Death Came with a Loyalty Card

I was in line at the grocery store when I died.

Not metaphorically. Not spiritually. Literally.

There I was — holding a sad little basket with discounted hummus, three cans of tuna, and one overripe banana — when I heard a loud crack, saw a flicker of light, and the next thing I knew, I was standing beside myself.

Literally beside myself.

"Is this a joke?" I asked the vaguely translucent version of me sprawled across the tile like a department store mannequin on sale.

“No joke,” said a voice beside me.

I turned to see a man in a charcoal suit with a name tag that read: “Death – Platinum Tier Agent”.

He looked... bored. Like a DMV employee stuck in eternity.

“Wait,” I stuttered. “That’s me on the floor.”

“Yes,” Death said, checking his iPad. “Massive stroke. Midlife cholesterol surprise. You should’ve ignored the tuna. Honestly, your whole diet was an invitation.”

I blinked. “But I just turned 42.”

Death raised an eyebrow. “And your arteries turned 80. Congratulations. A true overachiever.”

The woman behind me in line was poking my lifeless body with her car keys.

"Move, lady!" she shouted. "Some of us have dinner plans!"

I looked at Death. “Shouldn’t someone stop her?”

“Why?” he asked. “You're not blocking the ice cream aisle. That’s where people actually care.”

We stepped aside, or more accurately, floated. The overhead music had switched to a Bee Gees remix. The irony wasn’t lost on either of us.

“So... what now?” I asked.

“Well, there’s paperwork,” Death said, scrolling. “Spiritual processing. Exit interview. We’ll get to that.”

I looked down at my lifeless self again. “That’s it? No dramatic tunnel of light? No Grandma waiting in a meadow?”

“Meadow?” Death laughed, genuinely for the first time. “You think we have the budget for meadows? You died in aisle 6 of a discount grocery store. You get me.”

We walked — floated? — toward the exit.

That’s when I saw a man in a blue vest walk over to my body. He looked annoyed.

“Ugh. Another one,” he muttered, then pulled out a plastic sheet, a mop, and a sign that read “Spiritual Spill – Caution”.

Death leaned in. “We’ve been busy since the recession.”

I rubbed my temples, which felt weird without actual temples. “Can I go back?”

“Why?” he asked. “You were buying expired banana hummus. That’s not a life. That’s a resignation letter written in produce.”

“Okay, harsh,” I muttered.

“Look,” Death said, softer. “There is a... program. Call it a delayed departure incentive.”

I perked up. “A second chance?”

“Not quite. More like... a Customer Loyalty Program.”

He pulled out a black folder labeled “EterniClub™.”

“Every time you narrowly avoided death,” he explained, “you earned points. Slipped on the ice in 2009? +15 points. Ignored your doctor’s advice? +30. Dated that toxic barista for 6 months? That one earned you 50.”

“That almost killed me!” I shouted.

“Exactly,” he said, grinning.

He flipped through a chart.

“You currently have 412 death defiance points. Not bad. Not great.”

“What do I get with that?”

“Well,” Death said, licking his finger and flipping the page. “You could trade that in for a ghostly visitation pass. You’d be allowed to haunt one person, but only mildly. Think flickering lights, misplaced keys, maybe a lingering fart smell.”

I blinked. “That’s it?”

He flipped again. “Or… you can upgrade to Reincarnation Lite™. Come back as a house cat. No memory, but plenty of naps. And licking yourself is socially acceptable.”

I considered it. The idea of haunting my ex was mildly appealing. But then I remembered how much she liked flickering lights — she called them “ambiance.”

No satisfaction there.

“What would it take to actually come back as... me?” I asked.

Death leaned in. “A full resurrection? Buddy, you’d need at least 5,000 points and an endorsement from a spiritual entity.”

He showed me a picture of someone’s endorsement form. It was signed by Mother Teresa and a golden retriever named Moses.

I sighed. “So I’m screwed.”

“Basically,” he nodded.

A silence settled between us as a baby in aisle 3 screamed at a bag of frozen peas.

“You know,” Death mused, “you weren’t the worst human. You paid your taxes. Occasionally donated to those sad animal commercials.”

“I once adopted a blind hamster,” I offered.

“That’s worth 10 points,” Death said, updating his tablet. “Still short.”

I watched as a kid tiptoed over my body to grab a Snickers bar. My own corpse had become a minor inconvenience.

Death handed me a brochure. “Anyway, here’s a list of optional afterlife packages. Some are more interactive. Ever wanted to be a muse for a poet with crippling anxiety?”

“Tempting,” I said. “Any package where I don’t end up being forgotten under fluorescent lighting next to leaking tuna cans?”

“Only one,” Death said.

He reached into his jacket and pulled out a candle.

It flickered softly. No flame. Just memory.

“If you let go,” he said, “someone down there might light this. Might say your name. Might laugh at your worst joke. That’s how people live on.”

I looked at the candle.

And I remembered…

How I once accidentally texted my boss “I love you” instead of “I’ll update the spreadsheet.”

How I tripped in front of the entire subway crowd and took a bow.

How my mom used to leave sticky notes in my fridge that said things like “Eat or die.”

I smiled.

“Okay,” I said. “I’m ready.”

Death nodded. “It was... surprisingly nice knowing you.”

“Do you say that to everyone?”

He paused. “No. Most people die screaming. You died next to hummus.”

“Touché.”