Copyright 2011 Michael E. Henderson, all rights reserved. Return to:
“Here I am,” said Death. “And I have never left you.”
Margold jumped back a little in surprise, then said, “Where have you been? The Indian didn’t see you.”
“Yes he did, he lied.”
“Son of a bitch. Why would he do that?”
“Trying to get more money out of you.”
Margold thought for a moment. Maybe this was a mirage due to not eating, and being sober on an empty stomach. Maybe Death was worried about what was about to happen, and he was trying to drive
a wedge between Margold and the Indian, although unknown to Margold what Death said was true.
“Aw, fuck you,” Margold said, that being the only snappy retort he could think of. When in doubt a good “fuck you” will suffice every time.
“You asked,” Death said, “and I told you. Would I lie to you?”
Now that was a damn good question. “Sure, why not,” Margold said.
“Because I have no reason to lie.”
“Sure you do. You don’t want me to go through with the Indian ceremony.”
“I don’t care about that. Why should I care whether you torture yourself and eat mushrooms?”
“Because the Indian is going to cast you out, as it were.”
Death laughed. “If he had the power to do that he would be rich. He’s going to sweat you in that lodge, which won’t hurt, and may actually make you feel good—it may steam some of the poison out of your system. Then he’s going to try and get you to stick pointy things in your chest and haul you up in the air and let you twist around in excruciating fucking pain. But he has no power over me.”
“You’re just saying that so I don’t do it.”
“The Indian saw me, he told Bill.”
“Then why bother telling me? You could sit back and have a good laugh.”
“Exactly, but I don’t want you to suffer. I am not going to make you suffer. This exercise is not designed to cause you pain and agony.”
Margold slammed his six-foot seven man fist on the table. “Exercise? This is just an exercise to you? This is just some sort of sport for you, isn’t it?”
“Well . . .”
“Well nothing. You have ruined my life, and are planning to end my life. I’m not even sure you’re real. Therefore, I’m going to do whatever I can to rid me of you. If that means being a Man Called fucking Horse, or going through some other ritual, that’s what I’m going to do.”
“Okay, you have that right, and I guess it could be expected.”
“And the next time you appear to me you better be wearing a bulletproof vest, and a thick one, because I’m going to put about five 12-gauge slugs in you. Make that double-ought buck.”
“No reason to get violent, dear boy,” Death said. “I will leave you alone, but the day draws nigh. You had better get your affairs in order.”
Margold threw a plate at Death, and shouted “Get out.” Death was gone before the plate hit the chair.
#
Sarah Puckett sat in the bar where she had first met Margold, looking with unfocused eyes at the bottles lining the shelves behind the bar. Her face was thankfully not visible in the mirror through the bottles.You know, she thought to herself, I ought to call the son of a bitch and see if he will come back to New Orleans. She sipped the martini, which now reminded her of Margold. She had ordered it with Ten Gin, and it was vastly superior to the Bombay Sapphire, he was right. She didn’t know why she liked him, it was one of those things. There are people in the world that you do not like immediately, and those whom you love immediately. Love? She didn’t think so, but she sure liked him.
She took out her cell phone and hit the number. What the hell, all he could do was hang up on her if he had gotten back with his wife.
“Sarah,” Margold’s voice said on the other end, meaning that he still had her on his contacts list, which made her fell good.
“Hi, Margold,” she said. “I was just having a Ten Gin martini and thought of you. How you doing?”
“Oh, I’m going through some very interesting shit just now.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, should I call back?”
“No, it’s a good time. Death just left.”
“Oh my.”
“Can you believe it, I threatened Death with death.”
“Oh, I didn’t know you could do that.”
“He just popped in here and made a nuisance of himself, and I told him if he came back I would fill his hide full of buckshot.”
“That’s the spirit,” she laughed. “What did he say to that?”
“He told me I should get my affairs in order.”
“Then did you shoot him?”
“No, I threw a plate at him.”
She laughed again. “Sounds like something I would do.”
“Yeah,” he said, “it was a little womanly. Maybe I should have tried to hit him with a frying pan.”
“Or a rolling pin.”
“Stop it, don’t try to one-up me.”
“I wouldn’t think of it.”
“What’s going on with you?” he asked.
“Nothing, just the same old bull shit,” she said
“I know what you mean.”
