The Obituary

The Obituary

By Mo Sage

City Herald Offices

76th Floor

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(( Head Editor

Ernest Godfrey ))

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When his promotion had been announced, Ernest had intercepted the original plaque order request. Altering the font to be one-half size larger. The difference was almost imperceptible, but when he noted the immediate hesitancy by others to knock on his door, he liked to attribute it to this. 

Ernest’s ascent in the Herald was compared only to that of his predecessor. Long days, and even longer nights were spent covering every calamity The City had to offer, from The Explosion to The Terrorist Attack. Months were spent following the Bank Heists and their subsequent thrilling trials. He’d interviewed The Serial Killer just minutes before his course correcting injection. The article won him the Award for Outstanding Prose. He kept the thin crystal plaque on his bedside table, with the lamp on. So that when he woke, breathless and uncertain, it was there to assure him.

Finally at the top Ernest could no longer focus solely on reaching the front page. As Head Editor, he was now responsible for ensuring every section captured the appropriate part of the public’s eye. The theater showings must also be managed. The Ask Andy’s, with their repetitive queries and assumptive responses. The celebratory wins and unexpected losses of their Local Sports Team. The clockwork Election Cycle of certain years. 

Ernest had finished reviewing tomorrow’s paper, and after some necessary grumbling, sent off to press. But a single holdout remained. The 3” by 2” space, no larger than his palm, stared up at him mockingly. OBITUARIES.

One of the key tenants that The Department had entrusted the Head Editors was the full capacity of the Obituaries. They had dubbed it “a necessary and constant reminder of normality.” A lynchpin of their well-oiled construction, that Ernest had been tasked with keeping in place.

There were a few good ones. Old Georgia Adams up in the Eastern Section had died of a heart attack at the ripe age of 68. Having never married, she was survived by her many nieces and nephews. Her closest friend and neighbor, Ethel Smith hand sent in a hand-written piece following Georgia’s death that morning. It shared pleasant anecdotes about their times together, Georgia’s love of butterflies, and hinted at the occasional adventure, even in their old age. 

However, the paper’s pre-written copy, pre-drafted for each of the elderly within the city, listed each and every niece and nephew by first and last name. Word count being the highest currency, Ethel’s letter was now crumpled at the bottom of Ernest’s waste bin. It rested next to a half-eaten donut and stained car wash receipt he’d found in his jacket pocket that morning.

The middle-aged Captain Gordon White had also passed the previous night. While they hadn’t pre-written an obituary for him, it was never difficult to dress up some details on a Veteran’s. The patriotic lauding of his many War Time Medals and Good Deeds had taken up a respectable amount of space. Though Gordon’s surviving list was notably shorter, an estranged wife, and two dogs. 

There was no mention made to the circumstances of his death. Hardly patriotic to mention ODing in a public restroom. They’d fixed that by speaking on the respectful funeral The Department would hold for their Soldier.  Ernest made a mental note to send a reporter to cover the ceremony. Might as well milk the dead for all they’re worth. 

These two, along with an aneurysm and quiet suicide, had taken up the majority of the section. But the palm sized hole remained. He checked his watch. Almost midnight. The presses had to start by Two if they were going to make it to print on time. There was no way that was going to happen to him. 

Ernest turned and gazed steadily at his phone, willing it to ring. Word of a tragic mugging. Perhaps an old cat lady found half-eaten just this evening? A late-night highway pile-up would be ideal. Deaths were nearly assured and they’d be able to throw in the piece David had been working on about drunk driving statistics. Best of all, Ernest would have an excuse to bump Patrick’s droll piece on the decaying water pipes. 

When the phone refused to ring, he considered the unthinkable: Prayer. The lavish office rug was certainly soft enough to kneel on, but he was a Good Citizen. A devout skeptic outside of Sunday service and the occasional Holiday. So rather than God, he turned to the liquor cabinet across the room. 

Drink in hand, Ernest picked up his phone, dialing down to the reporter's lounge. Upon his promotion he’d instated a company-wide mandate requiring all major departments to maintain at least half staff till two in the morning, the last possible printing deadline. He’d explained it vaguely as an “in case of emergency” prevention plan. But in truth, he enjoyed the power of forcing them to stay as late as he did, often later.

One such disgruntled worker, Craig Johnson, picked up the phone greeting him with ill-disguised weariness. Ernest barked out.

“Call every station! Deaths, stabbings, accidents, forgotten corpses. A half-eaten cat-lady. Anything. Just get me a death, NOW! Or it’ll be your ass off the roof to fill that page!”

Johnson began replying that he and the men would get right on it, don’t you worry Boss, but Ernest had already hung up. He didn’t want a response, just the power of causing someone else a problem. For a moment he could pretend it wasn’t his.

The ice rattled softly against the glass as he stared out at The City. This view was one of the reasons he’d aimed so high. The sea of lights laid down at his feet, and Ernest their meticulous cataloguer. He believed himself to be the single handed orchestrator of everything they thought they knew. His words filled their minds and waking lives. Standing here above them all gave him a sense of power he’d always sought after.

A soft knock on his door interrupted his self-serving contemplation. There had been no moment's hesitation. Before Ernest could call out, the door opened wide. Two men in well tailored suits stepped in. Each stood at 6 feet exactly. Being five foot eight himself, Ernest remained seated so as not to reveal his disadvantage.

Visits from Department Men were rare. Usually a sign that something, somewhere was slipping. Since Ernest’s appointment as Head Editor, there had only been one such visit. That was when he started keeping the lamp on at night. 

