Sometimes It’s Hard

“We apologize for what you had to go through. I assure you we will do everything we can to make sure something like this never happens again.” Tim barely heard himself going through the “apologies” script for the tenth time that morning. He’d been fielding emails and phone calls all morning from clients who were not happy with the results his office had provided them last week. Tim apologized on behalf of his office, even though the reason for the shoddy work had nothing to do with him. But he was the one who answered the phones, so he had to give the apologies. He was sure his voice betrayed the fact that he actually didn’t care one way or the other.

Tim closed his eyes for just a few seconds after hanging up, tried to concentrate on his breathing. He’d read up on meditation and was trying to get into using it when he felt it was time to calm down. He barely made it into a third breath before a notification dinged on his computer. He had a meeting with his supervisor in five minutes. Ah yes, the day to “touch base” and share his thoughts and concerns. Not that any concerns had been remedied or addressed in all the years Tim had worked there.

His supervisor was sitting at her desk, face red and brow as furrowed as ever. She glanced up at Tim as he stood in her doorway, looking confused but then quickly remembering they had a meeting today. “Hi Tim, sit down,” she gestured at the chair on the other side of her desk. Her eyes glued back to her computer screen, probably trying to finish what she was doing before Tim “interrupted” with this mandatory meeting. He took a seat and began to wait.

The supervisor gave a deep sigh as she finished what she was doing. “I hate people,” she muttered, mostly to herself. Tim just nodded politely. This was a constant complaint around the office when dealing with customers, and sometimes even with other employees. Tim didn’t think that someone who would get into a management position should openly declare that they hate people.

She didn’t elaborate on what she meant by her comment, just started the meeting. It was as boring as always. She asked if Tim had anything he wanted to discuss. He didn’t, of course, because very little at work was worth thinking about, outside of “Can I please get a noticeable raise?” to which the answer was usually, “Awww we’d like to, but no.” So the meeting went on, the Supervisor went over Tim’s performance, which was fine. Went over a few rules and regulations, nothing he didn’t already know.

She surprised him by breaking the monotony with a surprise criticism: “Some people say you have a bad attitude.”

Tim shook his head, unsure if he’d heard her correctly. “What?” Tim barely spoke to his coworkers; the way their jobs were structured there was really no reason for them to chitchat, and if they did that would affect productivity, and heaven forbid that happen.

Yet his supervisor explained that when he did have to talk to his coworkers, some of them found him rude and aggressive. Tim was surprised to hear this; part of his job was reporting criticisms and offering suggestions, but he always tried to do it in a friendly and constructive way.

“Well nevertheless,” his supervisor said, “just something to be aware of. Maybe take a breath before you have to give bad news. We wouldn’t want to write you up or anything.” If she was kidding, Tim couldn’t tell. He began to suck on the inside of his cheek. He wanted to defend himself, say that he was a good worker and that people here didn’t take criticism very well. How silly to have them report him to his supervisor instead of just talking to him, another passive move in the ol’ office jungle.

But instead he just nodded, hoping the inside of his cheek wouldn’t start bleeding soon. He listened to her suggestions and pretended to be agreeable, and then was dismissed to return to his desk. Her eyes were already back on her computer before he left her office.

***

Tim went to one of his favorite spots for lunch. It was the kind of place that closed at 3pm but you could order their breakfast items at any time, and Tim loved that. On an average day he could make it there, eat in, and return to the office all within his lunch break. It was the ideal system.

The place was quite busy when he showed up and the line was moving slowly. He decided he would get his food as takeout; it would still take a while, but he would make it back to the office in time and he could eat at his desk. They liked it when people ate at their desks, that showed commitment to the “mission”. Don’t let a pesky thing like eating get in the way of your desk job.

An older woman walked right past the line of people and up to the counter. She wasn’t an old biddy or anything, but definitely of an age where she could be a grandmother. She looked around at the tables, the menu on the wall, and the counter with the cash register on it. She pointed down at the counter and asked the worker, “Is this where we order?” The worker politely informed her that, yes, this is where you order, and that line of people are already waiting. The woman nodded and went to the back of the line.

“I’ve never been here before!” Tim heard her explain to someone in line behind him. Bullshit, thought Tim. It doesn’t matter if you’ve been to a place before or not. You’re an adult, when you see a line of people standing in front of a counter you should assume that you need to join that line. He wondered at what age you forgot how to simply order food in a restaurant. He couldn’t imagine seeing a line full of people and thinking, “Well this can’t be where I have to go,” and pushing past them. People always just thought about themselves.

As he reached his turn in line Tim tried to put the woman out of his mind. Take more of those breaths he’d been hearing about. The worker behind the counter, a friendly girl who kept her positive demeanor in the busiest of rushes, greeted him politely. He tried to order a slice of quiche.

