George looked up from her pair of computer screens to see the office manager of Happy Time Temporary Services, Delores Herbig, staring at her. Delores was smiling – as she so often did – in a way that George still found unsettling. As Delores held her head between the palms of her hands with her elbows resting on the wall of the cubicle, it struck George that her boss's hair had become rather gray over the past decade, but that sparkle in "Her-big brown eyes" was still there.
George usually worked in a cubicle that was right next to Delores's. The cubicle where George was working today had been hers back before her promotion to assistant office manager three years ago, but this cubicle now belonged to Bari, who was out today. George was pitching in to get some data entry done so that the office in general, and Bari in particular, would not fall behind.
"What?" said George, staring back at Delores.
"Do you have a picture of Dorian Gray in your attic, Millie?"
Delores, like everyone in the office, knew George by her undead name, "Millie." It was a long story that, by virtue of the fact that it involved a secret identity, George never had to explain to anyone. When she was alive, and under her previous name of Georgia Lass, she had gotten her first job through Happy Time, which had "conveniently" put her in downtown Seattle just in time to be struck and killed by a piece of Russian space-junk – a zero-G toilet seat from the original Mir space station. That was how Georgia – who had always preferred to be called George – became a grim reaper, another long story.
"First of all," said George, "I rent a two-room apartment and don't have an attic. Second, I'm no longer into guys, so why would I store a picture of somebody named Damian Gray anywhere?"
"Dorian Gray, not Damian," said Delores, "and while you took all those business courses at community college, you should have stopped to smell the roses and take some literature courses. Everyone should know about Oscar Wilde's story 'The Picture of Dorian Gray'."
"Is there a movie?"
"A couple, I think. You should see the 1940s one, though. Anyway, it's about a man who stays young and good-looking while the painting of him grows old and ugly."
"So this is either a back-handed way of saying that I ought to be aging more badly, or else you're saying I look really good for my age."
Delores did the half-scornful-half-mocking dance she always did. While her hand swept forward and across her body to dismiss George's words, she made a scoffing snort that quickly turned into a good-natured chuckle. Then it was down to business.
"How far have we gotten, Millie?"
"We're almost done with the Ds. I thought I'd get a head start on the Es before I went home."
Delores shook her head, pressing her lips together firmly before she spoke. "Finish the Ds if you want to, but I just got off the phone with Bari, and she's coming in tomorrow, so she can pick up wherever you leave off. I want you to run the show for me tomorrow. Do you think you can step into Herbig shoes?" Delores poked her cheek with an index finger and twisted it as she often did when she made a pun on her own name.
"I've only done it once before," said George, "but I don't see why not. What's the day off in honor of, if I may ask?"
"You may ask, but it isn't a day off. I have to go over to Redmond and talk to their HR department."
"Interviewing for a position over there?" said George, raising an eyebrow. "Way to bury the lead, Delores."
Delores did a scoff-chuckle again, complete with hand wave. "No, silly. We have a big contract coming up. It could be an exclusive."
"In this economy, that will be good for Happy Time and good for our temps," said George.
It was true. In 2013 the economy was in the doldrums and it looked as if it would never get any better. Happy Time had seen more than its share of cut backs. Temporary jobs were getting scarce, and any good news was welcome.
"Got any plans for this evening?" asked Delores.
"Going to meet Charlotte at Starbucks," said George. "See where the evening goes from there." Charlotte did not just drink coffee at Starbucks. She worked there as a store manager. After graduating from the university with a degree in English literature, she had found that the only job she could get was as a barista. She worked hard, and now she managed one of the biggest Starbucks in a city that was practically owned by Starbucks. First, George had to go see Rube and the gang at Der Waffle Haus, and she did not even want to hint at reaper-related stuff with Delores – who believed that Rube was George's Alcoholics Anonymous sponsor. (Another long story.)
"Well, make it a good evening but not too good," said Delores. "I need you at your best tomorrow."
"I always try to be my best," said George.
