The Reaper and Me

Issue #04 AfroFantasy Detroit Sunday, August 11, 2024

I guess he thought it was funny. You know, Jack the Reaper?

He always said it was important for death to have a sense of humor. I’m not so sure I agree, but then I haven’t been around as long as Jack, and I haven’t seen the things he’s seen. When it’s been your job for eternity to pay folks their last visit, I can understand the desire to want to lighten things up a bit.

It has been three years, one week, and five days since Jack first told me the reason for his visit. Because after that first lengthy conversation we shared in a coffee shop, the one that just opened up on Third and Ash just a couple blocks from my apartment (not much humor was shared on that day), Jack decided maybe it shouldn’t be my time after all. Much to my relief, but I had questions.

“Don’t you have to get some sort of approval from somewhere before you can go changing the schedule like that? Not that I don’t appreciate what you’re doing, but it just seems…”

“The decision has always been up to me. It just works better that way, giving us the final call if we feel like we need to make an adjustment to the calendar. Death and bureaucracy just don’t mix. The Big Guy understands that, same as he understands most things. Anyway, you’re off the hook. For now.”

“Wait…us?”

So let me back up a bit.

We were never supposed to end up in a coffee shop, but it was one of those situations where I knew I had to think quickly because the alternative wasn’t looking so good. It was a nice spring day featuring a clear blue sky and just a slight breeze, and I was sitting on my front porch in my slippers, smoking a joint. Time was 8:06 am on a Saturday – you gotta love digital watches – and I wasn’t thinking about anything in particular, just glad it was the weekend.

Then the atmosphere unzips itself right in front of me, and this short, shabby-looking guy comes strolling through this sudden opening in the air, looking directly at me with this crooked grin attached to his face like it was stitched on, hands clasped behind his back, gray ponytail halfway down his back. The first thing I thought was that you don’t see too many Black guys wearing ponytails these days. The second thing I thought was maybe Ricky had dropped a little something extra in this month’s supply of weed. Because this shit could not be happening.

“Morning, cousin! And nope, Ricky didn’t add anything to your joint, although I wouldn’t put it past him. He’s one of those I wish his time was a little sooner. But gotta follow the calendar, right? Anyway, speaking of that calendar, it says here that Ricky got way more time left than he probably should, but YOU, my friend, your lottery number has ARRIVED!”

So I was feeling nervous and scared as hell on the inside because it was rapidly becoming apparent to me where this train was headed. But on the outside? I was all Detroit. I took a long drag, then cocked my head to the side. Squinted my eyes tight.

“Don’t play the lottery, and I ain’t your damned cousin. That’s my brother’s trip. Yo, what you say your name was again?”