Temp Work

Temp Work

“Come in”. The dark brown velvet voice flows invitingly then swirls down a sewer drain.

The solid wood, interictally carved, twelve-foot-tall door is awe-inspiring. Gargoyles and gremlins look down with malevolent grins from the frieze above. By all rights I should be terrified or at least intimidated. I should be cowering on trembling legs. But I feel calm, one might even say cool and collected.

“Name, date of birth.” The larger-than-life figure behind the enormous desk is hunched over a comparatively undersized keyboard.

“Gloria Messmer. January 22, 1952.

He pauses, flicks his coal black eyes my way and turns back to the state-of-the-art computer.

“You’re early.” I feel the basso profundo of his voice, holding a hint of surprise, all the way down to my toes.

What can I say, I’ve never been late for anything and start reaching behind me for the doorknob.

“I can come back. No problem.” I offer generously.

“No.” His sigh carries the weight of eternity and presses heavily against my ribcage. “It doesn’t work that way.”

“But if you’re not ready for me …”

“Yeah.” The hollow echo of that word bounces in my stomach. “I’ll have to figure out what happened.”

“How early am I?”

Death looks up from the computer screen, his black eyes rake dispassionately over me. He shrugs.

“Ten years, give or take.”

“So…?” I ask hopefully.

He shakes his head, stirring a cold breeze through the cavernous space.

“It’s one way only, darling. It’s always one way only.” He sounds tired.

My shoulders slump. He is right of course. It only goes one way. All time travel stories aside, time creeps or inches forward, marches on, will wait for no man. It might seem to stand still, now and then, but it doesn’t, not really.

“Um, then what? I’m to keep you company for the next ten years, ’give or take’?” I can hear the touch of sarcasm that slips into my tone. He barely raises an eyebrow, having heard it all, I’m sure.

He leans back in his massive chair, wooden spoon-sized fingers laced together behind his head, his black shirt straining across a chest that reminds me of a Mini.

“Yes! I got it!” He rocks forward and stands. With a shit-eating grin, he crooks his index finger at me. “Sit here.” He waves me toward his throne.

I’ll admit to feeling a smidge of trepidation at this point. “Why?” I look up at him with mixture of uncertainty and distrust, while the chair reaches up and molds itself to perfectly fit around my fluffy pear-shaped behind.

“Do my job for ten years or so, while I go relax.”

“I can’t just take over your job.” I protest and start to push up from the chair, but it’s holding me comfortably, yet firmly in place.

“Nothing to it. Ask their name and birthdate, tick it off on the screen and the computer will tell you which pass to hand out.” He points to the three stacks of cardboard disks, each about the size of bar coasters. One stack is green, one yellow and the third stack, actually the largest of the three is red.

“Here, I’ll show you.” He answers the knock on the door with his drain swirling voice. “Come in.”

A man, ninety if he’s a day, steps inside and straightens from his stooped posture with a sigh of pleasure.

“At last.” He laughs with delight.

“Name, date of birth.” Death intones.

“Eugene Monnick. Dec 17, 1933.” He smiles warmly at me. Death nudges me, sending my chair rolling across the polished floor. When I roll back to his side, he shows me which key to use to verify the name. The screen changes from cream to green. As soon as I hand Mr. Monnick his green pass, a door appears and opens.

“Welcome, Mr. Monnick, please go on through.”

When the door closes behind the old man, I turn back to Death. “Where does that door go to?”

“Beats me, Above my pay grade.” He shrugs, disturbing a few sugar gliders in the rafters.

“What if I come across something irregular, like me?” I ask, though I can see he already has one foot on tropical beach.

“Look in the drawer.”

I open the drawer that had not been there seconds ago. The only thing inside is a Staples Easy button.”

Have fun.” He says a hint of glee in his voice. I swear I hear Andy Narell and the Long Time Band play You’re the Man, before the wall closes behind Death.

