A Different Place Entirely

      The old man fidgeted with the silverware for an hour before he arrived. The soup was too salty, not like Martha made it. Was her name Martha? Mary? Muriel? Even if it wasn’t salty, it was already too cold by now. When his brunch guest arrived, there was little fanfare. Mid-forties, salt and pepper hair. Jeans and a nice blazer. Not good looks like the men in the television, but he was handsome in an average sort of way.

     It surprised the old man how much creamer Death put in his coffee. He reached across the scratched linoleum tabletop, extending a handshake. The old man knew better than to touch him. Instead, he stared at his cold-and-all-too-salty soup. Death took a seat across from the old man, brandishing a pen and placing it in the space between them. The woman, who had been watching silently, finally spoke up. “Dad, please don’t make this any harder than it needs to be. Just sign your name and you’ll be off to a better place. A safer place.”

     Death would be a safe place he thought to himself, and is Death this woman’s father? He looked at the vines growing up the side of the house outside his window. Soon enough, they would take the house. They could take him too for all he cared, just as long as they waited until ‘60 Minutes’ was over. The old man just wanted to see Tom Brokaw give one last story; he just wanted to sit his big comfy chair, worn down with a permanent ass-print, molded perfectly to him. He always felt like a racecar driver in that chair. Did you know that racecar drivers have seats custom-made to fit their bodies? The old man had learned that last night on the television. He had to write it down to remember though. He seemed to be writing a lot of things lately to help him remember. Where was he again? Oh right, his brunch guest, Death.

     “See?” the woman said, “This is exactly what I mean. We’ll be sitting here just like you are now and he gets this blank look on his face and it’s like he’s gone somewhere else entirely. This morning, he didn’t know who I was.”

     Frankly, he still didn’t know who she was. She came into his house like she owned the place, and even tried to help him put on his trousers. The old man was confused, but she was a pretty, younger woman. Hell, every woman was younger to him at this point. Her eyes reminded him of Mary. Or was it Martha? Muriel? Oh, to hell with it.

     “Mr. Sitwell,” Death began, “your daughter and I have discussed this at length. Since your wife’s death, your condition has steadily deteriorated.”

     My wife is dead? I have a daughter? The old man gave a confused look. “Where is the dog?” he asked. The woman sighed and ran her fingers through her hair. Death looked around, “You have a dog?”

Silence.

“Yes,” the old man finally spoke up, “his name is Charlie. Where is he? He needs to be fed. Martha went to the store to get him dog food, she should be back any second.” Death and the young woman exchanged glances. It was like they were in on a joke and the old man was left in the dark.

     Death cracked his knuckles. “Mr. Sitwell,” he began, “it would seem that your condition is worse than I initially thought. I’m recommending that you come with me immediately. There are people there that specialize in helping individuals with your condition. You can meet new folks, use our exercise facilities. We have a pool, Mr. Sitwell. Would you like that?”

     The old man looked from Death to the young woman, and back at Death. “I don’t give two shits about a pool or any god damn exercise places. I just want one of you sons-a-bitches to tell me where my god damn wife is.”

     The young woman let out a whimper and left the room. He heard her blowing her nose in the next room. “Now what the hell got into her?” he asked.

     Death excused himself to go and check on her.

     The old man looked around the kitchen, searching for something, anything to defend himself. He heard the young woman’s muffled sobs in Death’s arms. She’s first, he thought to himself, then Death will come for me. He went to the freezer and pulled out a package of hamburger. He unwrapped the plastic and laid the meat on the counter. Reaching into the drawer, he pulled out the meat tenderizer. It felt and looked like a hammer, but it had grooves along the blunt ends. Perfect, thought the old man. He began pounding on the meat. Waiting. Pounding. Waiting. Pounding. Finally, the young woman’s crying stopped. He knew that Death had taken her, and now it was his time. “Let me see what’s going on,” said Death, “you wait here.” The old man held his breath, he knew Death was coming.

     When Death rounded the corner, the old man struck him as hard as he could. Death made no sound as he fell onto the cold, unforgiving tile floor. The old man climbed on top, and began bashing and pounding and hitting for all he was worth. Mustering up the fading vestiges of his strength, his ears were greeted by the sound of Death’s skull caving in on itself. Blood pooled on the floor, but still the old man kept swinging. The wet, sticky sounds of the tenderizer echoed through the house. The young woman came into the kitchen and screamed. The old man struck her in the knee, doubtless that she was an accomplice of Death. As he went to work on her with what remained of his energy, he couldn’t be stopped by her pleas for mercy, or by her silence that followed. The vines might take the house, and the house might disappear forever, but not him. The old man, having finally murdered Death himself, was immortal.