THE NECROLOGIST (The End)

The bar is a pustulant hole in the wall. Few patrons on a Wednesday night, and the ones there are too busy drowning in scowling impotencies to pay Bill any mind. He didn’t want to go anywhere he normally would have, anywhere with the selection and ambience and dignity to which he’s accustomed. Normally he’s partial to a quality single malt, but tonight he couldn’t bother with anything that came with standards. Bill just asked for the strongest whiskey there and almost took the barkeep’s head off when the man asked how he wanted it.

Bill wraps his hand around his second glass of pity-party as the stranger slides onto the stool beside him. All the empty seats around the bar and the guy picks the one right next to him. If he was on his game, Bill’s antennae would’ve poked up at just that. The sallow stranger is almost emaciation-thin, and the oversized cream-colored suit only underlines the death camp physique. Sunken cheekbones, bone-gray eyes, and skeletal hands wrapped in papier mâché. If Bill was paying attention, he’d be reeling from the sun-dappled field of peonies that spills from the freak’s mouth as he orders a beer.

Peony-Skeleton takes a sip and says, “It’s a wonder how often work takes me into these places. It’s not often enough I get to just sit and have a beer and not have to sell anything.”

Bill turns to him. “Are you speaking to me?”

“No. No, sorry. I was just waxing what-have-you. I do that sometimes. Usually in the car. My wife says it makes me look like a mental patient, but the irony is talking to yourself is kind of therapeutic. When I was a kid I would do it in a whisper. Would get made fun of for it a lot too. One day this guy asked me, ‘Why do you talk to yourself?’ I said, ‘Because intelligent conversation is hard to come by.’ Since then I just do it out loud and to Hell with someone looking at me funny. Anyway, I was on my way home and just felt like stopping in some place for a drink.”

Bill fingers his glass. “Yeah, me too.”

“I’ll be honest,” says Flowers-at-a-Headstone, “I feel a little guilty. I’ve been working all day, my wife would like to see me before she goes to pilates—or krav maga or spin class or whatever she’s into now—and I’m taking time away from her. And I know she can’t wait to get away from the kids for a while, which I get. She’s had them all afternoon, and kids are demanding and selfish. Not that you can fault them for it. I mean, they’re kids. They don’t know any better yet. But, hey, look at me, complaining about selfishness, and here I am being selfish, stopping off for a beer.”

Bill swirls his little glass of whiskey, watches the eddies of alcohol threaten to crest and break before pouring some into himself. “How old are they?” he asks, oblivious.

“Olivia is twelve, and Mia is eight.”

Bill nods. “You don’t want to keep them waiting too long.”

“You’re right. You’re absolutely right. I do love those kids. I really do. We’re teaching Mia to ride a bike right now, and we should’ve taught her before now, but kids these days. I told her, ‘You have to learn to ride a bike. I know you like the computer and your devices and everything, but you have to learn to ride a bike. You just do.’ But to her credit she’s not fighting us on it anymore, so if that’s a sign she’s growing up, I’ll take it. Olivia though—too fast. Growing up way too fast. She’s got a boyfriend. This little rat bastard in her school. My wife’s all proud of her. Her little girl is growing into a woman. Olivia got her period not too long ago, and we both cried but for very different reasons. She thinks it’s wonderful and magical and beautiful. I tell her, ‘You think it’s wonderful because you remember being a little girl who was frustrated she wasn’t a grown woman already.’ She doesn’t believe me when I tell her she’d be losing her mind if we had a son going through puberty.”

Bill finishes his whiskey and motions for another. He lets the booze burn its way down as he ignores every instinct that tells him to keep his mouth shut, then says, “My wife missed all that. She died when the kids were still young.”

“I’m sorry, buddy. I didn’t mean—”

“No, that’s all right. It was a long time ago. My oldest was nine, the youngest five.”

“How many do you have?”

Bill waits for his new drink to arrive before saying, “I had three.”

Pocketful-of-Posies turns back to his beer. “I must be hopping around on one leg, my foot in my mouth the way it is.”