Der Waffle Haus had been the reapers' haunt since before George was recruited about ten years ago. The gang had changed some since then. Daisy had actually made her quota, which was stunningly unbelievable considering her penchant for cutting corners. She had been "promoted" or whatever happened to reapers who met their quota. Nobody – not even Rube – knew where she was now. Anyway, Daisy was gone. Mason was still around and was as much of a goof as he had ever been. Roxy was a police sergeant now, a long step up from her old job as a meter maid, but her disposition was as sour as ever.
"Where the hell is Bob?" Roxy said.
"Can't say that I've seen him," George told Roxy, who was annoyed with Bob on principle. He pissed her off more than he did Rube, and it was Rube's job to be pissed at difficult reapers. Bob had been a cop before being killed in a car accident three years ago. He had been Daisy's last reap, and, per tradition, a reaper's last soul always became their replacement on Team Reaper.
George had gone with Daisy on that reap. Rube had given Daisy a Post-It with the name "R. Plunkett" and the address "Moe's Tavern, 1902 Mulberry St." The "ETD" or estimated time of death had been "8:55 PM." No full first name, no gender, no description in terms of height, weight or occupation. Nothing more than the first initial, last name, location and time, as usual. The only change in the past ten years was that the name of the establishment attached to a street address, when possible, was used now.
Daisy was good at sussing out who her reap was even though the clues on the Post-It were always so limited. She walked up to the bar and began talking to the guys around her. She was a misleadingly delicate-looking blonde, so who wouldn't talk to her? When the first three or four guys did not answer to the name "R. Plunkett," or even know who that was, Daisy moved on, working the bar so that anyone would have been excused for figuring her to be a prostitute, except that she kept losing interest in guys and moving on, even though the guys certainly never lost interest in her and were puzzled by her search for this specific guy, Plunkett.
Of course, Daisy was professional enough as a reaper not to assume that Plunkett was a guy, but there were only two other women in the place besides Daisy and George. Daisy eliminated them pretty quickly. It was not until she worked her way around to the darkened booths in the back corner that she found a cop in uniform who was nursing a bourbon. The nearly empty bottle beside his glass told the tale that he was not nursing a single drink so as to keep from going over his limit. He had passed that signpost a while back.
"Officer Plunkett," Daisy addressed him confidently. Why not? George thought. It said "Plunkett" right on his name plate.
"Yeah, who wants to know?" the policeman said, both drunk and disagreeable.
"Officer R. Plunkett?" continued Daisy.
"Maybe," the policeman said impatiently.
"What's the R stand for?" she said, putting on her usually irresistible charm.
"What's it to you?" said Plunkett, resisting her charm.
"Not a thing," said Daisy. She leaned toward him and stroked his arm in one motion. In that moment, she took the policeman's soul.
"You got a lotta nerve putting a hand on a police officer," said Plunkett. His words did not come out as dignified or even as threatening as he probably intended.
"I apologize, Officer Plunkett," Daisy said.
"That's good for you," he said. "You're lucky I don't run you in, but I just went off duty. Going back to the station, but just to drop off the unit."
"Don't let me stand in your way," Daisy said.
"As if you could," Plunkett scoffed.
He weaved around her and then weaved around George as if he were navigating a slalom course, even though a straight line should have taken him past both of them.
"Drive safely," Daisy gushed to his back.
He just waved his hand dismissively without turning back toward her. He ambled out the door of the establishment and got into his squad car, right in front where it had been parked in a handicapped space. George noticed a pair of gravelings – grotesque, hairy little creatures that only some reapers and the occasional schizophrenic could see – bouncing on the roof of the car. It was always their antics rather than those of reapers that attended the physical circumstances of accidental deaths. R. Plunkett pulled out into traffic and was immediately plowed into by a beer truck.
"A whiskey truck would have been more appropriate," George said.
