Go F Yourself

A Short Story about Death

by Roger A Wilbanks

1

The crowd at Andy's was thin tonight and that suited Gary just fine. The fewer people he had to endure the better. He slipped into his spot near the ESPN TV and motioned for Angela.
“What'll it be tonight, Gar? The usual?” She slid a coaster in front of him.
“No. I want whiskey. The cheap stuff. From here..” he put his left hand down on the bar “...to here.” His right hand landed 19 inches away from its mate.
“That's a lot of whiskey. Rough night?”
“Hope so.” he nodded.

“Wanna talk about it?” She placed seven shot glasses in a row and began filling them.
“Yeah. Fuck Death.” Gary looked at her. All emotion was absent from his face. Angela saw a pain in his eyes that no small talk could salve and began placing the full glasses before their master.
“You don't have to say another word. I got you for these.” It was a gesture he had not expected. He nodded his thanks and picked up glass number one.
“To Craig.” He drained the contents in one gulp and picked up glass number two.
“You may want to take it a little slower than that.” The voice came from his left.
Gary turned and regarded the voice's owner. He saw a balding, middle aged gentleman with glasses looking back at him. The two could have been twins had the stranger sported as nice a goatee as Gary maintained.

“I would say 'Who the fuck are you and why should I care what you think.' right now, but to be honest, I really don't even want to waste that time speaking to you. Piss off.” He drained glass two in a single draw.

“You seem like a man in pain tonight.” the stranger offered.
“You don't know what pain is, fella...but if you keep talking to me, I might just show you.”
“A threat?” the stranger laughed. “I haven't heard one of those in a while. Thank you Gary.”
Gary stopped smiling and regarded the stranger anew. “How do you know my name?”
“I know a little more about you than just your name. Gary Kline. Born Oct 1971 in Cockrell Hill, TX. Son to Helen and Frank Kline, retired. You work in a dead end job as a salesman and you just lost a dear friend to suicide.”
Gary reached for an ashtray. It was the glass kind, heavy and sharp.
“Oh, you won't need THAT.” the stranger smiled. Gary looked at his wandering hand and put the ashtray back in its proper place.
“Who ARE you?” he asked.
“I'm not so much a WHO as a WHAT, Gary.”

The stranger's smile was nails dragging across a blackboard to Gary.

“OK. I'll play. What are you, asshole.”
“I am eternal, I am the end. In as much words as necessary, Gary...I am Death.”
Gary understood the words but his mind refused to acknowledge them. He stared at his clean shaven doppelganger. As his gaze passed through their external sheen, he could see a vast expanse open beneath the surface of the stranger's eyes. He felt himself pulled as if by gravity towards these eyes. The stranger blinked, shaking Gary back from his stupor.

“I understand.” he said.
“Good. That will make this easier.”
“Is it...my time?”
“No.”
Gary crinkled his eyebrows, visibly shaken.
“What are you doing here then?”
“I just claimed someone close to you. You took exception to this and, how did you put it? Suggested I 'Go Fuck Myself'.”

“You're damned right I did. You had no right to take Craig. He was young. He had a family. People loved him.”
“I have every right, Gary. That's what I do. The cycle of life begins with birth but ends with me. It has for all time and will continue as such long after all of this...” he motioned generally at everything “..is gone.”
“Forgive me for not being impressed.”
“Are you mocking me?” Death asked?
“Dunno. Does 'mock' imply some kind of mutual respect here? Cause I gotta tell you, I ain't particularly feeling that right now. This here?” He pointed into the space between the two, “This here is pure contempt, Jack.”
“I could draw the spark of life from your body with a thought.” Death bragged.
“Go ahead then, asshole I'm not scared of you.”
It was Death's turn to regard the man in front of him. Past the window of Gary's eyes, Death saw vile contempt.
“You truly have no fear of me.” Death said.
“None.”
“I wonder. Is that wise? It seems, I don't know, self destructive somehow. Where is your sense of self preservation? Surely the drink hasn't robbed you of your faculties so soon?”
“No. These haven't hit me yet. That loathing you're feeling? That's my stone cold hatred of you. You took a good man today and I don't need to hear your “BIG PICTURE” “Greater Scheme of Things” bullshit right now.”
Gary picked up glass number three. “In fact, I really don't need anything from you.” He finished the shot in a blink.