Some days the pace is steady, somedays after a natural or man-made disaster the pace is grueling, somedays, after a grade school shooting the work is heart breaking.

Either way, it’s more than a full-time job. It demands my attention round the clock, no bathroom or lunch breaks. Not that I have need for intake or elimination, but one might think about taking up smoking again, and a good stiff drink would help me digest all the misery. The consolation is that the old, ancient and antique people are delighted, grateful and thrilled to be pain free, as are the chronically and terminally ill. They fairly dance through the next door.

One day, about five years after my recruitment, two men walk in. The taller of the two, the one with a fluffy bottle-blond combover, elbows his way in ahead of the slighter brown-haired one. The latter doesn’t make eye contact. After looking around the ballroom-sized space, he pretends to inspect his fingernails.

“Good day, gentlemen.” Though I know neither deserve the title. “Name and date of birth, please.”

“Don’t you know who I am?”

I look over my favorite half-moon readers, going for a credible imitation of a high school librarian.

“Who you were, sir.” I state the obvious. “And may I add that nothing happens till I say it does. Think of me as the DMV. Name and date of birth.”

“I demand to see your superior.”

I sneer. It’s been five long years without so much as a snark. 

“Sir, I’ll have you know that though I have had a supervisor or two, I do not now, and never will know anyone superior to me. But as you wish.”

I open the drawer and press the Easy Button.

“What?” The rumbling of a thunderstorm-like voice can’t quite override High Crime by Al Jarreau. Death steps through the wall, puts a nearly full glass on the desk, one with a paper umbrette stuck in a slice of pineapple. It’s been five years since I last saw a drop to drink or a morsel to eat. Not bothering to think whether I’ll have remorse later, I pick up the glass and suck half the tequila sunrise, in one inhale. Delicious, though it runs right through me.

Death walks around the two men who are now standing like statues.

“What happened?” I ask between sips, nodding at the tableau.

“The button pauses their time. What did they want?”

“Cool.” I come up for air and recount my dialogue with Blondie.

“I see.” Death snaps his fingers; both men jerk to life again.

 Brown-haired man is still trying to be nonchalant, though he seems to cower just a tad. The other bully has widened his stance and folded his arms across his chest. His head is thrown back while he tries to look down his nose at Death. Who laughs, a sound that makes me think of the death rattle of any Chevy Vega.

He perches on the edge of the desk and still towers over the two. Though smiling, his patience and pleasure seem only veneer deep. I bet he’s itching to take them over his knee and give them a spanking they’ll remember for all eternity.

“Well, well. If it isn’t Donny and Vladdy. Tell me boys, how come you two show up here at the same time?”

Donald exhales and loses a bit of his bravado in the process. “Russian roulette.” He admits with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“O-kay.” Death says slowly. “This is gonna be good.” He stage-whispers to me. “How come you both croaked at the same time?”

“Two guns.” Vladimir admits casually.

The straw gurgles as I suck up the last of the drink. Death looks askance, one eyebrow raised.

I grin. “Uno Mas? Por favor.” I shrug when he doesn’t seem to see the humor and hand him two red passes.

“No Miss Gloria, these gentlemen require special passes and the red carpet, of course. Ma'am, please look in that drawer.” He tips his head toward the left of the desk, where a drawer materializes. Inside is a short stack of black bar coasters.

When the two men step through the door, I can hear yelps and cries of pain and smell sulfur and smoke,

“Right.” There is a whole universe of satisfaction in that one word. “The red carpet is a special treat.”

“What’s so special about the black passes?” I ask, chewing on the pineapple slice as I hand him the now empty glass.

“Let’s just say that they’ll enjoy the company of Adolf, Benito, Mr. Manson and so on. It’s a special place just for them.”

With a sigh he takes the glass. “I guess next time, I’ll have to bring you your own.” He’s about to return to his island resort, has one hand through the wall, the infectious sounds of Bob Marley’s Red, red wine seep through, when Death turns around. “But do mop up your mess first.” And he’s gone.