin’s case file.
“Hmmm, let’s see now, where is your Case Status Report…” mumbles the Inspector as he shuffles through papers. “Maerkin, do you recall where we left off last time?”
“I believe we were discussing funeral arrangements and cost of burial”, he replied.
“Yes, yes, that was it. And as I recall you expressed concerns and resistance, yes?”
“Um – no, not really. I mean, who wants to talk about this bullshit anyway?”
The man’s face turned from kind to cold. He paused so as to create an awkward moment of silence (gov’t discussion tactic #307-2A).
“Maerkin, Maerkin, Maerkin…” (Say subject’s name three times in a row, gov’t discussion tactic 411-911B, supposed to disarm a defensive individual).
“Look, Maerkin, we’re here to discuss your death. You know that. Human Services needs to update your case status. It’s not me, Maerkin, really it’s not.”
Maerkin looked down to the floor, shuffled his feet nervously and then told the Inspector what he wanted to hear: that he would prepare for his death in advance. That he would not be a burden to society. That he would die at the right time. That he would die without vengeance or resentment, that he would donate his body to science, that he would watch his life pass before his eyes in the final seconds. He recited a key paragraph from the Manual. The inspector seemed pleased with his mini recital. He checked a row of boxes on the form, and then looked up at Maerkin with an apologetic smile.
“Look, Maerkin, H.S. tells me to do something, I do it. H.S. tells me, ‘talk to Maerkin about his death’, you know what? I talk to Maerkin about his death. It’s nothing personal. I’m just doing my job.”
“God, I fucking hate that”, whispers Maerkin below his breath. “People say that shit all the time- ‘I’m just doing my job- nothing personal’.”
“Now, Maerkin, you know its bad to hate. You can’t take hate with you. You know that.” There was a moment of silence. Rappier was right. It was bad news to take hate to the grave. Research had proven unresolved hatred was the root cause for ghosts and apparitions.
“Grimes, let’s get on with it.”
“Still live alone, Maerkin?”
Maerkin looked at his watch. “Maybe we can be done by five…of course I live alone. Don’t we all?”
“Last we spoke you expressed a desire to die in your 70’s, correct?”
“Yes, I’d like to drop dead around 74, 75, something like that.”
“”H.S. wants to know what you’re doing to ensure you’ll reach your mark. What about epidermal protection. Are you diligent in your applications?”
“No.”
“Air filtration. When’s the last time you changed mask filters?”
“Filters?” He laughed. “The only filter I’m changing is on the end of my cigarette.”
Rappier stopped for a moment and stared at Maerkin. He made a few notations to the sheet on his clipboard.
“Maerkin, Maerkin, Maerkin. You are a funny man. You espouse all that is right and yet you practice none of it. You want a long life yet you live like a man who will die in his forties.”
Maerkin rolled his eyes.
“All right, I get it. I’ll be more diligent in my life-extending practices.”
“OK. Tell me, what would you say was your happiest moment? Describe to me a time or moment in your life that offered true serenity. H.S. would like to include the highlights of your life in their case file, not just your struggles.”
“My happiest moment?”
“Think of a time when all was right with the world. Describe it in all its detail.” Rappier paused to allow Maerkin time. Maerkin gazed into the diffused morning light entering through his kitchen window. A moment peaked its head from the blur of his past. It came to him.
“I was 28 or 29. I had been dating a beautiful young lady, who would eventually become my wife. We were just getting to know each other and love was in the air.”
“Describe the setting.”
“Blue collar New Jersey. Elizabeth. Garden apartment.”
“Aah, yes. Elizabeth, I know it well. I have an uncle buried in the Jewish Cemetery just off Routes 1 & 9.”
“Cubicle-style living where the occupant gives empty rooms warmth and comfort. Otherwise, the space remains generic and the tenant is a faceless, nameless organism taking up space.”
“What room?”
“Bedroom, of course.”
“Would it help to gaze into the Light, Maerkin? Would that make it easier to recall?”
