The Visitor
by Heidi Heimler
Death scanned
his schedule and frowned. “Smithers is on my
list again?”
“Don’t
look at me.” His secretary cracked her gum
as she filed her nails. “I just schedule
‘em.”
“But
why’d you put Smithers on today’s
roster? I visited him just last week. Can’t
it wait a bit?”
“Like I
said, I only schedule ‘em.” His
secretary took the gum out of her mouth and
gnawed on a hangnail.
“And it
couldn’t have waited till next year? You
know how busy I am these days. What with this
idiotic war, the flu season, and a blasted
tsunami coming up, I hardly have time to breathe.”
Death’s
secretary stopped nibbling and shot him a look.
“There’s a tsunami coming up? Nobody
told me.”
“Yeah,”
Death sighed, “invites were sent out a
couple of weeks ago.” He inhaled slowly,
willing himself to be patient. “But
that’s not the point.”
His secretary
returned to her nails. “So what is the point?”
“The
point is I’m tired. I’m working much
too hard these days. I’ve done this job
since the beginning of time. It used to be OK,
fun even. But nowadays…” He shook his
head. “If this insanity keeps up, I’ll
have to retire.”
“You
can’t retire.”
Death threw a
black cloak over his bony shoulders. “I know.
I’m just venting. But do I really have to
pay Smithers a visit today?”
His secretary
hit a few keys on her coffee-stained keyboard and
squinted at the computer screen. “Says here
that Smithers' been hitting the sauce again. Hard.
Apparently he lost his job a few weeks ago, and
now he's finding comfort in a bottle.” She
shrugged. “What’re ya’ gonna do?”
Death crossed
the room and looked over his secretary’s
shoulder. “I’ll be darned. It really
does say all that.”
“Ain’t
technology grand?” She grinned.
“If
it’s so grand, can’t you schedule
Smithers for next year? Or at least in a few
months?”
“Nope.”
She typed something, then paused and scanned the
screen. “You’re booked solid.”
“For the
whole year?” Death placed a bony hand on his
protruding forehead. “You’ve got to be
kidding me.”
“Nope.”
With his head
bowed and his hand still cradling his forehead,
Death shuffled toward the door. “Fine.
I’ll pay Smithers another visit, but I
guarantee you he won’t come. He’ll
probably give me the same old song and dance
about not being ready, not expecting me just yet.
Then the old bugger’s gonna throw me out,
just like he did the last time.”
His secretary
handed Death his lunch. “It’s a job,”
she said. “Somebody’s gotta do it.”
And with that,
Death left the office and mounted the up
escalator. “Yup,” he mumbled to himself,
“somebody’s gotta do it.”
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