Death at a Meeting

Death made his way, unhurried, into the meeting, the slow drag of his steps across the cold church basement floor announcing his arrival. His long halo of hair lifted and fell with each combat-booted footfall and his handlebar mustache lifted - almost imperceptible - as he approached the woman he’d come to meet.

The others scattered as they recognized him, though each saw him as a different size, shape and color. They had all encountered him at their lowest points, preludes to a dance that would catch them up later, and they were in no hurry to move to that final rhythm.

He picked up a Styrofoam cup, filled it with steaming coffee and drank it black, finishing it before it had the slightest chance to cool and before he reached the seat next to Karen.

“Anyone sitting here?”

Karen didn’t look up for the magazine she was reading, but gestured toward the chair.

“Help yourself.”

He sat. The man on his other side hastily moved to a seat on the other side of the room.

“Come here often?”

She grimaced in response, eyes still focused on an article about the powers of positive thinking.

“Not interested.”

An older woman whose years and experiences lay mapped across her face stood and cleared her throat.

“OK. I think we’ll get started. My name is Joanne, and I’m an alcoholic.”

Death heard but didn’t listen as the story of Joanne’s struggles faded to a faint babble. His mind drifted.

He couldn’t remember what life was like, you know, before he became Death. Had he been an average human burdened with the mundane but enjoying sparks of happiness here and there? Just thinking about it made his head hurt and throat clench. God, he needed a drink. Better do something, quick.

“My name is Death, and I am an alcoholic.”