didn’t know that when I came up with it.”
“Well, it makes perfect sense.”
“Yeah, I thought so,” said Mr. Fresh. “More coffee?”
“Please.” Charlie held out his empty cup. “So, someone saw you. That’s how you became a Death Merchant?”
“No, that’s how you became one. I think that you may, uh—” Fresh didn’t want to mislead this poor guy, but on the other hand he didn’t actually know what had happened. “I think you may be different from the rest of us. No one saw me. I was working security for a casino in Vegas when that went sour for me—I have a problem with authority, I’m told—so I came to San Francisco and opened this shop, started dealing in used records and CDs, mostly jazz at first. After a while it just started happening: the glowing soul vessels, people coming in with them, finding them at estate sales. I don’t know why or how, it just did, and I didn’t say anything about it to anyone. Then the book came in the mail.”
“The book again. Don’t you have a copy around?”
“There’s only one copy. At least that I know of.”
“And you just mailed it out?”
“I sent it certified mail!” Fresh boomed. “Someone at your store signed for it. I think I did my part.”
“Okay, sorry, go on.”
“Anyway, when I got to the Castro it was a very sad place. The only guys you saw on the street were very old or very young, all the ones in the middle were either dead or sick with HIV, walking with canes, towing oxygen cylinders. Death was everywhere. It’s like there needed to be a soul way station, and I was here, trading records. Then the book showed up in the mail. There were a lot of souls coming in. For those first few years I was picking up vessels every day, sometimes two or three times a day. You’d be surprised how many gay men have their souls in their music.”
“Have you sold them all?”
“No. They come in, they go out. There’s always some inventory.”
“But how can you be sure the right person gets the right soul?”
“Not my problem, is it?” Mr. Fresh shrugged. He’d worried about it at first, but it seemed to all happen as it should, and he’d gotten into the rhythm of trusting whatever mechanism or power was behind all of this.
“Well, if that’s your attitude, why do it at all? I don’t want this job. I have a job, and a kid.”
“You have to do it. Believe me, after I got the book, I tried not doing it. We all did. At least the ones I’ve talked to did. I’m guessing you’ve already seen what happens if you don’t. You’ll start hearing the voices, then the shades start coming. The book calls them Underworlders.”
“The giant ravens? Them?”
“They were just indistinct shadows and voices until you showed up. There’s something going on. Starting with you, and continuing with you. You let them get a soul vessel, didn’t you?”
“Me? You said there’s a bunch of Death Merchants.”
“The others know better. It was you. You fucked up. I thought I saw one flying over earlier in the week. Then today, I was out walking, and the voices were bad. Really bad. That’s when I called you. It was you, wasn’t it?”
Charlie nodded. “I didn’t know. How could I know?”
“So they got one?”
“Two,” Charlie said. “A hand came out of the sewer. It was my first day.”
“Well, that’s it,” said Fresh, cradling his head in his hands. “We are most certainly fucked now.”
“You don’t know that,” Charlie said, trying to look on the bright side. “We could have been fucked before. I mean, we run secondhand stores for dead people, that’s sort of a definition of fucked .”
Mr. Fresh looked up. “The book says if we don’t do our jobs everything could go dark, become like the Underworld. I don’t know what the Underworld is like, Mr. Asher, but I’ve caught some of the road show from there a couple of times, and I’m not interested in finding out. How ’bout you?”
“Maybe it’s Oakland,”
“Well, it makes perfect sense.”
“Yeah, I thought so,” said Mr. Fresh. “More coffee?”
“Please.” Charlie held out his empty cup. “So, someone saw you. That’s how you became a Death Merchant?”
“No, that’s how you became one. I think that you may, uh—” Fresh didn’t want to mislead this poor guy, but on the other hand he didn’t actually know what had happened. “I think you may be different from the rest of us. No one saw me. I was working security for a casino in Vegas when that went sour for me—I have a problem with authority, I’m told—so I came to San Francisco and opened this shop, started dealing in used records and CDs, mostly jazz at first. After a while it just started happening: the glowing soul vessels, people coming in with them, finding them at estate sales. I don’t know why or how, it just did, and I didn’t say anything about it to anyone. Then the book came in the mail.”
“The book again. Don’t you have a copy around?”
“There’s only one copy. At least that I know of.”
“And you just mailed it out?”
“I sent it certified mail!” Fresh boomed. “Someone at your store signed for it. I think I did my part.”
“Okay, sorry, go on.”
“Anyway, when I got to the Castro it was a very sad place. The only guys you saw on the street were very old or very young, all the ones in the middle were either dead or sick with HIV, walking with canes, towing oxygen cylinders. Death was everywhere. It’s like there needed to be a soul way station, and I was here, trading records. Then the book showed up in the mail. There were a lot of souls coming in. For those first few years I was picking up vessels every day, sometimes two or three times a day. You’d be surprised how many gay men have their souls in their music.”
“Have you sold them all?”
“No. They come in, they go out. There’s always some inventory.”
“But how can you be sure the right person gets the right soul?”
“Not my problem, is it?” Mr. Fresh shrugged. He’d worried about it at first, but it seemed to all happen as it should, and he’d gotten into the rhythm of trusting whatever mechanism or power was behind all of this.
“Well, if that’s your attitude, why do it at all? I don’t want this job. I have a job, and a kid.”
“You have to do it. Believe me, after I got the book, I tried not doing it. We all did. At least the ones I’ve talked to did. I’m guessing you’ve already seen what happens if you don’t. You’ll start hearing the voices, then the shades start coming. The book calls them Underworlders.”
“The giant ravens? Them?”
“They were just indistinct shadows and voices until you showed up. There’s something going on. Starting with you, and continuing with you. You let them get a soul vessel, didn’t you?”
“Me? You said there’s a bunch of Death Merchants.”
“The others know better. It was you. You fucked up. I thought I saw one flying over earlier in the week. Then today, I was out walking, and the voices were bad. Really bad. That’s when I called you. It was you, wasn’t it?”
Charlie nodded. “I didn’t know. How could I know?”
“So they got one?”
“Two,” Charlie said. “A hand came out of the sewer. It was my first day.”
“Well, that’s it,” said Fresh, cradling his head in his hands. “We are most certainly fucked now.”
“You don’t know that,” Charlie said, trying to look on the bright side. “We could have been fucked before. I mean, we run secondhand stores for dead people, that’s sort of a definition of fucked .”
Mr. Fresh looked up. “The book says if we don’t do our jobs everything could go dark, become like the Underworld. I don’t know what the Underworld is like, Mr. Asher, but I’ve caught some of the road show from there a couple of times, and I’m not interested in finding out. How ’bout you?”
“Maybe it’s Oakland,”
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