Talking to Death
by Jeffrey Greene
Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to The Locked Room. I’m Nate Burnside. We have a very, very special guest in the studio tonight, none other than Death Herself (yeah, I was shocked, too), who for the first time in her long and phenomenally successful career has consented to an interview.
Before we welcome her, however, I should tell you that Death has agreed to speak on camera only on condition that her form be concealed behind a screen for the duration of the interview, and that her voice be mechanically altered. She has also informed us that she will not answer any questions of a where, when or how nature concerning what she chooses to call her “clients,” which means, of course, you and me, folks.
Naturally, many of you are skeptical, to say the least, over my decision to honor these conditions, assuming that, since you can’t see the person behind the screen, we here at The Locked Room must be trying to pull a fast one on you, on the order of “Alien Autopsy” or other shameless frauds perpetrated by the foxy folks at You Know Where. All you have is my word on it, my ironclad reputation for honesty and straight talk, that my guest today is the supernatural being commonly known as Death.
You know me, folks. I’m Nate Burnside, professional pain in the ass to the liars, con men, and thieves we almost always elect to public office. Nothing’s changed, and nothing will change as long as I’m sitting in this chair. Now let’s give a big Locked Room welcome to Ms. Death.
(Studio audience applauds as the silhouette of a thin, elegant female figure steps up to the screen, shakes Nate’s hand and then sits down and crosses her legs.)
NB: Hello, and welcome to The Locked Room.
D: Thank you, it’s good to be here.
NB: Do you prefer to be called “Ms. Death,” or just “Death”?
D: Whatever you’re most comfortable with, Mr. Burnside.
NB: “Comfortable” hardly describes my sensations at the moment, but if you don’t mind, I’ll call you “Ms. D” And please call me Nate.
D: Okay, Nate.
NB: I have to admit, I was a little nervous shaking your hand, which by the way, folks, felt like a normal, if cold, human hand. Thought maybe touching you might be... well, you know.
(Nervous laughter from the audience)
D: That’s just a fairy tale, Nat.
NB: Nate.
D: ‘Nate,’ sorry. Don’t want to take the wrong guy, do I? Just kidding. Honestly, Nate, my touch is no more deadly than yours.
NB: Then how do you, well... kill people?
D: I don’t kill people. I wait for them to see me. If they don’t see me, it’s not their time yet. I’m always the last thing anyone sees. What they see, of course, is a personal matter.
NB: But hold on a second. Didn’t I just see you?
D: Well, yes, sort of. But this is just an appearance, my television personality, as it were. You won’t see my real face until, well, let’s call it “Nate Burnside’s special moment.”
(Laughter and applause)
NB: Okay, whew! I’m relieved. How about you, folks? So if I understand you, Ms. D, you’re saying that some people see a cloaked skeleton, and other people see... what?
D: Everything under the sun.
NB: You’ve already ruled out answering such questions as where, when and how. Which leaves us with the biggest question of all: why? Why do we have to die, Ms. D?
(Loud supportive applause)
D: Well, that’s not really my department, Nate. It’s just a job, nothing personal. But I will say that the system works. I mean, without death, where would any species be?
NB: All over the place, I guess. So death is nature’s way of clearing the decks. Out with the old, in with the new. Renewal, to use a word liberals love.
D: That’s it, more or less.
NB: You make it all sound so normal and natural.
D: It is, Nate. It’s immortality that’s unnatural, a chimera dreamed up by the frightened human ego. Take it from me, there’s no such thing and never will be. Everybody dies, no exceptions.
NB: You, too? Can Death die?
D: Well, no. But then, I’ve never been alive. You see, I’m one of those pesky, pre-existing conditions contained in the fabric of creation, so to speak. In another universe, one based on something other than thermodynamics, I wouldn’t need to exist.
NB: Other universes? Where people don’t die? Wow. Where do I sign up?
D: Just speculating, Nate. This is it as far as we’ll ever know.
(Disappointed groan from the audience)
NB: Okay, fair enough. Birth and death are a given, and there are no exceptions anywhere in the universe, right?
D: That’s correct. Some creatures live a very long time, but all die eventually. Not to toot my own horn, but my record is spotless. I haven’t missed anybody, ever.
NB: Well, we’re all grown-ups here, aren’t we, folks? We can live with that. No choice, obviously. But here’s the kicker, the question I really wanted to ask you: what happens after we die?
D: You do like putting a gal on the spot, don’t you? But I think I’d better take the Fifth on that one.
(Boos and hisses from the audience)
NB: You hear that, Ms. D? That’s an ugly crowd out there, and they demand to know. Is there or is there not an afterlife?
D: Well, I can’t speak to religious beliefs, Nate, but I will say this: the birth and death of individuals of any species might be called its normal respiration, birth being the inhalation and death the exhalation. If that breathing stops, the species dies. Hardy species, such as the cockroach and the shark, have been breathing for a very long time. Homo sapiens are the new kids on the block. But even cockroaches and sharks aren’t immortal. They may last five hundred million years, but they all gotta go sometime.
NB: Excuse me, Ms. D, but that sounds like double-talk. What I’m hearing is, there’s no immortality of the soul, and not even of the species. When we die, we’re dead, and that’s it. End of story.
D: I didn’t say that, Nate, you did. But think about it: do you honestly believe that every squashed rabbit on the street has a soul that’s flitting around the universe looking for another body to enter? Little squirrel, dog, bird, cat, and human souls sailing around with transparent suitcases, looking for bodies with ‘Vacancy’ signs posted on their foreheads? Sounds more like Halloween or Mary Poppins than the world revealed to you through your senses, doesn’t it? Maybe humans should try keeping it simple. Like: I am my body, not something inhabiting it. My body is mortal, therefore, I am mortal.
NB: Easy for you to say. You’re Death. But for those of us under the gun, it’s enough to keep you awake at night, thinking: one of these days I’m going to stop breathing, and it’s not going to be any fun at all. I’ll be gasping for air, turning blue, and then, after flopping around for a while, I’ll...
D: Die. Say it, Nate. Get comfortable with it, because there’s no way out, believe me. I do understand, though. It’s the dying you’re afraid of, not death. But look at it this way: compared to the pain of living, the pain of dying is no big deal. Just imagine: no more constipation, hangovers, bad knees, bills, taxes, horrible family holidays, boring parties, shaving, flossing, picking hairs out of your nose or watching it fall off your head, voting the next bum in or out of office. It’s all over.
NB: You make it sound like the world’s greatest retirement plan instead of the end of everything.
D: Not the end of everything, just the end of Nate Burnside. And won’t that be nice, after all the clawing and fighting to get where you are now, only to lose it when your ratings begin to tank? Lay down your burden, Nate.
NB: What?! You mean now?! But it can’t be now! This is live TV!
D: As good a time as any. While you’re still at the top of your game and people remember you. They love it when their heroes die young — or, in your case, youngish — and it just so happens that you’re on the docket. So, Nate, how many fingers am I holding up?
NB:
(Screams from the audience, cut to commercial)
Copyright © 2023 by Jeffrey Greene