“Um, no, but thanks.”
“What year was it? What objects exist within the room? Are there any other living souls involved in this memory?”
“It was autumn 1995, the room is filled with second-hand furniture I’d acquired- a small TV given as a gift, a bed from an old girlfriend, a few books and my two cats, Boycat and Girlcat.”
“Those were their names?”
“Those were their labels.”
“And what made this moment a highlight, Maerkin? Why this particular moment?”
“I’m not really sure. It jumped out to me; a moment frozen in time, encased in happiness. Times were simple. No career. No children. Life was a ball of clay I could shape to my desires. There was awesome control.”
“I see. Yes, that is attractive. Direct control over your destiny might emit a strong sense of happiness.”
“I was on top of my direction. The forces that governed would submit to my will. I exerted more control over these forces than they did me. I was Master of my reality.”
“Of course, I understand. Very few people reach that place.”
“But I did. I swear, I was the Master. Wind swept around me, rain rolled off me, or so it seemed…”
“And was that it? Was there something else? What about your girlfriend? Was it a love theme? A passion theme? Could this moment be duplicated in a heliogram to be played on the TV screen of your tombstone?”
“Uh- probably not. WE were both high, naked and having wild sex.”
“OK, can’t use it.”
“Well, I don’t see why not. It is after all, my happiest moment.”
“Sorry. H.S. clearly states in Rule 5:22.3(d) no sex or drugs on tombstone screens, you know that Maerkin. However, we can at least incorporate it in your file. Go on…”
“The moment begins as I cue up a Roxy music record. I get up from the bed, naked, walk to the stereo, pull out the Roxy Music album and play the song, ‘More than this’. As the song begins I walk to the bed where she lays in waiting. I pull the covers over us and plant a locking, breathy kiss on my beauty. We are joined at the lips. Then we hear Bryan Ferry’s angelic voice:
I could feel at the time
There was no way of knowing
Fallen leaves in the night
Who can say where they’re blowing
As free as the wind
And hopefully learning
Why the sea on the tide
Has no way of turning
More than this - there is nothing
More than this - tell me one thing
More than this - there is nothing
“As the song plays the lovers entwine in each other. They gently roll across the soft surface of the bed, attached by their lip-lock of love. The camera, if there was one, would hover directly over them in the dimly lit bedroom, illuminated only by a glowing red exit sign just above the bed. It was originally purchased from a building supply catalogue and installed as both a joke and reading light.”
“That’s some pretty racy stuff, Maerkin.”
“The connection is so deep and personal. I remember loving every part of her physical makeup. I loved her breath. I could smell and taste it from the deepest part of her soul. It was pure sweetness. It could be bottled and sold beyond the price of a diamond. We were unguarded and open. There are few moments in a person’s life when romance like this is found. They should be treasured but it seems we always take it for granted…as I neared climax we held each other tightly with closed eyes. The magic moment came and shook me. I had a vision of cliffs falling into oceans; a vivid bird’s eye view of miles of cliff collapsing into water, not unlike those images of icebergs melting in Antarctica.”
“So what happened?”
“We married, had kids, argued and finally divorced. You know, the usual.”
“Was it really love, then?”
“When you fall in love there comes a point where she becomes all women; she is Every Woman. She embodies all that is feminine, soft, voluptuous and loving. It is at that moment that you are unguarded; it is at that moment you drop the shield and explore the magic before you. It is at that moment you are at your most vulnerable. It is at that point she owns you.”
“Are you suggesting it’s all downhill from there?”
“Pretty much.”
“That’s not very optimistic. Are you sure this is your happiest moment?”
“I don’t seek optimism. It’s realism that calls me. The beauty of the moment was in letting my guard down and confidently, faithfully…(a moment of silence)…idiotically, handing myself over to her. One soul entrusted to another. It is the fruit of one’s labor…the apex, the pinnacle and final step of a process that started with a chance meeting at a cafe...
