Death Gets a Makeover
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I went to the window.
Got up from my desk for a rest. Every hour you’re supposed to get up, walk around and stretch. I wanted to rest my eyes by parking my gaze in the trees across the street when I noticed an old woman leaning on a tree catching her breath. Not far behind her and hiding behind an adjacent tree was Death. He had her in his sights, ready to pounce. I pulled on my shoes and ran out of our apartment down the stairs and out into the street. I blocked his ambush. He was a weird looking chap as one would imagine him to be. Giant ram’s horns around his ears. Grey unkempt hair. A long back cape, torn and ragged. Unpolished black boots up to his knees. His eyes were intense, the whites were red and his irises were yellow, fluorescent yellow. Dark circles ran around his eyes. His lips were blue, and he had a scraggly beard. Like a messy nest. His hands were filthy. Nails long and broken. And he smelled like tar pitch. “Oh, come on,” I told him. “This get-up may have worked in the Middle Ages. It would’ve fit in with their world view. But now—it just looks you’re late for Halloween, very late. “I know the woman you’re stalking. I see her on the bus and in the stores. She longs for your visit. She’s had a very difficult life with few joys. She waits for you. She wants to give up. But you don’t have to scare her to death. “You should come to her as Clark Gable. Handsome, debonnaire. Ready to sweep her off her feet. She’s ready for that. It would be a pleasant surprise, like winning the lottery the moment she checks out. “For this moment in time, the fear of death is threadbare. Maybe the terror you seek to engender worked in a time when people were afraid of judgment, brimstone the fire of Hell. No more. “Come up to my place and we’ll clean you up. And while you’re cleaning up, I’ll work on a new PR campaign for you and for dying.” I dragged him to our apartment, filled the tub, gave him a loofah and a brush. “Sit there—soak and scrub. Make yourself glow. Here are nail clippers, trim all you nails. Oh, and let’s get rid of the horns. The appeal is too narrow a demographic. We’re looking for wide acceptance. Dying will mean perishing in the arms of the most romantic man.” I took his clothes to the trash. He was about my size and I had more clothes than I needed. My closet bulged. I put a towel around him, once he was spick and span. Took him to my closet and gave him his choice. I have to say. He cleaned up nice. Looked better than I ever had in the clothes he selected. I’ve often thought the processes of dying must be marvelous. Separating oneself from the cares of the world, the pains of the body, and the torments of the mind. What fun. Just to relax and slide out of it. And with a handsome helper? What could be better. He agreed to give it a try. I thought of taking him to Disneyland for a day, just so he could get the gist of it. Not necessary. He got it. After all the scrubbing and dressing and inculcating the new program into him, we went out and found the old woman still leaning on the tree. He touched her shoulder, and as she began to smile, she shed her worn out body and began to appear as she had in her youth: fresh, innocent, attractive. She perished in his arms, at rest, charmed, loving every second. As she slipped to the ground, the phone I gave him pinged. A text message. On to the next. I told him I would wait with the body until the ambulance came. We saluted each other. He was on his way and didn’t look back. |
