The Interview

After several erroneous stops, I found myself on a mist shrouded street corner. A fedora shaded my eyes from glaring street light, above.  Stranger still, I wore a pinstriped suit. Easily, it was the best cut, and an effortless fit.  Things felt a little too natural in the fine fabrics.   I turned my gaze up to the street light, and fixed it with suspicion.

“Isn’t this a little over the top?” I asked the street light, as if it would answer me.

The light didn’t answer.

Righting my jacket, I stepped out into the street.  My shoes clicked, and their echoes drifted softly away into the obscuring swirls of white.  As I progressed, I found myself before a three story home.  It was squeezed between two other residences.  Born a millennial, I most assuredly felt out of place.  I felt like I was in an old mobster movie, or something about the 1920s.  However, there were certain signs that I was in exactly the kind of “place” I needed to be.

The houses to either side were nondescript.  Details of the house before me were crisp, crystal clear.  Focusing upon the neighbors awarded me nothing for my focus, as their details were muted.  The neighbors were unimportant.  Here, there was only this house.

This was it.

Steps led up to the door.  I stood at the foot of those steps, and looked down the street. Nothing was out there, not even road.  All I could see was mists made glaringly white by the street light behind me.  That was my way out, just in case.  On the other hand, I couldn’t keep the “Boss” waiting.  Their patience may be infinite, but there was no tolerance for excuses.

I ascended the steps and lightly knocked upon the door.  While I waited, I puzzled over what I might say.  How would I get inside?  The only armor afforded me was a suit.  I idly wondered what other tools I had been given.  I patted at my pockets, and immediately found something.  Retrieving a thick, leather wallet, I discovered my “shield.”  When I noted the peephole, I held my wallet open before it.

After a moment, the door opened.  The majority of what I saw was that of an elderly, african american woman.  She wore a bright yellow dress, and had a white apron on atop that.  However, the finer points of her face were distorted and vague. I somehow understood that she had spoken to me.  I didn’t hear any actual words.  But, I knew what she had asked.

“I’m sorry to disturb you at this late hour, ma’am,” I said, and respectfully tipped my hat to her.

She nervously shuffled and gave me a slight curtsey.  Mentally, I chided myself.  Civil Rights hadn’t been passed until much later than the 1920s.  This woman was a memory, ancient and vague, but somehow important.  She wasn’t real.  But, born and raised long after her struggles, I personally saw her as an elderly woman, who just happened to be black.  Times differed in memory.  Stubbornly, I refused to play the part given to me, and I gave her the respect she should have had.

“Nobody under your roof is in any trouble,” I told her, careful not to lie, even to a memory, “I’ve been making some inquiries in the area. May I come inside?”

Again without words, she humbly invited me in.  Stepping aside, she opened the door for me.  Remembering at the last second, I removed my hat, and smiled at her faceless face.

“Thank you, ma’am,” I said, “I won’t disturb you for long.”

Once inside, I saw a myriad of details.  Nothing was overtly strange in the onset, until one thought about the individual details.  A small boy lay upon a finely woven rug on the floor.  He was aptly watching the moon landing on a big screen TV.  The television had wooden paneling, similar to those during the TV’s humble origins.  But, when I really looked at it, the thing was a massive flat screen, mounted to the wall.

Walking about the living room, I couldn’t help but notice that there was no seating.  The elderly woman asked me if I wanted refreshment.  After I respectfully declined, she retreated down a hallway that I somehow knew was to a kitchen.  The hallway faded into indistinct semi-existence, and I realized she would not likely return.

Instead of seating, shelving decorated the walls.  And, upon the shelves were pictures. Instead of immediately announcing myself, I toured the shelves.  Unsurprisingly, the pictures I discovered first were of children.  I counted three boys and a girl.  The pictures of the boys were with baseball bats, or as tiny children being chased naked through their house.  The little girl wore her daddy’s mit on her head like a hat, and danced alongside her mother.

