Exit Interviews

The waiting room reeked of stale coffee and cheap creamer. The peculiar bouquet familiar to places that process hope in numbered slips. Death shifted uncomfortably in a too small chair ill suited for his bony frame. Beside him his scythe leaned against the wall like an old violin in a world that had long forgotten music.

He stared at the dull, industrial gray, threadbare carpet at his feet. It was not merely colorless; it was the absence of color, the absence of anything that dared to draw attention. A carpet designed not to be noticed. A carpet that knew its place.

Despite its lack of aesthetics, he found himself jealous. At least it had a job.

This was his fifth interview in as many months, each attempt more embarrassing than the last, and he wasn’t quite sure how much more he had in him. It had been half a year since the breakthrough life-extension treatment had hit the market. Half a year since his entire business model had been ripped out from under him.

Now, sitting in this pitiful temp agency waiting room, he dreaded getting his number called.

He shifted in his chair again, attempting to fold himself inward, to take up less space, to become, if not invisible, at least ignorable. The others in the room were silent, or pretended to be; flipping through outdated magazines, rubbing at sore knees, studying the walls in an attempt to avoid eye contact. All of them, uneasy passengers adrift on the choppy waters of unemployment.

He cleared his throat, out of habit, not need, and turned to the man seated across from him. The man was dressed in a dark, formal suit, his tie knotted with the sort of precision that suggested muscle memory rather than intention.

“Mortician?” he asked, trying to make conversation with the dour looking man.

The man looked up from the newspaper want ads and turned his sunken eyes towards death. “How could you tell?” he asked in a perfectly dry, monotone voice.

“Like knows like.” Death said nodding solemnly. “And… well, your suit, it…” Death hesitated, suddenly unsure whether he should admit to the man that his suit still had the faint odor of embalming fluid still stubbornly clinging to it like a man on a ventilator clutching at the last threads of life.

A woman’s voice crackled through the overhead speaker, saving him from indecision. “Number 42!”

Death looked down at the crumpled piece of paper in his hands.

“My time is up.” He stood and gave the man a slight nod. “I’ll see you later.” He said.

“No you wont.” The mortician murmured with a hint of smugness.

This is the problem! Death thought as he made his way to the counter. No one respects me anymore! I used to be the constant, the conclusion, the final answer to every question the body asked. Now I’m just another name on a clipboard.

Death approached the counter with the posture of someone expecting bad news but hoping it would be delivered kindly.

The staffing consultant, a blonde in her mid-forties, looked up from her computer with the bland enthusiasm of someone trained in customer service.

“Name?” she asked, fingers poised above the keyboard.

“Death.”

She paused. Not dramatically. Just long enough to process and recalibrate what he had just said. “Is that… first or last?”

“Neither, really. I… predate paperwork…”

She clicked her pen. “Okay. Let’s see what we’ve got for you.” She scrolled through his resume, her expression unreadable. Death sat perfectly still across from her, hands folded, posture patient, he was used to waiting.

“It says here you had some success as a retail manager.”

He nodded once. “Correct. Until—”

“Until you had a breakdown during... Black Friday?”

Death’s patient demeanor cracked slightly, “I don’t know if you’ve ever led a crew of underpaid teenagers and broken adults through the capitalistic ritual that is... that day” he said, suppressing a shudder, “but I’ll be honest, it’s significantly easier to shepherd souls into the afterlife than it is to manage a seasonal shoe department at four in the morning.” He tilted his head slightly, as if caught in a flashback. “… Someone bit me.... For a toaster.”

She nodded, made a small note in the margin, and moved on, scrolling further. “And you applied as a... life coach?”

“Yes.”

She looked up, arching a brow. “Don’t you think that’s a little ironic? Death working as a life coach?”

Death sighed. “Your colleague thought that was funnier than I did. But, I was… am.. desperate.” He adjusted the sleeves of his robe with the dignity of someone unwilling to apologize for practicality. “I thought it made sense with my background in motivational speaking.”

He paused as she raised an eyebrow, inviting him to continue. “Do you see many ghosts wandering around these days?” He didn’t wait for her answer. “Exactly! I was rather persuasive when it came to convincing people their unfinished business wasn’t worth the trouble—that eternal peace was a significantly better bargain.”

He paused, glancing toward the window. “Of course, back then, the concept sold itself.”

She gave a tight, polite smile. Death sat back, composed himself again, preparing for the next indignity.

“Right,” she said, clearing her throat. “Well, we do have an opening at Death Simulation. It’s a live-action experience where people pay to confront their fears in a safe, curated environment. It’s a little like, well, an escape room. You’d play… yourself, essentially.”

He blinked. Once. “No.”

“It’s not a bad gig.” She pressed. “Flexible hours. You get to keep the robe!”

“I will always keep the robe….”

She gave a tight, practiced smile and resumed scrolling. He waited. “Anything else?”

The clacking slowed, then stopped.

“No. I’m sorry. The rest of the open roles have all been taken—mostly by former life insurance reps, hospice nurses, a couple of morticians retrained in dental hygiene…”

She tapped her keyboard softly. The silence between them hummed with the soft fluorescent buzz of economic extinction. “You can always check back in a week,” she said gently. “Positions aren’t constant.”

She paused, then added with a weak laugh: “The only constants are dea—well…” She caught herself, a little embarrassed. “Not death anymore. But taxes, still are.”

-------------------------Six months Later-----------------------

Death stood in his new office, It was clean, pristine, untouched. A single fern sat in the corner, overwatered and underloved, striving to appear lively beneath the pale indifference of oppressive LED light.

The sign above the reception desk read, in proud serif font:

GRIM & ASSOCIATES — TAX PREPARATION AND ACCOUNTING

Death stood behind the counter in a tailored charcoal suit, no trace of the robe, his scythe replaced with a new BIC red ink pen. He checked and adjusted his slim black tie in the window’s reflection and stood straighter, adjusting his posture to that of someone who had, at last, found a use for inevitability.

If he could no longer close the books on souls, he could at least balance them.

The bell above the door chimed as a client stepped in. Death smiled, calm and measured, entirely professional. My first customer!

“Welcome to Grim & Associates,” he said, extending a hand with the quiet confidence of someone who had reinvented himself. “We’re going to kill the tax code.”