Morning Coffee
Try taking a walk with Death, the speaker said. See what that feels like. He was an impressive person, a Buddhist who had devoted his life to servíng those whose lives were ending.
I took him at his word and the next morning I imagined, as I stepped onto the sidewalk, that I wasn’t alone, that Death herself was walking alongside me. She wasn’t the grim reaper in a black cape and holding a crooked walking staff. Instead she wore sneakers, jeans, and an expensive jet-black hoodie, amused and just slightly annoyed I would “call her up” so early in the morning.
The first thing you notice when you walk with Death is what I expected: everything starts to feel more fragile, more special. “I’ll destroy that tree,” she said just as I noticed the green buds on it. “I’ll destroy that bird,” she added just as I heard its morning song. “Better pay attention, they won’t be here for long.”
But the second thing you notice when you take a walk with Death — and this I did not expect — is damn is Death funny. She’s like the snarkiest hipster girl you know, the one who calls out everyone. Destroying the trees and the birds feels tragic, but destroying the humans? That’s another story.
We saw a woman in heels running to catch the subway car — clearly concerned she might be late for — for what? “Hope she makes that meeting,” Death said. “Obviously it’s very important what she’s up to. Before I turn her into a little cloud of smoke I mean.”
We saw one man in his car honking at another, so angry the other man had turned left in front of him prematurely, had slowed his drive by three seconds. “Also smoke,” Death said. “Poof.” She held out her hand like she was going to snap her fingers, but then stopped, grinning. “Not today,” she said. “We better let him get to his destination. Maybe he’s meeting that woman and they’re gonna, you know, do something super important.”
We saw a man standing outside the drugstore, annoyed he was a few minutes too early, annoyed he had to stand there until they unlocked the door. “Hmmm, no smoke for him,” Death said. “Well, not just for him I mean. But I am going to pick this whole neighborhood up, flip it over, and shake it like an Etch-a-Sketch. But I’ll let him get those paper towels and that deodorant first.”
We walked down the hill to get a coffee. As we sat out on the café’s patio Death seemed relaxed and confident, no negativity, no malice. I asked her what she enjoyed most about her job.
“Nearly everything,” she replied. “People misunderstand what it is I do. They think I’m out to get them, that I’m some sort-of a bogeyman. But pain and suffering, that’s not my department. I don’t trade in those. My jam is way, way simpler.
She paused to take a sip of coffee, two slender hands wrapped around the mug for warmth, closing her eyes as she savored the liquid as it hit her tongue.
“I just make things precious,” she said, opening her eyes and looking at another tree with its tiny buds. “And that’s a pretty satisfying gig.” She stopped for a beat, letting me reflect on that before speaking again.
“OK but now look at this idiot in line at the counter, staring at his phone,” she said. “What should we do with a guy who doesn’t even have the time to look up at the barista?”
“You’re kind of an asshole,” I said.
“Not true,” she protested. “It’s just when you do this whole destroyer-of-worlds thing for a while you get…more attuned to things I guess.”
She paused again, then spoke. “Did you hear that bird earlier? I mean, come on, nothing better. An entire symphony in three notes.”