They were out of the quiche. Damn, but not unexpected considering the time of day.

He tried ordering a cinnamon bun. They sold out of those too. Damn.

A bagel breakfast sandwich. They were out of bagels.

A breakfast sandwich on a croissant. Non.

He found success with a club sandwich. He didn’t really like club sandwiches, but food was food and at this point he’ll just take whatever he can get. He got a bag of chips with it. Plain chips because, of course, they were out of barbeque.

He stood off to the side and waited while the kitchen prepared his order. He casually watched as customers ordered their food. Unlike him, everyone else was somehow able to get the first thing they ordered. The old woman from before got to the front of the line. She wasn’t ready. Again, Tim wondered what she thought was going to happen when she got to the front of the line. At her age there was no way this was her first time in a restaurant.

Everything about her annoyed Tim. The way it all confused her, as if the menu was written in code on the back of the Declaration of Independence. The way she spoke was annoying, asking all these questions but still with an air of entitlement. And how she was completely oblivious to how she was aggravating everyone else by holding up the line. When she finally made her order and asked for her eggs to be prepared “medium well,” it was all Tim could do to stop himself from asking her exactly what the hell that even means.

He finally got his sandwich in a little brown paper bag. Apologies for the wait. He drove back to the office and clocked back in, five minutes over his allotted lunch break. He’d hear about that at the next meeting. They loved bringing that up at meetings. He ate his sandwich while staring half-aware at his screen. It didn’t taste as good as he wanted it.

***

The drive home was full of assholes. Some drivers were too slow and took too long to turn. Others were too aggressive and weaved dangerously around others. Some honked their horns. Some gave the finger. Others yelled, shook their fists. Tim’s shoulders were tight, his jaw stuck in a clench. Just get home, goddamnit.

Upon getting home, goddamnit, he quickly said hello to his wife and went to the bathroom to take a shower. Showering off the day usually helped Tim relax. He felt it was possible to wash the “work” right out of your body. He quickly found there was no hot water and he cut his shower short because he hated showering cold, despite reading that it was better for you.

He put on sweatpants and an old t-shirt before rejoining his wife in the kitchen. Mentioned there was no hot water. That was her fault, she had gotten home just a few minutes before him and jumped in the shower. He sighed in frustration but didn’t say anything more. He busied himself sorting the bills on the kitchen table.

It was his wife’s night to cook dinner, and she asked what he wanted, spaghetti or stir fry. Tim said he didn’t care. She said she didn’t care either, just pick one. He didn’t care, just pick one, he didn’t care, just pick one.

“I said I don’t fucking care!”

His wife turned and looked at him in surprise. Her eyebrows were arched and she looked a little hurt and a little angry. After a pause she relaxed her face, took a deep breath, and said in a calm voice: “Something you need to talk about?”

Tim rubbed his temples angrily with his fists, feeling a headache forming right behind them. “I’m sorry, I just, I just…” he hesitated before finishing his sentence. “…hate people.”

The words hung there in the kitchen. Tim could feel that his face was red. He looked down at the table because he couldn’t look at his wife. She stared at him for a long time, studying his face, his body language. Then she let out a small chuckle. “Do you, Tim? Do you really hate people?”

He looked up at her, this beautiful woman he was absolutely in love with. He thought of her, then he thought of his parents, he thought of his friends. The ones who’d helped him move, the ones who listened to him bitch, the ones he took weekend trips with. He thought of the one coworker in the office he liked, the cashier at the market who always asked what he was going to cook this week. The stranger who let him cut in front of them when traffic was bad the other day.

He took another breath. This time when he exhaled he felt the tension in his chest loosen ever so slightly. His shoulders lowered just an inch. His face got a smidge cooler.

“No,” he admitted. “I don’t hate people. Sometimes it’s just hard.”

She nodded and gave him a hug. She made spaghetti for dinner. It was delicious.

Thanks for reading, please share if you liked it. You can subscribe to my email blast here, this week I talked a bit about the moments where being kind to people can do a world of good. Keep Trying!

You Couldn’t Make “The Golden Girls” Today, because Blanche is a Landlord.

Listen, nobody wants to see another revival/reboot of a classic sitcom anymore (Night Court? Does anyone care?). And, of course, no one would dream of trying to reboot The Golden Girls, one of the greatest sitcoms of all time. We could make so many points about how shows with live studio audiences don’t work anymore, as they now feel like actors just standing and delivering lines instead of actual characters. Or we could make the point that the chemistry of that original cast is impossible to recreate (Bea Arthur HATED Betty White, but could you tell?). But let’s get to the real reason why we couldn’t see a reboot of Golden Girls: it’s 2023 and Blanche is a shitty landlord.

