The Kick the Bucket List

My worst nightmare began the day I discovered the little black book in my mail.

The Mailbox Restriction Law prohibits placing anything in a mailbox without postage, but I suspect whoever dropped this beauty on me wasn't concerned about breaking federal law.

The thick bound book was little in size, but packed with hundreds of names, all of them crossed out, except for the last one…mine.

I flipped through page after page of scratched out names. Half were struck out in red ink, the rest with a thick black marker that obscured the name. I had no idea what to make of it.

The handwritten numbered instructions on the inside back cover were a gamechanger:

1. $20,000 has been wired into your bank account.
2. Write down two names in the lines after yours and you will live to spend it.
3. Cross out your name with a black marker and return this book to your mailbox.
4. One person dies and the other receives this book.
5. Should you refuse, your own life is forfeit, but your family can keep the money.
6. If you destroy this book, or tell anyone, your entire family will be killed.
7. You have one week to comply.

It’s now day six, and I’ve barely managed two straight hours of sleep at a time. I wake up yelling out a random name, drenched in sweat. My wife is out of her mind trying to get me to tell her what is wrong.

But I don’t dare.

The worst of it isn’t coming up with names. I know many people this planet would benefit from by their absence.

No, the worst is that I could really use the money.

I know that sounds crass, but I’ve been out of work for six months due to the latest economic downturn. At my age, good jobs are few and far between, and, so far, my plan for early retirement by winning the lottery hasn’t panned out.

My initial dilemma was not knowing who dies and who receives the notebook with a potential 20K windfall. Do I write down two bad people? But then, one of them will be rewarded.

However, the same might happen if I chose to split between good and bad…maybe the good guy gets whacked and the bad guy hits the jackpot.

Unable to control the outcome, I decided it best to only include bad people, thinking at least one deserving person will be eliminated. Who knows, maybe two, if the other develops a conscience not permitting him to write down any names.

Knowing these people, I highly doubted that outcome, but it was a still a possibility, no matter how slight.

But why am I kidding myself?

I knew the names from the very first day, and both worked at my old company where I had spent the last twenty years.

I scribbled in the name of my old boss in big block letters.

Over the years he’d taken credit for my work, passing it off as his own. I couldn’t believe he had the balls to enter my name as the sacrificial lamb in my company’s downsizing initiative. In my mind, writing his name was tit for tat.

The Human Resources Director was a close second. With professional condescension, she walked me through two options in my exit interview. Sign here accepting a measly one-month severance pay, waiving any right to sue the company for any reason whatsoever, or hit the road Jack and don’t come back with zero dollars in my pocket.

I took the severance pay and signed away my soul.

I’m not sure why I waited till the last day to return the book to the mailbox. Maybe a last minute twinge of conscience?

Nah! I’ve always been a procrastinator, you know, putting things off till the very last moment. If I’m honest with myself, maybe that’s the real reason I was fired.

I saw the little white postal car driving down the street as I walked to my mailbox. I thought it strange watching it speed past all of my neighbor’s houses to stop at my curb.

I expected the mailman to hand me my mail when he stepped out of the vehicle, but instead he pointed a gun at me and said, "Times Up!"

“B-b-but the week isn’t over!” I stuttered, holding the book in front of me like a talisman. “I didn’t get it till last Monday!”

“We delivered it the day before,” the postman replied with a half-smile.

Two thoughts raced through my brain. One was ‘who checks their mail on Sunday’ and the other ‘I don’t think this guy is really my postman.’

A shot to my chest and one to my head, the dreaded double-tap, and all my thoughts vanished along with the little black book.