Death put his elbows on the bar and clasped his fingers, resting his chin upon them as he took stock of this angry human before him. His eyes narrowed. “You have my interest, Gary. I haven't been able to say that about one of you in a long time.”
“So you're not going to claim me, and you're not going to give me back Craig. What is it you want?”
“I am interested in what you want, Gary. If you were given the ability to ask a favor of Death, I am curious what a person like YOU would ask for.”
Gary paused. This was an idea that had never crossed his mind.
“No need to answer now. We will meet again soon. You can tell me then.”
There was a loud crash in the street outside the bar. “I have other business to attend to presently.” Death tipped his trilby hat towards Gary and left the bar.
“Who is Craig?” Angela asked.
Gary blinked and looked at Angela. “What is that?” he asked.
“Was Craig a friend of yours?” she asked.

Gary looked at Angela and at the now empty seat next to him. “You didn't...?” he asked?
“I didn't.” she said. “Are you sure you're good with these?” she motioned to the other drinks.
“Yeah,” he said. “I just...I dunno. Did you see that guy?”
“Nope.” she said.
Gary realized that playing dumb was the safest bet at this point. “I just...yes. Craig was my friend and he died today.”
“Oh, I'm so sorry, hun!” she cried.
“No. It's... I just...I'm taking it a little harder than I maybe ought to, I guess.”

He finished the remaining shots.
“I'm taking a cab home.”
Angela waved him out of her bar and Gary went home for the evening with a lot to think about.

2

Gary splashed water from the sink onto his face. He saw his old friend in the mirror behind him.
“You've been expecting me.” he said.

“You've been busy.” Gary answered.
“Busier than you could possibly fathom.”
“You're picking the wrong day for jokes. They were my parents.”
“Would it help to mention it was their time?”
“Not in the least. And don't you DARE drop that 'Well, at least they aren't suffering anymore.' line on me.” Gary spun to face Death “I will END you!” he roared.

Death smiled.
Gary punched his foe with all the strength he could manage, spinning his head around with a force he didn't think he had in him.
Death smiled as if the assault never happened. There wasn't a mark to be seen on his face.
“That should have broken your nose.” Gary glared.

“It would likely have killed a man. You've been working out.”
“You're poking me again. I wish I had the power to make you regret that.”
“Is that the thing you would ask of me? The power to put me in my place?”
“No. What point would that make?” Gary laughed. “I cold-cocked Death! 'Well, ain't your mama gonna be proud?' Yeah...maybe, except she's fucking dead.” Gary rubbed his knuckles, still ringing from their blow.

“Yes. I agree. It would be pointless.”
Gary turned his back on Death.
“What do you think I am, Gary? Do you think me a monster? A villain? Am I the bad guy in your movie?”
“No. You're none of those. I know what you are. You're the end none of us wants to face. You're the credits after the movie.”
“I'm glad we understand each other.”
“Is...is it my time now?”
“No. I have come to visit you again now to ask you a second time. What would you like?”
“I still don't want anything from you. Do you expect me to ask for immortality? For more time? I'm gonna go whenever you decide...”
“It isn't my decision, Gary.”
“Whatever. It isn't MINE either. If you're standing there waving that in front of me like a red cape, I'm not going to charge you.”
“You are a very unique Man, Gary. I have to admit that you have me intrigued. We will see each other again soon.”
“Will that be the last time?”
“Would it make you feel better to know the answer to that?”
“Not really.”
Death smiled and walked out of the bathroom. Gary followed him. There was no sign of Death when he got back to his seat in the church.
The priest continued the service memorializing his parents. Gary stared straight ahead.

3

“Gary?”
“I know.”
“Good. Would you ask anything of me now?”
“Yes.”
“What would you ask of me, Gary.”
“I want time.” He saw a smile crack Death's face.

“What's so goddamn funny?”
“It's just the repetitive nature. If you had been in my position the trillions upon trillions of times I have heard that you would perhaps find it funny too.”

“Not that kind of time you malignant tumor.”
“What other kind of time IS there, Gary?”
“I have things I need to take care of. People I would like to say good bye to.”
“That's not really part of the deal here, Gary. Time doesn't really allow me to control it like that. Your time is now. That is as immutable as the heavens. More so, even as one day, I shall claim them as well.”

“I need a day.”
Death paused. “I can allow you an hour. No more, no less. I feel I owe you that for the amusement you have given me.”
“Amusement? I'm some kind of fucking game to you?” Gary screamed.

