FaceIt
Face It
FACE IT. YOU’RE
dead.”
This is not what I want to hear first thing waking up. Slowly I open my right eye -- just a crack.
Seated in a chair, pulled up close to my bed, sits a bespectacled, thin, dusty old man, dressed in black, wearing a top hat, holding a cloth tape measure in one hand, writing something down with the stub of a pencil on a tattered pad balanced precariously on his knee.
I close my eye. “I am
not. And you’re
not real,” I say to the apparition.
Must have been something I ate …
“I am too. And so
are you -- dead, that is. If not now, soon enough,” I hear him say.
“Well, we all gotta go some time,” I muse. “Who you s’posed to be? -- the angel of death?”
“Heavens no! You’re thinking of that crotchety old dude with the sickle. Never did figure what he carries that thing around with him for -- it’s not like he’s gonna cut you off at the ankles. Who carries a metaphor around with him? I’m sorry. That’s just weird. No. I’m just the undertaker.”
“OK. So when am I s’posed to die?”
“Who knows. Why wait ‘til the last minute, I always say. Your measurements won’t change much. You might get a little shorter; maybe a little fatter. I just don’t want to make a box that’s too long -- waste of material.”
“Very thoughtful of you -- and might I add, a bit miserly.”
“‘We try,” he grins -- more for his benefit, than mine.
“You figured out what you’re gonna do with all your stuff?”
“Why? You handle that, too?” I smirk.
“Just askin’,” he says. “I get paid either way. It’s just not many people talk to an undertaker -- even when they show up for the funeral. I find if I stop by early, it’s a great opportunity to chat a bit.”
“So no one sent you?”
He shakes his head. “Took my own initiative. Sometimes we have dry spells. This is one of ‘em.”
“So you just stopped by for a chat?”
“Do you mind?”
“Would it matter?”
“Not particularly.”
“Obviously you have something in mind -- a favorite topic. I’m sure I’m not your first drive-by chat.”
“Very perceptive. In fact I do. What do you figure on doing between now and when I have your box ready?”
“You don’t get out much, do you,” I say.
“As a matter of fact, I don’t. Why do you ask?”
“May I make a suggestion?” I nudge.
“Of course.”
“You might get more invites if you took a bath, changed your clothes once in a while and brightened up your conversation a bit. Oh yeah, and pop a breath mint.”
“You’re too kind. I used to do all that -- used to go to parties, football games and such. Maybe it’s just me, but I found all that lacking somehow. Is the word ‘trite’ too harsh?”
“You did? That’s hard to believe.”
“No, it’s true! When I thought about it, I found it really wasn’t that appealing to me. I was just doing it to try to fit in. I have a sneakin’ suspicion most of my friends were the same -- they just couldn’t tear themselves away from the acceptance that comes with being one of the crowd -- you know, like Cheers!
-- where everybody knows your name.”
I thought about asking him how much time he spent in front of the boob tube, but instead, I say, “So now that you’ve broken bad habits, what do you find worthwhile?”
“I like to find out what makes people tick -- what they find valuable -- what they want out of what little time they have between now and then.”
"Then
being when they die, you mean.”
“Well, we know so little about after that, don’t we.”
“You really want to know what I want to accomplish between now and then?”
“If you wouldn’t mind.” He put the tape measure down, crossed his legs, lacing his fingers around one knee, peering over his glasses to a practiced listening posture.
“To be honest, I really haven’t given it much thought," I say “Give me a range to work with.”
“You’re what, 65? Let’s say you make it to 90.”
“That’s very generous of you!” Now I smile.
“Not at all. It’s not within my power to make it happen. It’s just a for-instance.”
My smile fades a bit. “So we’re in the land of what-if then?”
“If you prefer,” he nods.
“Well, I’m pretty sure I’ll be right here for another four years.”
“You mean here at this prison camp.”
“For being an apparition, you’re pretty astute!”
His body language tells me he accepts my compliment with aplomb.
“I supposed I’ll keep doing what I’ve been doing -- read, write, play the piano, play with Forex.”
“You won’t have time like this when you get out,” he ventures.
“Are you saying I’m somehow wasting my time here?”
“When you were out, you used to make excuses for why you couldn’t get in shape. Either it cost too much, or you didn’t have time, or there weren’t any facilities nearby, or you had to be sociable when mealtimes came around. None of that applies here.”
“So you think I should try and get in shape?”
“None of my business. We’re just talkin’ here.”
“I suppose I could try eating different, walking more, keeping track of things -- like a lab rat in a maze.”
“And afterwards?”
“You mean when I get out?”
He nods.
“That depends on how successful my Forex project is.”
“How’s that workin’ out for you? You’ve been at it now for more than three years, haven’t you?”
“You undertakers really do your research! It’s a process. I got good results back in December for one day’s worth of tick data. Now I’m seeing if I can optimize it on the fly.”
“And how much time do you devote to it?”
“Inquisitive little bugger, aren’t you! I could do more, but since I have to rely on outsiders, it’s a pretty slow slog.”
“Maybe you could set up a schedule of sorts -- spend a couple hours a day on your walkthroughs. Think up ways to accelerate development outside. I’m just sayin’. Any thoughts about what you might do if it doesn’t pan out?"
“Which it might very well not,” I say.
“I figure I can always go back to consulting. People are always frustrated with their computers.
"I suppose I could even go back to selling RadioShack stuff.
"Writing is another possibility.
"Teaching music -- my ‘play smart’ theory as opposed to rote memorization has some appeal.
"Writing apps for iPhones.
"I always wanted to build my own recreational fold-out camper.”
As I run through the possibilities, I don’t notice my newfound friend fading away.
Apparently his work with me is finished …