“Good evening Ernest,” the first one greeted him. A few days' stubble and a haphazard pocket square distinguished him from his fellow. “My name’s Cain, and this,” jerking his thumb back roughly, “is Able.” The second man’s sharper frame was noticeably less friendly. 

“We’ve heard of your little problem and are here to present a solution,” Cain said. His eyes scanned the room in a slow steady sweep, before sitting comfortably in the available chair. Ernest felt his heart quicken but kept his hands relaxed on the desk in front of him.

“Please assure the Department that I have things well under control. My men are searching diligently for a death as we speak. Hell, if we aren’t able to find one I’ll throw one of them off the roof myself.” Ernest laughed too loudly, but the two men merely exchanged a glance, saying nothing. 

“As I was saying,” Cain continued. “We have a solution.” Able reached into his trench coat and slid a crisp half sheet of paper across the desk. The ink was dark, as though still wet, but he recognized the format even at this distance. They weren’t here to scold him but to save him! 

Ernest picked the paper up carefully, in case the ink was as wet as it appeared. As he read, his hands began to shake violently. 

“B-but this…” Ernest began, looking frantically between the two Department men, but only their equally hollow eyes greeted him. “...it can’t be true.” His voice petered out, the sentence now abandoned as he peered into their stoney eyes.

“You’ve done well these past few years,” Cain assured him. His soothing tone did not match the grizzly expression on his face. “Surely it would be the greater shame to see the paper you gave your life to fail so seriously in the eyes of the Public.” Ernest knew he meant  “in the eyes of The Department.” This was not an option.

Ernest looked over the paper again. A half-hour ago he had begged for a tragedy such as this. Even considered the complexity of prayer to bring it closer. But the dead had been distant figures then. A stranger gone for a reason he could not find it in his heart to pity. 

Turning from the reality the two men had delivered to him, he stared back out at The City. The unchanging landscape of light greeted him, but for the first time he tried to make out single lights. Eyes strained, he searched for some distant flickering. Lights turned off and on in a rhythmic dance he had never cared to notice before. Children going to bed. Mother’s going out. Workmen coming home. Anything to reinforce the singularity of the lives he once dismissed.

Cain coughed gently behind him, pulling Ernest back to the present.

“There’s another one written of course,” Able said quietly, revealing the gun at his waist. There was no menace in his voice, just a calm certainty in the way things were going to play out. One way or another, Ernest would not be surviving the night.

Ernest took some comfort in that. After all, they were merely doing their job, as he had done all these years. Filling in their respective pages, checking their respective boxes. It seemed simply dumb luck that Ernest happened to be one of those boxes tonight.

“Maybe you’d like that,” Cain said soothingly. “More mystery to report, probably even get the front page. People love blood like sugar, the faker the better.” With his lips pulled back Ernest could see a sharp gold canine. A warning received too late.

Ernest still sat in the high-backed chair. He would die in this room tonight, never having risen from his seat. He saw that clearly now. After all, the obituary had already been written. Who was he to question the word of the news? 

Setting the glass down, he pulled the square of paper back toward him and grabbed a pen. He struck out words, sentences, and scribbled furiously in the margins. Attempting to make his mark on these last moments. When he handed it back to the Department Men the text was hardly recognizable beneath the red strokes. Able folded it crisply and placed it in the same pocket he’d removed it from.

Without a word Cain emptied a vial of viscous liquid into Ernest’s glass. Topping it off with the same scotch as before. “A generous amount,” Cain said, winking at him as he placed the glass back down in front of him. “Won’t hurt at all.“  Ernest was unsure whether he meant the whiskey or the poison, but in the end decided not to ask.

For a moment Ernest contemplated a world where there was another option. One where he would have the strength to force himself past the two men, out the door and down the stairs. But where would he go? Who would he turn to? His subordinates’ wouldn’t raise a finger. There was no lover at home. No surviving family members. And even should he escape, there would be no asylum. No one would go against The Department. These men would have full authority to gun him down in the street, if they so desired. But in truth none of this was the deciding factor. With the reputation of the paper at stake, Ernest’s course of action was clear.

Ernest looked down at his desk, the empty obituary spot staring up at him. What had once merely been an annoyance now revealed itself as his undoing. The lack of death required the fabrication of it. Ernest was just one more body packing the margins of the routine world he had worked so hard to create.

Gripping the glass tightly, he raised it to the men in front of him. They had delivered to him his final purpose. What had begun as fear had slowly thawed to respect. They were simply doing their jobs, and he was content, happy even, to be a cog in their machine. 

 “To The Herald,” he announced solemnly, before throwing the drink back quickly. Before he could change his mind. The liquid ran past the edges of his mouth, and he wiped it curtly away with his sleeve. They would dress him in his best after anyway, so a few stains wouldn’t kill anyone. Cain laughed at his small joke and tipped his hat with a thin smile.

Ernest turned back to the city and watched the lights go out.

. . .

A few minutes later the Department Men exited the room, closing the door softly behind them.

“It’s a shame we already sent the copy to the printer.” Cain remarked. “He seemed rather heart-felt about the edits.” Abel shrugged sharply. The paper in his pocket would later find its way into his trash can, next to a discarded candy wrapper and a few receipts of equal value.

THE OBITUARY

Ernest Godfrey, 57 years of age, passed quietly in his office at The Herald late last night. As Head Editor, he was known as a well-worked man, catching sleep in the small nook of his office when deadlines required. He found his joy in a job well done and never disappointed those closest to him. He will be well remembered by his friends and colleagues. The Department will be holding a ceremony for him at the foot of The Herald building later this week to honor his life and work.