“Not at all. That was a poor choice of words on my part. I am sorry, Gary. You have given me joy if such a thing were available to one such as me. But I'm afraid I have less control over events as you would like to believe. Time for you is a straight line with two distinct points, the start and the end. For me, it's a little different. You are a ripple among infinite ripples in an immeasurable pond. And I have no more control over your undulations than you do. But I can, hit the pause button as you say, for a brief while.”
“I won't take long. I have been expecting you for some time now.”
Gary picked up the phone and made a phone call. He laughed. He cried. He hung up.
“I'm ready.”
“That was...fast. I almost feel as if you have been...cheated.”
“You said it all those years ago asshole. The cycle of life begins with birth but ends with you. It has for all time and will continue as such long after all of this...” he motioned generally at everything “..is gone.”
“I have lived a full life and given and received love. I have held my child and HIS child in my arms. I have seen all I know die in this world and slowly be replaced by something else. I came to terms with this cycle of yours a long time ago.”
Death was moved by this. “You continue to impress me, Gary.”
“Yeah. Go Fuck Yourself.”
Death smiled and the two moved on.

A Year and a Day

While the time is off a bit, hear me out.

It's been a year since my father fell while walking down the hall. He was having trouble breathing and eating. He was recovering from throat cancer, but how do you recover from that? His throat had been scorched raw...his teeth removed and his saliva glands incinerated. He survived the cancer but I would never call the life he was forced to live recovered. It was survival.

Pure and simple.

We, my brother and I, watched the man we grew up loving, fearing and respecting erode in front of our eyes. Piece by piece were removed from this man as payment for the life he chose to lead. The cigarettes and the alcohol you currently enjoy are adding up right now. I promise you this. I've seen the payment they demand upclose and in person. I'm not about to sit on a soapbox and decry the dangers of excess. You keep on smoking and drinking, as will I. Just understand the nature of your transaction. You are exchanging the now for tomorrow. You are enacting the free will that makes us intrinsically human and for that, I can't fault you. Just as I couldn't bring myself to tell my father, several years removed from cancer treatment to stop smoking and drinking.

He would have told me to mind my own goddamn business had I brought it up, and he would have been right in doing so. Still, it is a source of regret on my part that I wasn't more emphatic in my protest.

On Aug 31 of last year...after he had fallen several times and was having trouble even breathing, he agreed to go to the hospital. The doctor at the VA Emergency Room told me and my mother that my father would be dead in a week. He thought he was being optimistic in this prediction. He honestly didn't think my father would last the night.

I told his doctor what every son believes in his heart. "You don't know my father. He is a fighter." He laughed the safe amusement of a doctor who knows better. But I was sincere. My father WAS a fighter. After they drained his lung of the fluid build up and replenished his fluids (His inability to swallow for weeks had limited his eating and drinking. He was dehydrated and malnourished) the fighter emerged. My father, whom this doctor of medicine had honestly thought would be dead in days was healthy and ready to go home. Until the test results returned. My fathers cancer had returned and in a more aggressive form than before. It was incurable...inoperable and they again told me and my family that my father would be dead in a week.

"You don't know my dad." I said again. This time they were right. The cancer took a little longer than a week. It took 3 months to be precise...but it claimed my father. The stress of staying by his bedside for these months also claimed my mother, only days before he passed. I thanked the doctors at the VA for their exemplary service and care and buried both my parents days after my birthday.

This marked the end of my life as I knew it. I struggle to find the words to describe how this affcted me. A year ago today, I was hot, I was tired, but I was whole...I was happy. Times were tough but I knew I would make it through because of my family. The future was a window I watched play out life's daily performance while I sat comfortably distanced.

Nine months ago, I discovered the meaning of the word numb. I have been without feeling since that day. It is as if a piece of my soul was buried alongside my parents in that cemetary. I have smiled since then. I have cried as well. I have been visited by my parents almost nightly in my dreams. Sometimes these are plesant and provide me with a sense of peace. Other times... Well other times they simply aren't. In the last 9 months I would guess that I have seen my parents die at least 200 times in my dreams and I fear that is an optimistic number.

I wake at 3am with the same feeling of despair smothering me as I felt when the doctor at Methodist Hospital told me my mother was dead. My body is usually soaked in my own sweat. It is not a feeling I have shared with anyone. But I know what it is and I know why I write this now. I share this with you anonymous people now as a catharsis. I will continue to dream of my parents. I will continue to revulse in horror at my memory of performing CPR on my already dead mother and I will continue to see with utter clarity in my mind's eye the withered body of my father as we said goodbye. I will also know that their spirits were gone from those lifeless bodies and the pain they endured without complaint whisked away by the embrace of Old Man Death. I don't hate Old Man Death, mind you. his is a necessary task. Without his service, suffering and pain would be the norm.

