HIM

The city was growing, construction never stopped. Everything was changing, everything was dirty and loud. They just shipped off the somewhat homeless Irish section of town to make room for more new buildings. And Seneca Village was being taken over to become some grand park. 1950’s New York City was a dirty mess. And John had lost his sense of joy a long time ago. He was walking home from his job in the NYC tunnels. He was lamenting over how much he used to enjoy his walk through the quaint neighborhoods of before. He was beginning to feel anger over things lost when he tripped over a large black book.

It was a fancy mans black leather bound book. John picked it up and thumbed through it, but all the pages were blank, there were no markings or names. What a lucky find, had to be worth a few bucks. Tomorrow he would take it by the pawn shop and be able to get the good scotch, instead of his usual unnamed swill. Johns step picked up as he wandered back to his rented flop. Up the stairs to his filthy flop, opening the door and looking around his tiny room was depressing. John had long since stopped washing the sheets, or himself. He sat on his filthy bed, grabbed his filthy bottle of swill and started gnawing on some dried meat. The filthy stray cat meandered in through the fire escape window to join John on the bed for his share of the meat. Tomorrow would be better.

John grabbed his lucky find from the end of the bed. He looked twice, looked three times…. there on the front cover was embossed a name. HIS name. He looked at his filthy bottle, looked at the filthy cat, then back to his name on the book. John apprehensively opened the book. On the first page was writing:

Tomas Eugene Feegle, 452 West Elm Street June 15 9:35am

Ok, that writing definitely was not there earlier. West Elm was only a couple blocks away. The date and time were for tomorrow. John was perplexed. So to resolve his problems, he finished off his filthy bottle of swill and went to bed.

John dreamt of a brownstone building that a ginger haired man was exiting. The man walked towards John and John had certain knowledge that this man was supposed to die. As the ginger approached, John stuck out his hand in greeting, and then woke. Every time John when back to sleep, the dream repeated.

When morning came, John decided he would not be going to work. It was off to the pawn shop for him. The easy money was calling to him. He climbed out of his filthy bed, dressed in his filthy clothes, and mashed his filthy hair to one side. As he reached for the black leather book, his aim was not sufficient and he instead knocked it off on to the floor, where it laid open to page one.

The dream flashed in his mind. Feegle. West Elm Street. 9:35am.

John grabbed the book, patted his filthy cat on the head, and left for West Elm Street.

John didn’t do much thinking on his walk. He was acting in some automatic function. As he turned on to West Elm, there was the brownstone building from his dream. And as if on cue, the front door opened and out walked the ginger haired man.

Mr Feegle smoothed his clothes. Then took a look around at his city. Sun was shining. Street was busy. He walked down his front steps. Kicked some stones back in to the street. When he looked up, he noticed two strange men staring at him. He felt strongly compelled to go talk to the one.

John watched as the ginger man crossed the street. And just like in his dream, he felt awkward. He began to extend his hand in greeting when he noticed the man was looking past him. The ginger man was going to walk by him! He couldn’t walk by him! He was supposed to die! He must die!

And with a panic in his throat, John’s outstretched hand of greeting turned in to a violent hand of death, pushing Mr Feegle back in to oncoming traffic. Mr Feegle lost his balance on the curb, flailed his arms, eyes wide with fear, and fell back in to the path of a large delivery truck. The truck driver tried to stop, but that only made things worse. Screams arose in the street, crowds were forming. Strangely no one seemed to notice John standing there. No one….except HIM.

“Apparently, my instructions were not clear, John”

John jumped, he had not noticed the man standing next to him before. A fancy man, with a nice clean and pressed black suit. He held a well worn black book in his hand. He seemed to look old and young at the same time. It was in the eyes…. The eyes that were staring at John.

“John, you were not supposed to kill him”

Suddenly everything flashed back….John had just killed a man. Johns own hand caused this man to die. John. What have you done John!? As panic filled Johns mind, the man next to him spoke again.

“John. He would have died thirty seconds later. It is ok. You reported as directed. You did not know proper procedure.”

PROPER PROCEDURE?

The man was talking. The man then stopped and waited for John to catch up.

Proper procedure? Proper Procedure? What’s the proper procedure for killing a man? I killed a man? I reported as directed…..

John turned to HIM, “I reported as directed?”

HE took a breath, “Yes John, you were born and bred for this job. Today was your first day. Your book will list appointments. Your job is to collect the souls.”

HE continued, “As each human meets their death, you help guide the soul into the light. The light is where all souls go and where all souls come from. Mr. Feegle was about to die from a massive heart attack, you were just a bit over zealous in accomplishing your task. You will see on your next job how this all ties together.”

Next job….

As John was trying to digest what he had just heard, HE handed him a black leather satchel. It was fancy mans leather. A beautiful piece. HE said, “Look for me at the next job. And get yourself cleaned up” and disappeared.

John walked back to his filthy flop on his filthy street. He walked up the filthy stairs. He opened the filthy door to his filthy room, his more than filthy bed, the filthy bottle and the filthy cat.

John sat on the bed and stared at the wall. “I don’t want to be the grim reaper.”

John opened up the leather book. Tomas Eugene Feegle had a line through his name. Below it was another name, address, date and time.

“I don’t want to be the grim reaper.”

The filthy cat rubbed up against the satchel. John looked over. The satchel had Johns named embossed in the leather, just like the leather book.

John unclasped the leather satchel and took a long deep breath.

“I think being the grim reaper will be good job”

John showed the contents to the filthy cat. The satchel was full of money with a note on top “Living Expenses”. John found the wording ironic. The cat didn’t much care.

John grabbed his book and satchel and said goodbye to the filthy flop, said goodbye to the filthy bed, said goodbye to his filthy life. And as he closed the door he paused….and took the filthy cat with HIM.