Many of these photos were stills, but there were a few that were so clear, they seemed alive.  In so very many of them, I saw the same woman.  She had skin so dark, it was very nearly black.  Yet, in the photos where she smiled, her smile literally shed light, brightening everything around her.  Soon, I saw photos of young men and women with children of their own.  I managed to catch similarities between a couple of the young boys from before.   Yet another generation, so picture perfect, bouncing here upon a knee or swaddled up in a blanket there.  These were memories of a long, full life.

This wasn’t going to be easy.

On I travelled, searching memories.  I found an old auto body shop, and four friends grinning like idiots in front of it.  Now, I seemed to travel back in time.  I saw meeting one of the four friends.  I saw three of them in military dress at an awards ceremony.  I was caught up short by a POV photo of a man’s arms held straight over another man.  The man below was bleeding his guts out.

That shot was way too clear.  I could smell the blood.

I saw trenches.  I saw many, many dead friends.  Photos too clear from too far back. Unforgettable memories, regardless of if they were wanted.  The further I went, the more I saw.  Briefings.  Boot Camp.  A goodbye kiss.  I found a small shrine, with a single picture frame upon it.  Yet, that frame was face down.

I needed to know more, so I carefully lifted it up.

It was a wedding picture, but the picture seemed crumpled, and burnt around the edges.  I matched the woman in the photo with the woman chasing after the children.  But, the angle in the photo was from the viewpoint of the best man.  When I turned again to check the photos of the children and grandchildren, I saw nothing but empty frames.

“What are you doing here?” asked a little voice.

Reigning in my sudden fear, I very, very carefully set the enshrined picture face down. Slowly, I turned around to face a little black boy.  He had a striped, longsleeve shirt and bluejeans.  But, he was barefoot.  He also had a half empty pint of tequila in his hand.

“I’m here to see you, Ernest,” I replied.

Crouching down on my haunches to be eye level with the little black “boy,” I took time to study him.  I made note of his receding hairline, and his cloudy left eye.  Age and a war wound gave truth to the inner deceptions.  Nothing was as it seemed, here.  It never was.

“What’s a copper like you want with a nobody like me?” Ernest asked me.

The boy was lifting the bottle.

“You’re a warrior, Ernest,” I said, and settled my hand upon his wrist, “One of the best.”

I wasn’t exactly sure why I knew Ernest’s name.  But, that came with the territory of being where I was.  Me knowing his name didn’t phase him one bit.  The little boy laughed at me, jerked his hand free, and glared as he sneered a smile.

“I ain’t been the ‘best’ o’ nothin’ in a long time, white boy.”

I sneered a smile back and said, “My employer thinks differently.”

The bottle almost reached the boy’s lips, but Ernest’s good eye locked onto me.  His smile melted, and he gave me a very unhappy glare.  The bottle came down.  As Ernest made a motion to sit, very abruptly, there was an old, beaten chair for him to sit in.  It was exactly his size.  Chair and boy melded together quite nicely.

Ernest growled, “I thought I told you devils to--”

“Wrong employer,” I interrupted.

Ernest nearly choked. His eyes darted about wildly as he went deep into thought.  After a moment, he tentatively looked up at me, and lifted his hand to point at the ceiling.   I smiled, and shook my head.

“Not the ‘Big Guy Upstairs,’ either.”

“Heh,” Ernest laughed bitterly, “thought so.”

“I represent a mediator between them,” I said, “Somebody you’ve already met.”

“Yeah?” Ernest laughed, lifting his bottle, again.

“From the look of things,” I said, stepping back over to the war stories, “you’ve seen quite a bit of him.”

I didn’t need to see Ernest to know he’d stopped moving.  I let the silence drag, listening very carefully for any movement.  I could still see the front door in my periphery.  I only had to make it through that door and out into the street if things got bad.  I had other opportunities.  However, this guy just might be my ticket.

“You’d best speak plainly, son,” said the little boy, “I’ve had about enough of this roundabout bullshit.”

“Alright then,” I said, turning to face him, “No games.  Everything up front.  I’ll tell all I’m allowed, and you get to make an informed decision.”

