you’re saying, that we’re Santa’s helpers to Death?”
Mr. Fresh had been standing by his desk, but now he sat down again across from Charlie so he could look him in the eye. Very softly he said, “Charlie, you know that that’s not true now, right? I mean about Santa’s helpers and all?”
“Of course I know that there’s no Santa Claus. I’m using it as a metaphor, you tool.”
Mr. Fresh took this opportunity to reach out and smack Charlie upside the head. Then immediately regretted it.
“Hey!” Charlie put down his cup and rubbed one of his receding-hairline inlets, which was going red from the blow.
“Rude,” said Mr. Fresh. “Let’s not be rude.”
“So you’re saying that there is a Santa?” Charlie said, cringing in anticipation of another smack. “Oh my God, how deep does this conspiracy go?”
“No, there’s no goddamn Santa. I’m just saying that I don’t know what we are. I don’t know if there is a big Death with a capital D, although the book hints that there used to be. I’m just saying that there are many of us, a dozen that I know of right here in the city—all of us picking up soul vessels and seeing that they get into the right hands.”
“And that’s based on someone randomly coming into your shop and buying a record?” Then Charlie’s eyes went wide as it hit him. “Rachel’s Sarah McLachlan CD. You took it?”
“Yes.” Fresh looked at the floor, not because he was ashamed, but to avoid seeing the pain in Charlie Asher’s eyes.
“Where is it? I want to see it,” said Charlie.
“I sold it.”
“To who? Find it. I want Rachel back.”
“I don’t know. To a woman. I didn’t get her name, but I’m sure it was meant for her. You’ll be able to tell.”
“I will? Why will I?” he asked. “Why me? I don’t want to kill people.”
“We don’t kill people, Mr. Asher. That’s a misconception. We simply facilitate the ascendance of the soul.”
“Well, one guy died because I said something to him, and another had a heart attack because of something I did. A death that results from your actions is basically killing someone, unless you’re a politician, right? So why me? I’m not that highly skilled at bullshit. So why me?”
Mr. Fresh considered what Charlie was saying, and felt like something sinister had crawled up his spine. In all his years, he didn’t remember ever having his actions directly result in someone’s death, nor had he heard of it happening with the other Death Merchants. Of course you occasionally showed up at the time when the person was passing, but not often, and never as a cause.
“Well?” Charlie said.
Mr. Fresh shrugged. “Because you saw me. Surely you’ve noticed that no one sees you when you’re out to get a soul vessel.”
“I’ve never gone out to get a soul vessel.”
“Yes, you have, and you will, at least you should be. You need to get with the program, Mr. Asher.”
“Yeah, so you said. So you’re—uh—we’re invisible when we’re out getting these soul vessels?”
“Not invisible, so to speak, it’s just that no one sees us. You can go right into people’s homes and they’ll never notice you standing right beside them, but if you speak to someone on the street they’ll see you, waitresses will take your order, cabs will stop for you—well, not me, I’m black, but, you know, they would. It’s sort of a will thing, I think. I’ve tested it. Animals can see us, by the way. You’ll want to watch out for dogs when you’re retrieving a vessel.”
“So that’s how you got to be a—what do they call us?”
“Death Merchants.”
“Get out. Really?”
“It’s not in the book. I came up with it.”
“It’s very cool.”
“Thanks.” Mr. Fresh smiled, relieved for a moment not to be thinking about the gravity of Charlie’s unique transition to Death Merchant. “Actually, I think it’s a character from an album cover, guy behind a cash register, eyes glowing red, but I
Mr. Fresh had been standing by his desk, but now he sat down again across from Charlie so he could look him in the eye. Very softly he said, “Charlie, you know that that’s not true now, right? I mean about Santa’s helpers and all?”
“Of course I know that there’s no Santa Claus. I’m using it as a metaphor, you tool.”
Mr. Fresh took this opportunity to reach out and smack Charlie upside the head. Then immediately regretted it.
“Hey!” Charlie put down his cup and rubbed one of his receding-hairline inlets, which was going red from the blow.
“Rude,” said Mr. Fresh. “Let’s not be rude.”
“So you’re saying that there is a Santa?” Charlie said, cringing in anticipation of another smack. “Oh my God, how deep does this conspiracy go?”
“No, there’s no goddamn Santa. I’m just saying that I don’t know what we are. I don’t know if there is a big Death with a capital D, although the book hints that there used to be. I’m just saying that there are many of us, a dozen that I know of right here in the city—all of us picking up soul vessels and seeing that they get into the right hands.”
“And that’s based on someone randomly coming into your shop and buying a record?” Then Charlie’s eyes went wide as it hit him. “Rachel’s Sarah McLachlan CD. You took it?”
“Yes.” Fresh looked at the floor, not because he was ashamed, but to avoid seeing the pain in Charlie Asher’s eyes.
“Where is it? I want to see it,” said Charlie.
“I sold it.”
“To who? Find it. I want Rachel back.”
“I don’t know. To a woman. I didn’t get her name, but I’m sure it was meant for her. You’ll be able to tell.”
“I will? Why will I?” he asked. “Why me? I don’t want to kill people.”
“We don’t kill people, Mr. Asher. That’s a misconception. We simply facilitate the ascendance of the soul.”
“Well, one guy died because I said something to him, and another had a heart attack because of something I did. A death that results from your actions is basically killing someone, unless you’re a politician, right? So why me? I’m not that highly skilled at bullshit. So why me?”
Mr. Fresh considered what Charlie was saying, and felt like something sinister had crawled up his spine. In all his years, he didn’t remember ever having his actions directly result in someone’s death, nor had he heard of it happening with the other Death Merchants. Of course you occasionally showed up at the time when the person was passing, but not often, and never as a cause.
“Well?” Charlie said.
Mr. Fresh shrugged. “Because you saw me. Surely you’ve noticed that no one sees you when you’re out to get a soul vessel.”
“I’ve never gone out to get a soul vessel.”
“Yes, you have, and you will, at least you should be. You need to get with the program, Mr. Asher.”
“Yeah, so you said. So you’re—uh—we’re invisible when we’re out getting these soul vessels?”
“Not invisible, so to speak, it’s just that no one sees us. You can go right into people’s homes and they’ll never notice you standing right beside them, but if you speak to someone on the street they’ll see you, waitresses will take your order, cabs will stop for you—well, not me, I’m black, but, you know, they would. It’s sort of a will thing, I think. I’ve tested it. Animals can see us, by the way. You’ll want to watch out for dogs when you’re retrieving a vessel.”
“So that’s how you got to be a—what do they call us?”
“Death Merchants.”
“Get out. Really?”
“It’s not in the book. I came up with it.”
“It’s very cool.”
“Thanks.” Mr. Fresh smiled, relieved for a moment not to be thinking about the gravity of Charlie’s unique transition to Death Merchant. “Actually, I think it’s a character from an album cover, guy behind a cash register, eyes glowing red, but I
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