"Bourbon would have been even more so," said Daisy. "He was drinking bourbon. He was a drunk, but he had taste." She put her hand on George's shoulder for a brief moment, but then it seemed to lift away like a feather in a breeze.
George turned toward her to make a caustic rebuttal, but Daisy was nowhere to be seen. Just like that, she was gone.
"You always had to have the last word, didn't you?" said George.
It was now George's thankless task to pick up the pieces.
Actually, the EMTs from the ambulance that had just arrived had to pick up the pieces, and there were a lot. The squad car was in pieces, too. The only thing that was not in pieces was the beer truck, although the driver was pretty shaken up.
"What the hell just happened?" asked R. Plunkett.
"You died," said George. She had long since given up sugar-coating the truth.
"Whadya mean I died? I'm right here," he said. "You on crack, lady?"
"If you're alive," said George, "then who are they using crowbars to get out of your car?"
That shut him up for a minute as he watched the transfer of his shattered body from the vehicle to the ambulance.
"What happens now?" he asked.
"Congratulations. You won the afterlife lottery!" said George with mock enthusiasm.
"I did?"
"Not really."
"So what happens? Do I move toward the light or something?"
"More like you move toward Der Waffle Haus and meet your new colleagues for the next fifty years or so."
"Huh?"
"Follow me." She started walking. He followed, although he was reluctant to keep up with George. He kept stopping and looking back at the receding accident scene.
"You say we're going to Der Waffle Haus?"
"Yeah."
"I hate that place," he said. "About ten years ago I had a really bad omelet there."
"Not a lot has changed since then," said George.
"Why do we have to go there?'
"Because that's where Rube likes to go."
"Who's Rube?"
"You'll find out soon enough. By the way, my name is George. I never quite got yours."
"It's Bob. And why do I suddenly feel sober?"
"Death is a sobering experience, I've found."
"Yeah? Well, I could really use a drink. Say, did you say your name is George? How come you got a man's name? You're not one of those transgender types, are you?"
"No, but I am a lesbian."
"No kidding?"
"You got a problem with that?"
"Not at all. Lesbos make the best cops, you know. As far as ladies are concerned, I mean."
"Uh-huh," was all that George had to say to that.
Since then, Bob had become bitter. Despite twenty years of what he claimed to have been otherwise exemplary service, the department gave his family a hard time about receiving his full pension because he had been drinking on the job.
"I was off-duty," Bob always complained.
"Then you shouldn't have been in uniform and driving a squad car," Roxy would remind him.
So Roxy resented Bob for disgracing the police force. She had struggled to become a regular police officer and was glad that Bob had not gotten back on the force under his new identity. On the other hand, Bob and Mason, the druggie, would have been bad influences on each other, if they ever overcame the whole cop versus hippie distrust they had going. This left the job of showing Bob the ropes to George.
"Watch over Bob," Rube had said to George.
"Why should I have to watch out for him?" George answered, but she knew why.
The key was that George had given Rube so much grief with her own attempts to contact her parents and kid sister after her own death that she could empathize with Bob's concern for his family. "Going home" – which, in the context of reaping, always meant visiting your previous life and those still in it – was even more of a temptation for Bob than it had been for George. He would lurk around and stalk his former family. Since he no longer looked like the Bob Plunkett they had known – because all reapers get a new appearance – they called the police on him several times. Rube hated to bail out anybody who got arrested. Reapers officially do not exist, and Rube did not want to answer any questions. Bob tried to claim he was an ex-cop but could not prove it. When arrested, he would start to tell cop stories or refer to cops he had known and worked with, but suddenly his brain seized up. George had experienced the same thing when she tried to tell her own mother a childhood story to prove her identity. The mind simply went blank. So now the police thought Bob was a psychiatric case.
George still watched her family, but now always from a great distance. Reggie, her kid sister was in college, majoring in psychology, which was a wonder to Joy, their mom, who had always suspected that Reggie would end up as an inmate rather than a helper. George liked to think that the anonymous little gifts she sent Reggie over the years had nudged her toward an exploration of life rather than the exploration of death that the aftermath of George's death had started her on.