Bill waves him off. “You have nothing to be sorry for. My eldest son wants nothing to do with me, my youngest son is dead, and my daughter is confined to a psychiatric institution. And it’s all because of me.”

The gangly chatterbox tells the bartender to put Bill’s tab on his. Shaking his bobble-head by way of apology, “I don’t intend to trivialize or take for granted the gravity of any of your family issues, but I doubt very much that all the blame rests solely on you.”

Bill looks into his whiskey and sees summer sun glinting off beachfront surf mere minutes from the house where his mother and sister were preparing dinner for the whole brood. Where the smell of steak on the grill and vinaigrette over pasta salad perfumed the wreck room. Where all the children washed after a day in the sand and seawater while he sat on the balcony, reclining into a cocktail.

I don’t like seeing him this weak. He’s better than this.

 “What’s your line of work?” Bill asks.

“Sales.”

“I’m a writer.”

“Are you now?”

Bill shrugs. “A kind of writer at any ratee. There’s a kind of lopsided validity people give to the written word. People read something, they imbue it with the power of gospel. ‘So it is written.’ They look to writers for answers. God knows why. We don’t know anymore than they do.”

“It’s funny you say that. I was just observing the other day, for the first time in my life, that author is the root word for authority.”

“Someone gets into a position of authority, and they start writing laws. Napoleon, Justinian, Caesar—”

“Hammurabi.”

“I saw a comedian once making fun of the Bible. He said, ‘Why would god write a book?’ Why wouldn’t he? Talk about the ultimate author.”

“ ‘In the beginning, there was The Word.’ ”

Bill allows himself a micron of a smile, then throws back his whiskey. “You think he has any regrets?”

“God?”

“Yeah. You think he ever looks back at all his decisions, everything he did, everything he didn’t do, and says, ‘Boy, I fucked up.’ ”

“I’d like to think he does.”

“But then that begs the question: Why doesn’t he do something about it? He’s god. He can if he wants. What’s stopping him? It can’t be authority. There’s none higher. So, what is it? Pride? Laziness? Fear? What’s to stop him from re-writing his creation? He could wave his hand, and none of us would be the wiser. No butterfly effect. He’d cross it out like a line through a bad sentence. Why won’t he do something about it?”

“I don’t know,” the man said. “But if he’s got problems, they’re not like ours.”

Bill nods.

“But I do know, Bill, that while we’re still here on this earth, it’s not too late for us to do something about our mistakes. That much I do know.”

Bill turns to the man. “How’d you know my name?”

“Well, you told me your name when we started talking.”

“No, I didn’t,” Bill says. “And you never told me your name.”

The man’s deathly pallor is suddenly so obvious. Bill wants to smack himself for being so careless. He wants to set the entire bar alight from his seat, let the black smoke flood the room, feel the fire engulf the walls, and watch as the skin peels from his arms. He looks at the man in the seat next to him.

“Shit!” the man says. “They’re never going to let me live this down. Bill, I swear to you, I’m shocked you let me get this far. I got my leads for the week, saw your name was one of them, and I said, ‘Forget it. There’s no way I’m going to hook Bill Canarsie. It’s not happening, even with the man in mourning.’ But then I get this close, and I make a fucking rookie mistake. I’m never going to hear the end of it.”

Bill turns to his empty glass, pushes it away, “Who are you with?”

“You don’t want to suss it out?”

“Do I look in the mood for a game?”

Undead Garden grins and shrugs. “I’m with Morningstar.”

Bill throws down a couple of sawbucks.

“No. Remember?” says the man from Morningstar. “I’m picking up your tab.”

Bill stands. “No, you’re not.”

“C’mon, Bill. You know that’s not how it works.”

Bill does know. He doesn’t need to look around to see that the bar is now empty save the two of them. He doesn’t need to listen to hear the unnatural absence of any noise. And he doesn’t need to try the door to know that he’s not leaving. Not until he’s heard the man’s pitch. He sits back down.