But as much as I miss my parents and want them back, I understand. I get it. Time has softened the blow a bit. The dreams still come with regularity. They will for some time to come. I can live with this. It's the alternative that would hurt more. My father continuing to suffer. My mother continuing to wear herself to the bone standing her vigil. That's what I find unacceptable. That's what the lesson of the last year has taught me.

If you had said to me a year and a day ago that my parents would both still be alive today, I would have taken that as a good thing. But having seen what I have...having endured what I have...How could that be a good thing? Today is the first day in this entire time that I can say without feeling in the least bit bad about it that I am happy that my parents are gone. I can say this because their pain ended. The next step in their lives began. THIS...I envy. I can't wait to see them again and ask them how things have been. I bet they have some pretty damned awesome stories to tell.

The Artist Died

While working today, where I called an art gallery, I was told that they were no longer in business because the artist they represented had died.  I was saddened to hear this.  I've been walking in lockstep with death for far too long now.  But this time something odd happened.  While typing in my notes from the call, I typed the following:
"The Artist"  and stopped.  I couldn't type the last part.  Those 4 letters..."died" would not come.  I sat there for an eternity looking at the computer motionless.  I was frozen in action but not in thought.  My mind raced at a million miles an hour as I sat still.
I began to think about what would happen to MY work when I finally shuffle off this mortal coil.
I have very few completed work.  Most of my Magnum Opusi, Opuses, Opus' (however the hell you pluralize opus) are incomplete.  I have told no one how my many stories will end.  Not out of fear of them spoiling the ending, rather because I want everyone to get the same reaction and Wow factor reading it only after I edit that story for a final time.
I sat there and looked at those two words, "The Artist" and wondered why I had capitalised the word Artist.   My brows crinkled and I got some fleeting thought that I did this out of honor.  But this wasn't true.  I was typing my own obituary.  I capitalised that word because to me...the word Artist is a proper noun.
After what felt like 2-3 minutes, I finally typed the last four letters.   Died.
That's when I became self conscious.  I began to think my coworkers were looking at me.  I wondered what they would say if they knew my story.  These folks I now work with have no clue about the last year of my life and the living Hell it has been. I won't tell them.  I'm not even certain I'll be around them long enough for that to matter...and besides.  I'm fucking sick of talking about it and getting the same reaction every time.   To them, I was just sitting there zoning out.  To me, however, I was in a state of panic.
I felt like a failure for not having finished my stories.  I felt like I was losing this race I'm on with the reaper too fast.  And make no mistake, kid.  We're ALL on that race and it's a rigged contest.  We'll never win.  The best we can hope for is to accomplish something that lives on after we die.  As an Artist, I have that power, but what have I left behind to date aside from a handful of poorly cared for paintings and a filing cabinet full of stories that you will all love if I ever finish them.  You want to know what it was like during 260BC? Got that one.  You want to live life in the trenches of WWI France?  Got that.  You want an existential analogy on the merits of good and evil set in Purgatory?  I got that one too.  But they are all in folders.  Incomplete sketches, the lot of them.
If the reaper were to claim me tonight in my sleep, what would happen to them?  Would I be able to trust my family to treat them with the respect they demand?  Would they be placed in hands that could do better than mine?  or would they simply be placed in a large crate and buried in teh earth alongside me?
As I looked at the words "The Artist died...." having just grated my own soul thinking about what would happen to my work when I kick off, I remembered the reason I typed those words.  I thought about the Artist I had called about. He died in his 70's.  He had some pretty good art.  He lived a good life and died with many, many friends.  In the greater scheme of things I would say he won at life. 
I felt guilty for bemoaning my far off demise (fingers crossed) when this man had in fact beaten me to it.  But then the arrogant bastard in me stood up and said "Your work is more important than his, Roger.  Your work will bring feeling to people in a way he never could with just those paintings."  My arrogant side is pretty adamant about things like this.  I agreed in this case.  There may be someone 10 years from now who reads my Suicide Story and it changes his life.  Perhaps someone will meet Eugene, My hitman with a past and not make the same mistakes he made.  I am so much more these days than an Artist.  That's not arrogance talking, it's fact.  As a Writer (yes, I capitalise THAT one as well) I have an aspect he didn't have.  That doesn't make his loss lesser.  It doesn't make my contribution greater.  I just think I have more work to get done.  And hopefully, someone will get out of that work something that will help them.  Wishful thinking, I know.  Odds are I'll die as anonymous as I lived.  With only you generous few there cheering me on as I ride the lightning.  But I like to think I am meant for greater things.  As Browning said, "A man's reach should exceed his grasp...or else what is a Heaven for?"