Even though Joy, herself, still hated the word "moist" she had married a captain in the U.S. Coast Guard, a nice man who treated her like a queen, which was what Joy needed after twenty years of marriage to absentee husband and sometime father Professor Clancy Lass.
Clancy, Clancy, Clancy, George thought to herself. She had forgiven Clancy long ago and even felt a little sorry for him. Not too sorry, considering that he was the one who had hurt Charlotte when she was a young and impressionable college student, enthralled by Professor Lass's ability to weave together Shakespeare's works with 'tween-something angst. Clancy Lass was a bit of a 'tween-something himself, emotionally anyway, though the gray in his hair was beginning to make that a harder sell. Charlotte had seen through the act years ago, but it had taken her a full year to see through it.
It was still awkward for George to be seeing one of her father's cast-offs, not least because she could never tell Charlotte that Clancy had been her father in a previous life. George was "Millie" to Charlotte, and it had to stay that way. "Don't get too close to the living," Rube always said. It was at once good advice and impossible to adhere to. For one thing, since reapers received no stipend and had to either work or steal to eat and keep a roof over their heads, some kind of interaction with the living was unavoidable. Besides that, the undead had all the same needs as the living. They had bodies that needed food and rest, and emotions that needed expression. It felt good to talk and smile and touch someone else now and then. Rube disapproved of relationships that were more than transient, but he mostly didn't say anything unless an obvious problem came up. Sometimes one did.
"Here they are," said Roxy.
George turned her head to see Rube and Bob walking toward them. Both wore slickers because it was rainy. Not too rainy. Just the usual. Welcome to Seattle.
"I see we're all present and accounted for," said Rube as he and Bob slipped off their coats, hung them on the rack near the door, and squeezed into the booth. Rube was often glum, but George noted that he seemed especially letdown. She wondered who he was irritated with tonight. It used to be George, but, lately, Bob was the likeliest candidate.
Kiffany, the head waitress of Der Waffle Haus swooped in to get the new orders from her best customers – which mainly applied to Rube and sometimes Roxy, more so than Bob or Mason. Roxy had already eaten and was sipping her free coffee refill courtesy of Kiffany. Mason was eating Splenda out of the packets. Sugar, George could understand, but Splenda? Out of the packet? Then, she could not understand much of what went on in Mason's head even after a decade. George herself had ordered an unsweetened ice tea and was nursing it. She wanted to leave room for whatever she and Charlotte did not have planned for later.
"Two Banana Bonanzas," Rube ordered.
"Nothing for me," said Bob.
Rube held up two fingers to Kiffany, overruling Bob. "And a pot of coffee," he added. "A whole pot."
George watched Bob's face fall into the usual frown of resignation. When it came to Bob, Rube was the bad cop and George was the good one, when she was in the mood. Right now, Rube seemed to be playing bad cop.
"Everybody ready for their assignments?" said Rube, opening his binder. Post-Its lined both sides of its open face. Rube peeled them off two at a time and handed them out. Mason and Roxy studied theirs.
"Not a very wide window on this one," said Roxy.
"Yeah, sorry about that. I was unavoidably detained," said Rube.
"I can guess by who," said Roxy.
"You got a problem with me?" said Bob to Roxy as they glared at each other. "We can take this outside."
"Roxy is in too much of a hurry," said Rube. "She'll have to kick your ass another time."
"Who's going to drive me out to East Skidmark?" Mason asked.
"Not Bob or George," said Rube. "They're going to take a soul right here in town." He handed Bob a sticky. Just then their Banana Bonanzas arrived. Rube closed his binder and dug right into his whipped-cream-covered food, but Bob pushed his plate away and focused on the Post-It. Absently, he held the handle of his coffee cup while Kiffany filled it.
"I don't need a chaperon," said Bob.
"Yes, you do," said Rube between bites of his banana waffle.