“Thanks, Bill,” says the Mephistopholean agent. “You’re a sport.”

“Not that good a one. If I’m going to sit here and listen to you shill for your demonic timeshare, I want a name.”

“Oh, don’t cheapen it. ‘Timeshare.’ Bill, you’re not going to believe how—”

“Your name.”

The shadows in the sales-monster’s face deepen and thrum. His eyes dilate with bloody viscosity. “Don’t try and stonewall me, Bill.”

“Give that half-ass glower to someone who doesn’t know how the business works.”

“Your business, Bill. Not mine.”

“I force my way out that door, my employers slap me on the wrist at worst. You try and detain me against my will, they will snuff out suns going after you and your ingrate fucking boss.”

“I don’t have to detain you, Billy, and you know it. There’s no way you’re leaving that stool before you hear what I’ve got to say.”

“A name.”

The man leans toward him with a smile before saying, “Levi.”

“Fine. Bullshit, but fine. Whatever you say, Levi.”

Levi, or whatever his—or its—name is, claps his hands, and hops off his seat. “Good. Now that the foreplay’s out of the way…” He vaults over the bar and grabs his glass. “Hope you don’t mind if I service myself first.” He puts his glass to a tap and yanks the lever. “Only time I ever get to enjoy a drink anymore is when I’m working. It really is amazing how often work brings me into a bar. It’s my favorite perk of the gig really. Sweet nectarous libation,” and pours a mouthful of beer into his head.

He sets his glass down and grabs a bottle from the top shelf. “This is more your speed, right?” He pours Bill two fingers worth. “Now,” says Levi, “it’s all your fault, so you say. I don’t think it is, personally, but that doesn’t matter. You think it is. So, what are you going to do about it? You could probably get Rhesus deprogrammed easily enough. You’ve got the connections for that. And you’ve probably got enough money to get Elena sorted out too. But there’s not much you can do about Stilico. Dead is dead, am I right? But that’s not really the problem.

“No, the problem is you know why it all happened. That’s why you don’t go to your bosses and cash in some of that goodwill you’ve earned over the decades. You could whisper your sins into an Ear and make every Tom, Dick, and Harry across terra firma remember a gaggle of ne’er-do-wells who looked a jewel-encrusted gift horse straight in the chompers. What else could you have done, loving and open-minded papa you are? ‘Poor Bill. All he did for those kids, and look what he has to live with.’

“But you know, Bill, it’s not like those cosmic contortionists of sorrow who sign your paychecks to cut a client some slack. That’s what you’d be at that point. A client. Still I’ll bet they’d make an exception for one of their biggest earners. Question is, would you want that? You know the kind of bargain they drive. You’ve done it for years. What do you think you’d have to pay? Think of all those obituaries you’ve written, and all the Sisyphean karma you’ve meted out for services rendered. Think of the most nauseating, agonizing retributions you’ve extracted from those sad sacks who hired you. Now try and imagine a price a hundred times worse. That’s what you’d have to pay to believe that your kids didn’t destroy their own lives on account of you. So, what’s to be done about it?”

Levi’s a pro. Bill can’t deny it, much as he wants to. He can imagine all the hours the man from perdition spent alone, in front of a mirror, practicing his pitch. Every syllabic emphasis, every inch of gesticulation. Even his current posture, a call to action of shrugged shoulders, outstretched arms, and upturned hands, is the well-honed craft of a consummate professional. Bill can’t help but shudder at its unmistakable allure.

“So,” he says, “I let you give me my children back? Just as they were?”

“Better,” says Levi. “Better than they ever were. They’re not going to resent you for demanding so much of them, run from you for never telling them you were proud. They’re not going to follow some idiot muse into idealistic quicksand out of embittered rejection of you and everything you’re about. They’re going to know that you’ve always had their best interests at heart. More than that, they’re going to believe it. They’re going to feel it. They’re going to hear the wisdom in your words. They’re going to feel the warmth between them. And they’re going to love you for it. They’re going to want to make you proud because they’ll be thankful they have you. They’re going to be climbing to the rooftops and singing out, ‘Hallelujah, the father I got me!’ They’ll have never done any of it, Bill. Why would they want to when they have you?”