Don't Fear the Reaper...

...or maybe you should.  Because he's coming.  Let there be absolutely zero question.
We spend our lives ducking the Reaper's Scythe so deftly, we begin to doubt his existance.  We begin to think we're better than everyone else. The long, drawn out absence he grants us while we're off having our fun comes with a hefty pricetag.  We think the reaper has forgotten us. Our complacence is his ally.  The catch is, he's always there, waiting.  He knows our guard is dropping and he relishes that.  He's not evil though.  He's a force of nature, as immutable as time and just as patient.

For those of you who don't know, my mother passed away Friday night.
I was in the backyard.

She had an aneurysm. She died instantly. I had just taken her home from the hospital with my dad. In the car I told her I had a hockey game Sat night that I was thinking of missing out on. She told me to play. She told me she wanted me to play. I stopped at Church's for wings because she was hungry. I got her inside and went out back. I was playing with the dog and just standing there when Caesar started acting odd.

I went inside and saw her lying on the floor. There was a knot on her head, she wasn't breathing and had no pulse. I called 911 and started doing CPR. The paramedics arrived within 2 minutes and did what they could. They rushed her to Methodist hosp. I followed.

Jay was at the Nutcracker. His phone was off, I sent him a text saying Mom is dead. I prayed I was overreacting. I got to Methodist and found the room they had her in. They were working on her feverishly. They wouldn't let me watch. They told me that they would send a doctor and a chaplin to talk to me and put me in a room with a phone.

A mexican girl walked into my room and called her boyfriend on her phone, but didn't stay long. About 20 minutes passed when I couldn't wait any more. I went looking for them. The doctor was walking towards me with the chaplin. He shook my hand and said something.  I have no idea what he said, but he was trying to prepare me for the news I knew was coming. I told him to just tell me. He told me my mother was dead. He may as well have hit me in the gut with a sledgehammer, because even though I was expecting it...I was in no way prepared for it.

They took me to the body and I asked to be left alone with her. I didn't want anyone to watch me cry. Jay arrived about 5 minutes later. He had called mom's brother Joe and my dad's sister Peggy. They both arrived within 30 minutes. Jay mentioned the police may want to talk to me just because of the circumstances. The Chaplin did that for them.

We stayed till everyone had seen her. Then we went home....to make the phone calls. My friend James came by and sat with Jay and me for a while. I eventually fell asleep around 3:30am. The phone started ringing at 7am. We talked to almost everyone.   If I missed you, I apologize.  It has been busy and I know you understand.

I tried getting some sleep but it was pointless. I played hockey and got shelled for 11 goals (on 49 shots) Only 3 of my teammates knew, and I preferred it that way. I went out with the guys after the game and had a beer. I got home Lastnight at 2:15...falling asleep by 3 only to be woken up at 5 by the VA telling me my father was about to die.

Jay and I rushed to the hospital and found out it was a false alarm. We stayed till 7 this morning and returned home. The phone started ringing again at 10am. I stayed up...watched the Cowboys game...talked to some more family and even after all that...I STILL expect to walk into that house and see her sitting on the couch watching the Food Network.  I fully expect to be able to go talk to my mother and tell her all about my day.  I expect to be able to show her the latest comic I am working on.  She is my biggest fan, after all.  It isn't until the reality hits me that the pain starts.  It is not a pain I want.  It's not a pain I think I am capable of handling.

But I will.  I have to.

The worst part? I still can't get the smell off of me from giving her CPR. It's been following me this entire time.
 
What is the moral?  What do I want you to take away from this?  It's simple.  Take the day you have today as if it will be the last one you have.  Treat everyone you love as if this will be the last time you will ever see them.  You got all this from the Dead Poet's Society.  Carpe Diem and all that.  But I'm here to tell you.  I sat next to my mother 20 minutes before she died and I didn't tell her I love her.  I will take that with me to my own grave...and I have no doubts the reaper's sharpening his scythe right now.