Fair Trade

by Beverly Forehand

Table of Contents
Part 1 appears
in this issue.

conclusion

“No, really,” I say, and this is the part I really hate, the explaining, “I’m the Angel of Death and I’m here to collect you at 12:01 AM, which looks to be 29 minutes from now. So, like I said, feel free to enjoy yourself.” He looks a bit stunned and I can tell that he doesn’t believe me.

“You sure Marco didn’t send you?” he says. I light a cigarette and just to make I point, I don’t use a lighter. “Cool effect,” he says.

“Yeah,” I say taking a drag, “Seriously, thirty minutes. I’ll even throw in the extra minutes just because it’s Christmas and all.”

“I know,” he says, “You’re one of those Christmas whazzits. Like Scrooge. You know what they call them?”

“Ghost of Christmas presents?” the redhead says.

“Yeah, Ghosts of Christmas Present!” he says, “Like in that movie with Captain Picard.”

“Nope,” I say, “sorry.”

“Are you sure?” he says, “I’ve been drinking a lot. You could be an imagination.”

“Could be food poisoning?” the blonde on the couch beside him suggests.

“Yeah,” he says, “Could’ve been them crab cakes-looked a bit dodgy, they did?”

“I had one,” says the redhead, “I feel fine.”

“Sure,’ he says, “But you see him, too, right? So, like as not, you’re poisoned too.”

“Oh,” she says, “You’re probably right. It’s like mass hallucinations or something.”

“They say mass on Christmas at St. Peter’s,” the blonde says. The other blonde, by the door, hiccups and then falls over sideways. I just stand there smoking.

“Look,” I say, “You can burn up your minutes however you want.”

“It’s like phone service,” says the redhead.

“I paid for extra minutes,” says the blonde.

“Look,” I say, “I don’t want to alarm you, but I’m not a hallucination or too much gin or a bad piece of fish. I’m real. Real as reality TV, which is probably just about as real as you can imagine. And, I’m really sorry to clue you in, kid, ’cause you don’t look like too bad of a guy, but you are going to die and — unlike the rest of the people in this room — you’re going to die in 27 minutes.”

He looks at me like this is starting to get through to him. Then he shakes his head, “No, you’re like, you know, a metaphor. There’s no death — well, okay, there’s a death, but there’s no god or the devil or heaven and hell. It’s all metaphor, you know, like, for the human condition,” he finishes.

“That’s nice,” I say, “Very enlightened of you. And, if it makes you feel better, you just keep thinking that for the next 26 minutes. But, after that, you may change your opinion just a little. You can call IT anything you like. Hey, they call ham bacon in Canada, but that doesn’t change what it really is.”

The kid is no longer smiling. “I’m going to be dead in 26 minutes,” he says, “What of?”

I shrug. “I don’t do causes,” I say, “I just do pick-ups and deliveries.”

“But, I do have 26 minutes,” he says and I nod. The leans forward in a way that I’ve come to recognize. “What happens,” he says, “If, in fact, I don’t get delivered?”

“Everyone gets delivered.” I say.

“Sure, sure,” he says, “Eventually, I guess they’d all have to-but only eventually, right? There could be mix-ups. Delays. You know how it is with parcels, especially around the holidays.” I mull this over. He is right. I still haven’t gotten those cigars I ordered a month ago.

“Granted,” I say, “Things do get lost. Or maybe they don’t.”

“Or maybe they do?” he says. I think about this. It is Christmas. And the kid, who doesn’t seem to be like too bad of a guy — just an ordinary guy, really — is looking younger and younger. And, he hasn’t tried to make any deathbed confessions or pleas for mercy. He’s actually trying to bribe me, which shows he has balls, and I can appreciate that.

“Okay,” I say, “Just suppose that I was willing to delay the inevitable for a bit. Maybe even as much as a month or two?”

He smiles. “Well, seeing as my time is so limited, I doubt if I would have need for a lot of things like money...” I shake my head. “Or jewelry...” I shake again and he frowns.

“What kind of car do you drive?” I ask.

“What kind do you want me to drive?” he says. He waves his hand toward the door and I see a pegboard loaded with keys. Shining keys. Keys with keychains with their names etched on them. Glorious, wonderful keys. Keys to the kind of cars that never belch exhaust and corner perfectly even in a snowstorm.

“Take your pick,” he says, “take them all!” He smiles and I smile back. And, it’s only a minute before I shut the door behind me. Still, I think I can hear him sigh with relief even through the closed door.

The car is easy enough to find. It’s in the attached garage with about a million other perfect cars. It’s cold black with black leather seats and it radiates a kind of serenity that only the most expensive things can. I open the door and it makes one of these happy little beeps, not the dull grinding I’m used to, and I sit down and light another cigarette. I enjoy the slow burn and open the ashtray ever so slightly. It’s completely clean. It’s like this car has never even been driven. And, maybe it hasn’t. Maybe, it has, in fact, just been waiting for me.

I start the engine and it purrs — it actually purrs — and I pull out of the garage. The way I see it, at least it’s a fair trade — or fair enough anyway. And, I guess this is even an honest job. Somebody has to do it anyway. And if Death used to make trades for chess or checkers or gin rummy or whatever, I guess this is just as good. What’s a month or two or six in the grand scheme of things anyway? It all evens out in the end. And, that’s what this job is really all about: in the end.

I take the car to the very edge of town and park at the overhang, right above the city where you can just see for miles. I know he’s down there. Maybe he’s thinking deep thoughts about life, the universe, and everything. Or maybe he’s just drinking some more gin and watching late-night with his buxom trio. To tell you the truth, it doesn’t matter. There’s a whole city down there and they’re all laughing, crying, living, and dying. And, the snow just keeps falling and covering it all.

I sit in the car and watch the snow and the windows aren’t even fogged up. It’s a convertible and I have the top up. And, the temperature is just fine, even with the cold and the snow. You know this is just the sort of car that always has that degree of perfection summer, winter, spring, or fall. It even has heated seats, if you can imagine. Heated seats.

I stub out the last of my cigarette and light another. The smoke swirls up around me and I watch the snow fall across a flawless moon in a perfect sky and its Christmas. And, that seems just fine too. Tomorrow or the next day or the day after that, I’ll have to think about all this: take the car back, take the Soul, or don’t do either. But, for right now, there’s the snow and the car and the perfect cigarette. I check my watch. 11:59.

Sometimes we get what we deserve, or at least what we think we deserve and sometimes it’s the same thing. Even Scrooge got another chance, right? Some say there are no second chances, no last minute reprieves. But, who the hell knows? Maybe there are. Maybe they’re just waiting for us to take them. Maybe anything and everything is possible. Especially on a night like tonight.

And, as I watch, the car’s digital clock flashes to 12:00. Midnight on Christmas Day. They say anything is possible then. Even miracles. Especially miracles. I watch the snow and the stars and the night. And, for this one minute, it seems that that could actually be true.