“Then why do you say its all downhill? I don’t follow…”
“It’s all part of the natural rhythm in life. We see these patterns again and again. A flower spends months becoming a bud, then another few weeks flourishing into the vibrant wonder it is. It remains in its highest state of beauty for a few weeks, a small fraction of its total life. Look at an athlete’s career. An athlete is reared for eighteen years, and then sent off to college where he/she excels and gains attention. Years are spent honing their craft at top-notch level. Finally they burst on the professional scene and shine in the spotlight for three to five years. Many less than that. Their career peaks then downslides and eventually they’re bounced from team to team finally retiring. We, as living organisms, peak briefly. It is the nature of things. And it is true for love, too.”
“I’m sorry but I must disagree with you. What about the countless couples who live their lives together, grow old and pass away side by side?”
“That is a lie. That is the second greatest lie perpetrated by society. That is not love. That is tolerance and acceptance.”
“Maerkin, you are so cynical and pessimistic.”
“You call it cynical because it is unpleasant. People are designed to live alone. We are born one at a time, from one mother, and we die alone. One at a time. Even multiple deaths like a car accident or plane crash; we think of it as one instantaneous collective death. But it’s not. Each person dies a separate and personal death. Even the crash itself is experienced individually and unlike any other victim’s experience.”
“We must all face our Maker.”
“I’m getting to that. Even worse, we try to cushion the blow with false hopes of Heaven. Life after death. The Savior. Our Salvation. It is the greatest lie ever told.”
“Some would be deeply offended by your remark.”
“Life after death is not the idea. It’s death after life. That is what we can believe in. Death after life: we can say this for certain. If we choose a religion it should be based on this concept: no life after death but death after life. To my knowledge, no such religion exists.”
“But people need religion. They need a God. They need to know there is purpose to all this.”
“Exactly. But the truth is, we don’t need it. We think we do because it’s drilled into our heads from infancy. We are the Self-duped. The Self-deceived. We create religion to cushion the blow. If you told a long-distance runner he could stop running in a mile he would take solace in the knowledge that relief was on its way. His attention would focus solely on that moment when the pain of running ends. That is false hope. Tell the runner nothing and he will keep running. He'll find the wherewithall to maintain. He will pace himself with the knowledge there’s no relief in sight and he must endure. He will run with no hope.”
“So then what is the truth?”
“The truth is the dead cat on the side of the road.
“I don’t follow…”
“The randomness of this cat’s life and death. There was no good reason for this cat to die. Perhaps a rushed commuter drove the car. Had that driver stopped for coffee first, maybe the cat would have safely crossed the street. Then again, maybe another driver in another car would snuff out the cat. Imagine the cat stopped first to chase a mouse in a field, perhaps the timing would have changed to provide safe crossing. Perhaps not. The point is we can fabricate Divine reasons for this and attribute Godly reasons for that but it’s all fluff. It is fiction. It's our way of justifying a random existence devoid of true meaning.”
“You fail to recognize the accepted way. You must find your Savior. You must find your inner peace for Death will come quicker than you realize. You know what they say, Maerkin, when death smiles at you, all you can do is smile back.”
“Hmmm, I remember it different. When death smiles at you all you can do is tell him to go fuck himself.”
“Your talk borders on treason. H.S. will not be happy about this.”
Rappier’s face turns an ashen gray. It is ominous and glaring. Gone is the meekness replaced by authority and threat. He shuffles his papers, inserts all in his briefcase and snaps it shut with a tone of finality. Maerkin crossed the line and knows consequence awaits. His defiance was uncontrolled. His intolerance for government imposition expelled itself.
“Take your case file and go. Go now, before I roll you.” He takes his foot and exerting pressure on Grime’s chair, tilts it back. Gravity takes on the remainder of the task, flipping man and briefcase backwards to the floor. Maerkin himself is a bit surprised at his physical provocation.
