Death’s Apprentice
By Bryan A. Bushemi
Occasionally, even the Reaper needs a break from the day-to-day routine of thinning the herd. Sometimes, Death does need to take a holiday, a little distraction from the endless tedium of tragedy. But when a drink won’t do, maybe an intrepid gravedigger will.
It was on a Thursday, at night, of course, when Doug met with Death. He didn’t meet with his own death, mind you, but with Death. Thursday nights at Gulpy O’Barrelhouse’s are the infamous all-you-can-drink-for-ten-bucks nights, and so Doug was headed to Gulpy’s with the firm intention of getting thoroughly and properly shit-faced. What else is there to do after putting in a long day’s work groundskeeping at the Our Lady of Perpetual Decomposition Blessed Cemetery? With a job like that, one’s social circle tends to be rather limited. And again, so it was that Doug entered Gulpy’s and headed straight for the bar. Plunking a sawbuck down on the well-worn wood of the bar Doug said:
“Gimme a nightstalker, Gulpy.”
Gulpy mixed him up a nightstalker, a potent concoction consisting of a shot each of One-Five-One, Kahalua, and Everclear-an ideal drink for getting dead-drunk on. Sitting on a barstool, Doug sipped at his drink. It was then that he noticed the scythe propped against the bar next to him. Its apparent owner sat a seat over, swathed in robes, one skeletal hand visible as it lifted shot after shot from the line of filled glasses before the figure. Doug noticed a curious splashing and trickling sound after his bar-mate downed each drink.
“You know,” Doug said conversationally, “you might want to get something to eat with those shots. The food’ll keep the alcohol from going to your head; besides you look like you could stand to gain a few pounds. Gulpy cooks up some mean baby-back ribs; says he got the recipe from a guy who works in the Terminal Illness Ward at the Children’s Hospital.”
“It can’t go to my head,” moaned Doug’s fellow drinker, “I’ve got no stomach for it.”
“Shouldn’t drink so much, then,” Doug advised. The figure turned his hooded head towards Doug, who started, then relaxed. “Whoa, I thought you were one of those anorexic waif-models for a second. You know the ones I mean,” he said, taking another sip of his drink.
“Actually, I do,” the bony-countenanced imbiber replied. “I’ve got all their numbers.”
“Really?” Doug said incredulously. “Are you some kind of fashion designer or something?”
“No, I’m Death, but my close friends call me Aloysius. That’s why I don’t have any.”
“Doug Graves.” Doug said, extending his hand.
“No, I leave that to someone else; I just make people die,” Death replied, offering his bony grip.
“Nice to meet you; you know, I’ve admired your work for years,” Doug said. “Keeps me in drinking money.”
“Glad I could help out.”
“So, Al-” Doug began, then reconsidered, eyeing the nearby scythe. “So, Death, why so glum? If you don’t mind me saying, you look like you’ve been warmed over.”
“It’s my job,” lamented the Reaper. “Day in, day out, it’s the same thing: stop a heart here, engineer a fatal five-car pileup there. I’m getting in a rut; I’d say that it’s killing me, but-well, you know-I’m Death. I need some time off; go down to the Bahamas, warm these old bones in the sun, find some young thing to jump them, that sort of thing. But I can’t-who’d fill in for me while I was away? Obviously, I can’t go to a temp agency and say ‘I need someone to look after my business while I’m away. They need to be bright, reliable, and, oh yes, willing to accept responsibility for ending the lives of everyone who needs to die in the world for the next two weeks.’ You see my problem?”
Doug nodded and took another sip. “Seems to me that you need an apprentice or something.”
“An apprentice?” replied the Master of Entropy thoughtfully.
“Yeah, you know, someone who you can teach the tricks of the trade to, who can take a bit of the workload off you by helping you out. If you train an apprentice well enough, I’m sure whoever it is could even take over the whole show for a few weeks so you can get some time off,” Doug explained.
“Hmm . . .” the Grim One mused, contemplatively. “An apprentice. That could work. But how would I find someone suitable for the job?”
“Take out a classified ad,” Doug suggested helpfully.
His Eternal Boniness shook his head. “Maybe not such a good idea. Do you know the kind of nuts an ad like that would attract? Even if I were to word it like: ‘Wanted: Ambitious go-getter to learn my business, must have experience dealing with tragedy on a day-to-day basis and be willing to work flexible hours,’ I’d still probably end up with some slacker who’d let a few slide every once in a while, what with the low work ethic in society today, and then before you know it, the birth rate is five times the death rate. Hell, we’re pushing three-to-one with the advances in modern medicine being what they are.”
“Well, it was just a suggestion,” Doug said, as he finished his drink. He ordered a second and started on it.
“Maybe it’s just not meant to be,” the Harbinger of Doom sighed in resignation. “I guess I’ll just have to go on as always. People expect reliability; you know what they say: ‘Can’t count on anything but Death and taxes.’”
“I know what you mean,” Doug agreed. “My job’s pretty much the same, even if I’m only part of the cleanup crew; rain, sleet, or snow, those graves have got to be ready for delivery-”
“Isn’t that the U.S. Mail?” Death asked. Doug good-naturedly ignored the interruption; after all, Death has no regard for anyone, beggar to king and all in between.
“Sometimes they’re late, but have you ever been to a funeral and been told that there would be a slight delay in the service while the deceased’s final resting place is being prepared? No, it just doesn’t happen. People want the burial of a loved one to go smoothly; they’ve been through enough grief. That’s where I come in. With backhoe or shovel or power auger or jump and tooth and spring and bite-”
“Wasn’t that last bit from some Kipling story-’Rikki-Tikki-Tavi,’ I think?” the Gatekeeper of Souls butted in.
“Oh, yeah,” Doug said. “But you see my point, don’t you.”
“Not really,” Death replied. The conversation seemed to have reached a sticking point here, so the two returned to their respective poisons. Just as Doug was preparing to shift to another stool further down the bar to avoid wetting his shoes in the growing puddle beneath El Muerto’s seat, the Ol’ Deathmeister reached out a bony hand and caught his shoulder.
“You know, I just thought of something,” he said. “How would you like a job as my apprentice?”
“Me?” Doug asked incredulously.
“Sure,” Death said. “You’re already in the business, so-to-speak; you’ve got a foot in the door. And you know the importance of getting the job done right. So what do you say?”
“Well, ah, I don’t know,” Doug vacillated. “I kind of like the job I’ve got, you know, the stability and all.”
“Hey, you work because of me, remember that, buddy-boy. And no matter how good doctors get, they’re never going to invent a vaccine for kicking the bucket.”
“You’ve got a point,” Doug admitted. “What about salary?”
“When you’ve got a corner on the market like I’ve got, you can write your own paycheck.”
“What about benefits?”
“Hey, I’ve got connections. Tragedy, Sickness, Misfortune-we’re like this,” Death said, crossing two skeletal digits. “You get full exemption, the works.”
“Hey, what can I say?” Doug said. “I’ll take the job.” Happily, he and his new employer shook hands again to seal the bargain.
And that’s how Doug became Death’s apprentice. It was steady work, if one could handle the hours. However, soon after his appointment, Doug was forced to resign from his position at the Our Lady of Perpetual Decomposition Blessed Cemetery when complaints of conflict of interests arose.