Now we all love Blanche. She’s got that ridiculous Southern accent, she’s over-dramatic, she’s a proud slut. Many a young woman/gay man idolizes Blanche for her unashamed healthy sexuality. She’s the life of the party, someone who’s never afraid to have fun. There are plenty of things to love about Blanche. But there’s one giant flaw: she charges her best friends, her “sisters”, rent to live in her house.

Right from the get go, she promises the same room to Dorothy and Rose. When confronted about this, she shrugs and says “Whoops!”. Now if Dorothy and Rose were experienced renters in 2023 this serious lack of organization would be a giant red flag for their living situation. The landlord can’t keep track of her tenants? And she only has two? Run, girls.

Throughout the series Blanche shows more signs of shittiness. Threatening to raise the rent to win arguments, turning Rose’s heat off because she’s mad at her, having wicker furniture in the living room. Sure, she lives there too, so the house looks more presentable than just walls sloppily painted off-white and doors that don’t sit in their frames properly. Still, in the episode where the roof starts leaking and needs replaced, what happens? They all chip in. Hahahahaha, get the hell out of here, Blanche, that’s your responsibility.

It’s clear Blanche is renting her house to supplement her income, since she “Works herself like a dog twenty hours a week at that museum”. And, in theory, there’s nothing wrong with being a landlord as long as you are ready to treat it with the same level of care you would approach any other job. But ironically, despite being part of that alleged “greatest generation”, Blanche doesn’t want to work. But, of course, if you’re in a rough spot financially, it’s perfectly logical to rent out some rooms to help out a bit.

But here’s the thing…Blanche doesn’t need the money.

Every story from Blanche’s childhood that doesn’t involve sex usually mentions growing up in Hollingsworth Manor. Her family had money; they were probably “old money”, she was not a child who grew up poor like Dorothy or Rose or Sophia, who lived under a bridge in Sicily. The Hollingsworth’s were just straight up rich. Then she got married, and guess what? Her husband George was also rich. She had nannies taking care of her kids while she was a housewife. She openly admitted once that she married money. So now, at the time of the show, she has her family money AND her late husband’s money. There’s no reason she should need to rent her rooms.

There is no mention that maybe she’s squandered her money or has a gambling problem or anything like that. Yet she’s always needed to fill those rooms since her husband passed, if for no other reason than to avoid finding herself a real job. So she opens up her house (god forbid she finds a smaller place) to strangers, whom she once accidentally called “suckers”. And, sure, she grew to love the Girls as her own family. But at the end of the day she’s taking money from a substitute teacher, an unemployed 80-year old, and Rose, a woman who somehow manages to hold decent jobs despite being a nitwit.

To be blunt, Blanche is a monster. Blanche is just renting out her house for the sheer, powerful thrill of having people dependent on her. Sure, she probably wouldn’t throw the girls out on the street, she does love them. But she still has that dynamic, that threat she can whip out when they get on her nerves. What kind of sadist does that? Is that someone we really feel like rooting for these days, with tenants posting more and more often about the lack of attention from their landlords? Perhaps we would watch a gritty antihero reboot, a la Dexter, about a loveable slut who grifts everyone close to her. Blanche’s House, coming next spring in 2024.

Aren’t You Funny?

“God you are so freaking funny. You know that right? So funny. Like really, everyone says so. Everyone at work, everyone in your friends group, your family. Like so funny. You know what? You should start a podcast! Just you and someone else, talking about whatever you want to talk about. You’re so funny, you could make a lot of money doing that. Yessir, you really should do something like that. You’d go viral! All the really funny people go viral!”

It excited you to hear people say that about you, didn’t it? It makes you feel powerful, the ability to make people laugh. Intoxicating and validating. All that extra positive feedback was just so flattering. That’s how you got into this stupid mess you’re in now.

A podcast, what the fuck were you thinking? Starting a podcast. They’ve been around for years, there are an infinite amount of podcasts in the world. And what is your pitch, the way you summarize your show? “Just the two of us talking about whatever!” Oh my god, you idiot. There’s like a million podcasts that are just, “Two of us talking about whatever”. What makes yours stand out from theirs? Stupid, naive funny guy.

You didn’t do enough research into this before you began. Everyone said you were funny, that was enough. Just get a friend you share a good rapport with, a couple of cheap microphones, google “How to make a podcast”, and you’re set. Put up a few episodes and then set up a Patreon. Why shouldn’t people be paying you for this already? You’ve been doing it for all of a month.