“Listen, Margold, when are you coming back to New Orleans?”
“Is that an invitation?”
“If you need an invitation.”
“Let me call you in a day or so. I think it would be a good idea, but I have an Indian sweat lodge and sun dance ceremony to go through first.”
“A what?”
He told her about what he was about to do with the purpose of ridding himself of Death, or whatever it was that was haunting him. She was not surprised, to some extent, but was concerned that he was going to do something crazy. But then again, if he rid himself of this demon, all the better.
“All right,” she said, “call me when the ceremony is over and tell me how it went. Then maybe we will plan your trip here.”
“Sounds good. I’ll call you in about two days.”
Ah, that was great, she thought, feeling a lot better. She had sort of pined over him for days—something she had not done since she was sixteen. But why was she getting interest in this guy? He was either nuts, or he would be dead shortly. But no matter what happened, it was not going to be boring. Look at yourself, she thought, you are the very definition of boring. Nothing wrong with trying to jazz things up for a while.
She ordered another martini. As it arrived a man came up and starting talking to her, trying to make small talk and act cool, but she blew him off. He had a nice suit and a nice haircut, but her ass-hole alarm was going off. Nice clothes and nice hair do not a man make. And it did not matter whether George Clooney himself appeared, there was no one who could presently hold a candle to Margold James. Well, George Clooney, maybe, but that’s it. Okay, Brad Pitt or Johnny Depp, but that’s really it. Period. Margold was in some heady company.
#
Mary sat with her friends at the local Mexican restaurant drinking Margaritas and pounding chips, the sound of Mexican music throbbing from large speakers. The music made it nearly impossible to hold a conversation, and they shouted to each other across the table. None of them were young, most of them were over weight, and a couple of them morbidly obese. “I think it’s terrible what he did,” one of the more obese monstrosities said, shouting over the music.
“Oh, so do I,” said another not quite as fat.
These were not stupid people, as Mary and her friends were all professionals, either accountants, doctors or lawyers, but that didn’t make them any less a horrifying mess, and the last people on Earth from whom Mary should be taking advice. But there they were, half in the bag, giving advice to a woman whose husband thought he was going to die. Either he was right, or he was a nut job. In either event, these people should not be giving advice about it.
“I think he’s got a girlfriend,” one of the more enlightened ones said.
“I’ve heard that before,” Mary said, “and I don’t believe it.”
“That’s what they always say,” one of the less hideous ones said, “but that is denial.”
“Well I think,” said one of the more attractive members of the party, “that he may be right, or he may need some therapy.”
“He’s been to a psychiatrist,” Mary said, “and we had him committed for observation.”
“Oh my God,” two or three of them said at the same time.
“That’s Right,” Mary said, “and they all say there’s nothing wrong with him.”
“Then what do you think it is?” one of the group asked.
“I have no idea,” Mary said.
They paused to refill their glasses from a new pitcher of margaritas, then one of them asked, “What if he’s right?”
“Oh, he ain’t right,” the fattest one said.
“But what if he is?”
They were quiet for a moment, then Mary said, “Oh dear.”
“What?” two or three of them said at the same time.
“If he’s right, if he’s really been visited by the Angel of Death, then what I have done is horrible and unforgivable.”
“What?” one member of the fat encrusted brain trust asked.
“I had him committed and I destroyed his paintings.”
“His paintings?” one of the less informed members of the group asked.
“Yes,” Mary said, “he decided that he would help us all remember him by a group of self portraits that he intended to paint.”
“Oh my,” someone said.
“Yeah. He went so far as to hire an artist to teach him to paint. He worked for hours on these self portraits, and I ruined them all.”
The women were quiet, some shaking their heads, all of them looking into their drinks.
“What did he do?” one of them asked finally.
“He moved out. Now I don’t know where he is,” Mary said.
“Well, you gotta get him back,” one of the smarter women said.
“Yeah, what if he dies, and you don’t where he is? You gotta find him.”
“When is he supposed to die?” someone asked.
“In a few months,” Mary said.
“What are you going to do?”
“I can still call him.”
“Well, you better do it and get him to come home.”
“But what if he’s really nuts,” the fattest one asked.
“I don’t know,” Mary said.
No comments:
Post a Comment