Read by Keleigh Wolf
The forty-second floor office is preposterously swanky. I don’t think I have been at a place of business above third floor before. It seems the higher they get, the more luxurious they must become.
This particular office looks like something out of a TV show about sexy lawyers, saving the world one pro-bono case at the time.
But it is not a law firm. And I’m definitely not an impossibly well-dressed lawyer. I am currently wearing a black polyester suit that I bought for a Hillary Clinton costume back in Halloween 2016. My shoes are equally unstylish and full of scrape marks, which I tried to cover up with a sharpie but it turned out to be purple highlighter.
One of three receptionists (all wearing scant, white dresses) walks towards me with the swagger of a runway supermodel. I actually turn around to verify there isn’t a wind machine right behind me.
“Madam G. will see you in ten minutes,” she tells me and struts back the way she came.
I’m here for a job interview. What kind of job? you might wonder.
I wouldn’t be able to tell you.
My friend D referred me. In a very opaque way. He sent me a text with a time, a place, and the promise of a job that would set me for life.
He is very enigmatic, my friend, so I didn’t question it. And I’m desperate for a job. But as soon as I stepped into this deluxe office, I knew I had no business being here. My career path hasn’t precisely been leading to skyscrapers where Giselle look-alikes offer you rose-infused water.
Back in college, I used to moonlight as an assistant make-up artist at a funeral home. And that was the best job I ever had.
I never graduated. After dropping out, I started writing obituaries for a small newspaper, thanks to my almost-degree in journalism. But the paper went bust, marking the death (no pun intended) of my mortuary-tribute career.
Hard times and odd jobs ensued: dog walker, florist, school bus driver, gravedigger. You know, the usual college washout stuff.
Whatever this job is, I’m certainly not qualified.
The reception doesn’t have any magazines or TV screens. So, I’m forced to entertain myself by contemplating the series of events that brought me here.
It all started as I was getting ready to jump off a bridge.
No. Not like that.
I was in the bungee-jump queue, which was already fortuitous given that I’m afraid of heights and hate physical activity. However, on that very morning, my boyfriend had dumped me with the excuse that I was “not adventurous enough” for him. He was the type of guy who expects his girlfriends to double as kayaking partners.
Anyway, as luck would have it, someone left a leaflet for bungee jumping on my windscreen. I was bitter enough (and crazy enough) to think it would be a good idea to show him just how adventurous I could be.
I regretted it as soon as I got in line. Noticing how nervous I was, the guy in front of me said I should never regret “living life to the fullest.” This didn’t help matters. I was about to turn around and leave when someone behind me said, “I think life is overrated. Death, that’s the great unknown. That’s what makes these things exciting.”
And that’s when I met D. All the bungee-jumpers in waiting glared at him in silence, as if he said something too bizarre to merit an answer. But I thought his statement made more sense than anything I ever heard. And so, I stayed and jumped off a bridge, which was scary for a few seconds and had zero impact in my life afterwards. I really don’t know why people do these things.
Somebody died that day. The cable snapped, apparently. I was already gone by the time it happened.
D and I have been friends ever since. Curiously, D doesn’t have other friends. Everyone finds him fascinating; how could they not? He can quote Allan Poe, discuss Hitchcock movies, and geek out about The Sandman comic books. He is also well-versed in sports, music, and finds the best cat videos on YouTube. And yet, most people avoid being around him. Except for me. I guess that’s why he recommended me for this job.
The ten minutes are finally over and the receptionist announces Madam G. is ready for me. She leads me to a corner office with a divine view of the city skyline, partly veiled by the sea of clouds.
A tall, striking woman is standing by the window. Madam G., I assume. She gets behind her desk and motions for me to sit. I try not to stare, but it’s difficult. Her face is so perfect, so symmetrical, it’s almost unsettling. I find myself trying to estimate her age and realise it’s impossible. I could just as easily believe she is fifty or thirty.
“Thank you for coming today,” she says. “You come highly recommended by…”
“D?” I provide, realising for the first time that I don’t know his full name.
“D,” she repeats, amused. “That old rascal. Retirement, he says. I ignored him for the first century or so, but he must be serious if he’s nominating a successor.”
D has talked to me about wanting to change careers, so this is not a surprise. But he never told me any details about his job. All I know is that he helps people relocate. Moving company, I assumed, but was never too sure about that. In truth, I always thought he might be involved in something illegal or illegal-adjacent. He is always so cagey about his job; he travels a lot and appears to have unlimited income. I don’t want us to stop being friends so if he turns out to be a drug dealer, I’d rather not know.