“Alright,” Ernest grunted, and screwed the cap onto his liquor bottle.

“But, I have conditions,” I said.

The boy laughed, and snidely remarked, “That’s rich.”

“One,” I said, unabated, “you don’t get to ask me questions.  I’ll tell you everything I’m allowed to tell you.  See, there are rules, in my profession.  And, I’m not gonna risk my neck so you can make a power play.”

Ernest’s sarcasm started to melt, as my words were making just a little bit of sense.

“Two,” I continued, “you have to decide, immediately.  See, my employer is patient. Infinitely patient.  Nuclear winter is a blink of an eye, here.  However, my employer also has a no tolerance policy for shenanigans.  You mess around, you’re done, and I’m done with you.  Understood?”

“This mean you got somethin’ to offer me?” Ernest asked.

“Three,” I finished, ignoring his question, “terms are non negotiable, but that goes both ways.  You make good on your end, so too will my employer.  See, when my boss speaks, angels shut up. Understand?”

“Who’s your boss?”

“No questions, Ernest. Are you ready to hear my offer?”

The little boy ran his tongue about the inside of his dry mouth.  The tequila in hand remained there.  He wanted a drink, but I knew better.  He never actually got a drink, here.  This wasn’t a place of vices sated or punishments given.  This was a place where lost souls were left to their memories.  Eventually, they’d forget everything, and any arguments about where they ended up were moot.  All they’d have left was the weight of their sins.  If it dragged them down, so be it.  If it merely slowed their ascent, so be it.  Purgatory was funny that way.   But, there were other options.  There were ways one could write off some “red” in their “ledger.”

“Shoot,” Ernest said.

“Don’t you interrupt me, now,” I said.

“You gonna spit it out, or are we gonna sit here until the next snake oil salesman makes an offer for my soul?”

“You only get one chance with my employer.”

“The middleman, right?”

“That’s the guy.”

“Alright, let’s hear it.”

I took a deep breath, and calmed myself.  I’d gotten this close at least a dozen times, already.  And, like I’d told Ernest, my employer didn’t take excuses.  Results were all that were acceptable.

“I’m a Necromancer,” I said, “Should you take my offer, Death Itself will raise you back into the world of the living.  However, you shall be a warrior again, and only in such a capacity are you allowed to exist.  You shall fight at my side, and protect me from other agencies.  I’m talking about those from below and above, too.  You see, Death has taken an interest in the little wager between the man upstairs and his pissed off kid, downstairs. I work for Death.  You’d work for Death too, but as my bodyguard.”

“Holy sh--”

“Decide, Ernest,” I intoned, “Will you remain here, uncertain, or will you take your fate into your own hands, and rise again as a Death Knight?”

“But, how will--”

I was starting to feel cold…

“The intricacies of Death’s dealings with the Holy and the Profane belong to Death.  The Living and the Dead are given understanding of such dealings upon Death’s discretion. But, in essence, the transition from Living to Dead and from Dead to Beyond belong to Death.  Now, no more questions, Ernest.  Decide, and quick.  Bossman is getting pissed.”

The little boy in his lazy boy stared up at me like I’d lost my mind.  But, time in purgatory is pretty standard.  The agencies that get the first crack at a soul are always from down below.  After that, an angelic agent may show up a time or two to guide.  The living are the last with the opportunity into Purgatory.  The time allowed to the living amongst the dead is at the leisure and pleasure of Death.

And, my fingers were going numb.

“Okay, Ernest,” I said, and stepped towards the door, “You can either come with me, or stay here. But, I’m leaving.”

“What?!” he yelped.

“I’m still alive, Ernest,” I explained, “but, staying here will kill me, and frankly, I don’t like you enough to stay.  But, you don’t have to stay.  You get one chance to change your fate.  This is it.”

“I…”

I opened the door, and settled my hat back atop my head.  As mist spilled out of the open doorway, I looked over my shoulder and asked, “You comin’?”

Ernest hopped up from his chair, and left the bottle behind.