Grimes stands quickly. Strangely, he seems taller than before and appears growing still. His meek stature is now a looming, menacing presence. His face, too, appears to be changing. The eye sockets recede. A demonic aura emanates. A hellish glare glows from his eyeballs, his cheekbones rise to the surface, the flesh melting so it seems. His jacket and tie blur and reform themselves as a black cloak while his briefcase elongates in material and shape, becoming a long sharp scythe. He almost cannot be contained by the confines of the eight-foot ceiling and hunches to fit in. His face is but a skull shrouded by hood. There before Maerkin in all his glory, stands the Grim Reaper.
Most would cower at the site but Maerkin is nonplussed.
“Oh yeah, I get it. Grimes Rappier- Grim Reaper. Good one, you think I didn’t have that figured out?"
In a low demonic voice, the Grim Reaper replies:
“Your time has come.”
The Reaper needs this voice to emphasize his role. Years earlier he had a lisp, pronouncing his S’s with the ‘th’ sound. People didn’t take him seriously and thought it was a prank. But this went against the entire nature of his role. He needed people to fear him. So he enrolled at a local community college in Long Island to repair the deficiency.
The Reaper leans back and delivers his first mighty swing of the scythe. Maerkin ducks, barely dodging the blade. As the Reaper stands in after-swing position Maerkin quickly dropkicks his opponent squarely to the ribcage.
“Ughh!” he calls out as he falls backwards, scythe and all.
“No, asshole, your time has come!” yells Maerkin. He almost can’t believe he’s laid out the Grim Reaper. “Come on, come get me, Death-boy.”
The Reaper stands again and pulls back for another deadly swing. Maerkin is ready. He jerks back and feels the breeze only a hair removed from his throat. The breeze has a horrid smell of decay. Maerkin moves in quickly and while his opponent again stands vulnerable he lands a punch to the skull. Another punch. The hood falls back. He pounds him with one blow after another. Maerkin grabs the weakened Reaper and shoves him to the door. The Reaper falls as Maerkin kicks him repeatedly while opening the entrance door. He holds the doorframe for support and with one final shove of his foot, hurls the Reaper past the entranceway and back to the street.
He slams the door quickly, locks the deadbolt, grabs the couch and shoves it in front to block the door from opening. He takes a deep breath and feels his pulse coursing through his body. It was everywhere; his head, his hands, his belly, his legs, his spine. He was alive. Maerkin was the first to elude the sweep of the scythe. He had escaped Death’s calling. This time. But Death would be back…maybe as a tax collector, or an insurance salesman, or a travel agent. He would return and get what he came for.
“That’s okay,” thought Maerkin. “Let him come.” He wasn’t bothered by the thought. Yet he was troubled. He wondered:
“Why do I fight like a lion when I’m the first to say life has no meaning? Why does my instinct betray my intellect?” This was his plight.
“If life is truly meaningless, why should I care to live another day?” he thinks. Maerkin turned off the lights, pulled out a pack of Newports and lit a cigarette. He looked into the blackness and paused. He watched as the glow from his cigarette danced in the dark. A smile crossed his face and he knew his answer:
“Because it’s fun.”
This story is a combination of ideas from 2002 to 2007. This is how my stories have come together recently; I start writing and it brings to mind things written years earlier. Then I tear my house apart trying to find those writings. Sometimes I find them, sometimes I re-create them from memory.
I'm proud of this story as it brings together a few critical ideas that have plagued my mind. But who knows, perhaps two years from now I'll read this story and cringe. Either way there's good stuff here and it's sure to pop up in future writings.
Melissa Carter August 2007
I'm proud of this story as it brings together a few critical ideas that have plagued my mind. But who knows, perhaps two years from now I'll read this story and cringe. Either way there's good stuff here and it's sure to pop up in future writings.
Melissa Carter August 2007
http://melissacarter.net/avisitfromhs.html
A Visit from H.S.
By Melissa Carter April 2007
Music: Roxy Music "More Than This"
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