Bill dares to sip the drink Levi’s poured him. “And in exchange,” he says, “my soul.”

Levi busts a gut. His laugh is hyena-smug, and he slaps the bar twice. “His soul! He thinks we want his soul! Oh, Bill, no. What do we need your soul for? You are so much more valuable to us with it right there inside you. We want you to work for us.”

Now it’s Bill’s turn to laugh, but all he has in him is a mirthless scoff. “I come work for you? You think it’s that easy?”

“Why not?”

“You ever hear of a non-compete clause?”

“Morningstar invented the non-compete clause, Bill. And that’s not me just blowing smoke. I mean Morningstar literally invented it. We know how to get around one. There’s not a non-compete in the cosmos Morningstar can’t render null and void.”

“Even if that was true—”

“It is.”

From under a hooded brow Bill shoots a dare at Levi. “Why would I want to work for you?”

“You wouldn’t be working for me, Bill. You and me—we’d be on equal footing. Colleagues. Only one you’d answer to would be the Star of the Morning himself.”

Now Bill looses a full-throated guffaw that slaps the unwavering smirk off Levi’s face. “You’ve been at the same place for too long. You know, businessmen get not a bad wrap but an incorrect one. People who hate business, hate capitalism, who don’t get that life is just a collection of transactions right down to two little atoms exchanging and sharing electrons—what they think is that all businessmen care about is money. That greed dictates their every decision.”

Bill shakes his head. “It’s ego. Turn yourself into a fly and plant yourself on any wall in any office or boardroom in the world, and you’ll see men and women making fiscally stupid decisions because they think it makes them look better. Or because the smart idea was already voiced by the young buck who’s looking to make a name. They have to complicate matters and make mistakes because you don’t make headlines playing it safe.

“Your boss had the cushiest gig in all of existence, but his ego told him to piss it away, and he was dumb enough to do it. Why would I want to work for that fucking thing?”

Levi waves his hand and rends the bar into a storm of ectoplasmic shards. Bob can’t help but wince and flinch at the maelstrom of cosmic jetsam. Beyond it all is nothing, the visible patina of Void. Bob can’t keep his eyes open, but he can’t not hear Levi’s voice.

“Because you know it’s better to reign in Hell. Because you enjoy extracting payment. I know how much sweeter it is to sell than to let them buy on their own steam. I know it’s not guilt that brought you into this bar. You’re angry your kids didn’t listen. You tried to make them understand. But you failed. When the Morningstar last failed, he endured torment beyond mortal comprehension. But you know what he’s taught me? All that timeless agony and immeasurable depravity is nothing compared to the feeling of walking off the field a loser.”

And with the hellscape bora swirling around him and the ethereal debris rushing past him mere inches from tearing him to confetti, a curtain falls, and Bill is cocooned in unflappable certainty. Levi, so proud of his brand recognition, has overplayed his hand. He’s good, but he’s no professional. Bill knows who Levi is now, and he remembers who Bill Canarsie has always been. His hands fall to his sides, his barstool is a lounge chair propping him into repose, and his whisper gags the storm.

 He points to the absence of everything beyond. “Throw yourself in.”

“What?”

“Go on. I’ll take your place, you take the Void.”

“No,” Levi says, forcing a laugh. “No, the terms are—”

“New terms: I go to work for Morningstar, and you consign yourself to non-existence.”

“No. No no no! This is a seller’s market, and—”

“I’m doing the selling here.” Bill slides off the end of his stool and stands, his arms outstretched to expose the soft meat before Levi’s slavering eyes. He asks the man from Morningstar, “How bad do you want to win?”

I’m not just proud of Bill. I’m happy for him. The thing about these cosmic beings and elemental forces is that they’re naturals. They’re born with a gift and see no reason to develop it. To work. Bill is a human, and he worked his ass off to become something more. The smile he was wearing when he walked out of the bar—he earned that.