Death in California
“Death in California”
from New Bad News (Sarabande Books)
Terminal
Death waits at a desolate departure gate at the end of the Tom Bradley International Terminal at LAX. The Singapore Airlines flight to Kuala Lumpur he’s set to sink into the Pacific later tonight is delayed, and he’s frustrated because Death waits for no one, at least in theory. But here, in practice, he remains at the most depressing airport in the world, perusing a copy of TIME magazine he lifted from a nearby kiosk. Death loves TIME, always has. He’s graced the cover dozens of times over the decades in various guises and disguises. Now he’s transfixed by an article about the Anthropocene entitled “Bad News for Earth!” According to the writer, our planet, once heralded as the essential life-support system of the known universe, is now in need of its own life-support system. Translation: seventy-five percent of the earth’s species are primed for extinction.
Death taps the equation into his iPhone calculator, and the math is not on his side. To scale to this magnitude, he’ll need to hire and train an additional seventy-six million staff reapers by 2076. He is filled with fatigue and vague dread. Perspiration beads on his brow. He glances at the updated data on the departure monitor, and the damn flight is further delayed, and that is enough. Death needs a vacation. When was the last time he took any time for himself? Answer: never. He calls Jobs in hell, and it goes straight to voicemail. “Steve, it’s me, buddy,” he says after the beep. “I’m going to take a little time off and thought you’d be a great interim. Pay’s nice. Robust 401(k). Benefits, too. Holler.” He hangs up. Seconds later, Steve Jobs texts back about the job. Jobs sends a one-word reply: “OK.” Death sets his work email to out-of-office and exits the airport. It’s early evening outside the terminal. Terminal. Death likes that word. He lets the final l linger in his mind as he lifts a finger and hails a cab. He prefers cabs to Uber because it’s the future now, and cabs are dead.
∞
Death Cab
Riding in a taxi through Marina del Rey at sunset, Death half listens to the cabbie ranting about the end of the American dream. Death nods and stares out the window: the neon pink sunset sends soft light through the palm fronds, illuminating the handsome couples strolling on the sidewalk outside the hipster shops. An inviting aroma from a nearby taqueria wafts into the car through the crack in the cab driver’s window. The totality of beauty is absolute, and it absolutely makes Death feel uncomfortable. He sits with this sinking feeling and brings awareness to it. Let’s explore this, he thinks. Why do I feel anxious right now? The cab turns off the PCH and onto to Admiralty Way by the marina, but Death doesn’t notice because he’s too busy meditating. He closes his eyes, envisions a lightbulb exploding, and gets an idea. The idea is this: I’m deathly afraid of the beauty of life. Death unbuckles his seatbelt. “Here,” he says to the driver. The cabbie maneuvers into the Ritz-Carlton parking lot and stops. “That’ll be $27.27,” the driver says. Death says nothing and hands him his Amex Black Card. “I can’t take this,” the driver says. “My machine is down. You have any cash?” Death says, “Negative.” A lie. He, in fact, has a fat stack of hundreds folded in his robe pocket, but he doesn’t budge. “I can’t accept cards,” the driver says again, returning Death’s black Amex. “Well,” says Death, “then I guess that means I’ll have to take you.” At this, the driver turns his head, and Death sees his own reflection in the driver’s mirrored sunglasses. And so Death takes him. He takes him into the mystery.
∞
Death Dines Alone
He orders takeout from his favorite Thai place and settles into the faux-leather sectional in front of the Apple flatscreen with his green tofu curry and avocado spring rolls with peanut sauce on the side. By now, Death is a California resident. He’s got a little bungalow in Echo Park. Tonight, he’s watching for the first time Ingmar Bergman’s classic, historical fantasy, The Seventh Seal, in which a medieval knight encounters Death by chance on a cinematic beach in Denmark. The knight, who’s been erstwhile playing chess alone, challenges Death to a match. Death accepts. The knight takes the white pieces, and Death gets the black ones. Death pauses the film midscene to balk at Bergman’s representation of him as a pale, cloaked figure. Sure, I rock a black cloak, he thinks, but underneath it, I have a shredded bod and a much better tan. Death unlocks his iPhone and downloads a free chess app on iTunes. He plays the computer and loses. Plays again. Loses. He savors the feeling. He loves loss. He plays again. This time he kills the computer. Bummer.
∞
A More Comprehensive List of Casualties
God is dead.
The self is dead.
The selfie is dead.
Surf is dead.
Turf is dead.
Love is dead.
Latin is dead.
Liberalism is dead.
Neoliberalism is dead.
Conservatism is dead.
Advertising is dead.
Marketing is dead.
The press release is dead.
The dollar is dead.
Bitcoin is dead.
Net neutrality is dead.
The blog is dead.
The vlog is dead.
Web design is dead.
Silicon Valley is dead.
The gig economy is dead.
The sharing economy is dead.
The shopping mall is dead.
The supermarket is dead.
The video arcade is dead.
The video store is dead.
The DVD is dead.
The CD is dead.
The guitar is dead.
Punk is dead.
Disco is dead.
Death metal is dead.
Pop is dead.
Rock is dead.
Gender is dead.
Irony is dead.
Modernism is dead.
Postmodernism is dead.
Minimalism is dead.
Maximalism is dead.
Print is dead.
Stationary is dead.
Poetry is dead.
The novel is dead.
The author is dead.
The auteur is dead.
The audience is dead.
And on and on until the end when everything is dead, including the sun.
Death is dead, too, of course, but checking himself out in the IKEA mirror just now with his shirt off and his pecs flexed, he thinks: Damn, man, I look alive! Don’t I?
∞
Jobs
By the end of the fiscal year, Steve Jobs calls and says, “Your job sucks. I quit.”
Death says, “Joblessness is the best job, Jobs. This is the future. Everyone is history, bud. Mostly thanks to you and your damn innovations.”
Jobs begins bawling. “Thank you for the kind words,” he says and hangs up.
Death considers getting back to work. He’s confident he can build out the business, scale up in order to take folks down. Ultimately, killing is his calling, he knows it, but first, he’ll black out another week on a California bender.
∞
See You
Death orders another Bloody Mary at the Gold Room on Sunset. It’s a quarter till one on a Sunday afternoon in sunny Los Angeles. The place is empty except for a C-list actor in Ray-Bans indoors who says he’s leaving town after this drink because he’s had enough of California for one lifetime. Death asks the actor where he’s going.
“Home,” the actor says.
“Where’s that?” asks Death.
“Kentucky.”
“The dark and bloody ground,” Death says. “Sure, I’ve been there a bunch. I practically live there most Februarys.”
The actor nods. He finishes his beer and knocks back a shot. Then he stands up and tosses a tip on the counter. “See you,” he says.
“Not if I see you first,” says Death.
∞
No Captain, No Ship, No Sea
That night, Death dreams of a ship in a bottle. The ship in the bottle is floating between yachts at Marina del Rey. A storm. Lightning. Thunder. Huge waves crash into the bottle until the glass cracks and it’s just a tiny ship in the stormy Pacific. There is no captain. Then there is no ship. Death watches the small ship float for a miraculous moment before it’s swallowed by a wave. Then there is no wave. Just sea. And darkness. Endless darkness. Cue thunder, an iPhone alarm. He is risen.
∞
Death Goes Fishing
He rents a pole at the Santa Monica Pier, but he doesn’t catch anything all day. He speeds back to his bungalow in the Mini at dusk. He plays Xbox: Rock Band. John Lennon’s “Imagine.” Drums.
∞