Madam G. produces a copy of my CV from somewhere in the desk. I notice she highlighted the mortician job, obituary writing, gravedigger, and florist. My job history has a theme, I realise. And it’s quite morbid. But she doesn’t seem put off by it. Instead, she nods and mumbles something about relevant experience.
I really hope D isn’t a hitman.
I’m ready to come clean and tell her I have no idea what’s going on, but before I can say anything, she hands me a card with a figure written on the back.
“Starting salary,” she says. “Enough to set you for life. I’m sure that’s what D promised.”
And I pretty much stop listening after that. This much money, it could change everything. I need to figure out a way to get this job.
“Can you start right away?” Madam G. asks. “We need you to start right away, D has already submitted his resignation.”
I look up from the piece of paper. “Wait … do you mean I have the job?”
“Yes.”
“Just like that?”
“Well, D thinks you are the successor, and who am I to disagree? I leave this type of decision to the entities involved. I have a hands-off approach. Free-will and all that.”
I am aware this is too good to be true. There’s always a catch. But, let’s put it this way: if I were a cartoon, I would have dollar signs in my eyes right about now. So, I nod and don’t ask any questions.
“You will have a probation period, however,” she adds. “We need to make sure you’re a good fit for the team.”
“Of course.” Having a team means there will be someone to tell me what to do, at least.
“You’ll be working in a team of four and you need to be well coordinated. You will be the busiest one of course, so make sure any planned wars, natural disasters, and epidemics are brought to your attention early on.”
I start nodding mechanically. “Sure … wait, what?”
She leans forward, resting her elbows on the desk, “How’s your riding by the way?”
“Erm … as in bike riding?”
She bursts out laughing. “D didn’t mention you were funny. He certainly isn’t. We could use some humour though. A little dark comedy doesn’t hurt, am I right? Bike riding.” She shakes her head. “Sorry, just had an image of you four riding around in your little bicycles. The four bikemen. Doesn’t really have the same impact, does it? I meant horses of course.”
“Oh,” I say, trying desperately to figure out what kind of job involves epidemics and horses. “Below average, I’m afraid.”
“I’m sure you’ll get the hang of it. That was a yes to an immediate start, right?”
“Sure …”
“Okay, D will take care of the formal hand-over and give you all the necessary equipment. Here’s the checklist. See you at the quarterly check in.”
One of the receptionists materialises out of nowhere and promptly escorts—or, rather, herds—me towards the lift.
At ground level, I take a look at the checklist for all the things I’m supposed to receive from D. Black Stallion. Cloak. Ankh. Scythe in good condition.
What the hell did I get into? I wonder.
A second later, I get hit by a bus.
#
I wake up and I’m wearing a shockingly comfortable black cloak. Nearby, the most resplendent black horse neighs while looking in my direction.
“Hey,” someone says from behind.
I turn around and see D, leaning against a wall. Something is off about him. His clothes; they are all white. I stare at him, then down at myself. I remember the bus ramming into me.
“D, am I—?”
“Dead? Yes,” he says, with a I-am-sorry look. “Also, Death.”
I know I should be panicking, but I mostly feel bittersweet relief. Like when your train finally gets cancelled after being delayed for two hours. My journey is over, even if I didn’t reach what I thought was my destination.
“I have so many questions,” I say.
“All will be covered in orientation,” he says. “But I suspect you will be a natural.”
“And what about you?” I ask. “You are no longer—what does that make you?”
He shrugs. “In between jobs. I’ve been thinking about re-incarnation, lately. But I’ll need some retraining.”
I sigh, feeling overwhelmed.
“You’ll be OK, you know?” he says with confidence. “You’re one of those people who never quite figured out life. But I think you’ll do just fine with what comes beyond.”
“Being dead doesn’t trouble me,” I say, honestly. “It’s just … I don’t know if I want to spend the rest of eternity surrounded by misery.”
He gingerly puts a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t you see? It’s quite the opposite. You’ll be there when they realise that it isn’t over.”
“Huh, I never thought about it like that.”
“Of course not, best kept secret. Even the optimists and the superstitious have their doubts.”
He turns around to leave. “Oh, and Dee,” he says and I realise I am Dee now. “Just for the record, I told you the truth. You were set for life. Whatever little was left of it.”
(c) Zannier Alejandra, 2021
Zannier Alejandra is a Bolivian writer, who worked as a banker in a former life. Nowadays, she spends most of her time writing, watching TV, analysing TV and talking about TV—occasionally, she even gets paid for some of these things.
Keleigh Wolf is an American poet, performer, journalist & activist. She performs as Coco Millay with Poetry Brothel London & she also founded The Little Versed Poetry Collective, produces and hosts the Propaganda Poetry radio series, and is Poet in Residence at Kabaret @ Karamel where she curates monthly events.
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