But after that third episode it hit you: this isn’t good. You’re not doing a good job and you know it. Sure, people are being encouraging and giving you listens, but you’ve listened too. You hate it! You’ve heard what funny people sound like on podcasts and it’s not you! It’s just a few forced jokes and awkward laughter. Sometimes you sound like you’re making an intelligent point, but you’re just repeating something you read on Facebook that morning. You fraud!

Should have just been happy being the funny guy at the office. That was fine! People liked you, it alleviated work tension, made you feel good about yourself. Now you think you’re some sort of “performer”? You never realized how much work is involved in being funny on purpose. You aren’t a writer or a comedian. You’re not an artist, you have a Business degree.

You can only try to forget that comedy open mic you went to. What were you thinking? Like you were going to be the next George Carlin. He made it look so effortless, just sitting on the stage and spouting off one brilliant thing after the other. You didn’t really plan what you were going to say, just stood up there and waited for your “naturally funny” talents to shine through. The other comics going up had notes and stuff they were checking before they went up, but you didn’t. You had natural talent, you don’t have to write or work hard.

It was the longest four minutes of your life. No one really laughed, but no one jeered either. Just four minutes of hard, uncomfortable silence. “What else, what else…” you mumbled nervously when you ran out of things to say. You practically vaulted off the stage and out the door. So happy you didn’t bring anybody.

It’s dawned on you: you aren’t “funny” in that way. You’re just funnier than the people you work with, who aren’t that funny in the first place. To them you seem next level because you always have a sarcastic comment or dramatic metaphor at the ready. And sure, you like being funny that way. But to do a whole piece? Come up with a humorous opinion for every single topic out there and present it like it’s fresh, like Jerry Seinfeld didn’t already cover it? You fool.

So now here you sit, at your computer with the empty audio file onscreen, wondering if you can just tell your friend/cohost that you want to stop doing the podcast you’ve only done five times so far. Maybe it’s too soon to “give up”, they won’t understand why you stopped so quickly. They’ll think you quit because you didn’t go “viral” after a month. But you never really thought you would. The chances of going viral get slimmer every year. The novelty of putting your proposal video onto TikTok isn’t as heartwarming as it was years ago.

You’ve even made fun of a few TikTok proposals on your podcast, because you didn’t have anything prepared to discuss. It felt good to make fun of them, you and your cohost laughed and laughed at how stupid they were. You’ve discovered a lot of comedy is just being mean to people. It feels good in the moment, and even if it seems harsh you have to stand by it. The audience is getting it wrong. You’re a nice person, right?

But who would you be if you weren’t the “funny one”? You’re not particularly bright, you have a Business degree. You’re not “hot”, that’s for sure. Are you trying to be funny to appear more fuckable? That doesn’t seem the way to go. Why did you put yourself out there like this in the first place? Are you really that bored with your life? Get a less-humiliating hobby then!

Look, it’s not so bad. Just stop doing your podcast. In a month or so no one will remember it and you can just kind of settle back into your groove. You’re still “funny”, right? Just because you don’t want to record yourself talking for an hour every week and share it to the world doesn’t mean you have zero worth. Don’t beat yourself up about it. You don’t need to define yourself by how good you are at making people laugh.

Hey that was a pretty smart observation. Maybe you should talk about it on the podcast.

That Old Man

He never plans his visits to the coffee shop, just goes when the mood strikes him. Keep a little spontaneity in his life, instead of walking the same trails every day. Today he brings his paper and gets his coffee, plain with a splash of cream, then the usual polite small talk with the owner before taking a table in the front where he can look out at the street. He’s retired, of course. Retired from a job he never truly enjoyed, but now he gets to enjoy his “golden years”. Whatever that means, whatever is left to enjoy at this age.

Most of the people coming into the coffee shop are young people on a break from their jobs. Often times they’re impatient. He remembers those days; got to have something to worry about. What is life if there’s no stress? A few fellow old-timers stop in as well, a few homeless looking for free coffee, the occasional student looking for a place to work on their computer. Always someone doing something. He’s not one of those old men that gather for McDonald’s breakfast every Tuesday and Thursday to solve the world’s problems. He keeps to himself, a loner, a hermit. He prefers it this way, he tells himself.

He reads his newspaper. He has a smartphone and knows how to read the news on it, but he thinks the newspaper really ties the “old man” look together. He judges the old men that drink their coffee and then read the news on their phones, brows furrowed in anger. Like they’re trying to look young. He’d rather flip through the newspaper. Nothing in it worth reading, of course, but at least it looks productive. He refuses to be a total stereotype and skips reading the obituaries. He never recognizes the names in there anyway.

As he skims over the Opinion section for anything intelligent, a young couple walks into the shop. They’re laughing with each other, with jokingly-linked arms as they walk. They aren’t terribly young, maybe mid-thirties. Definitely too old for that flirty, puppy love business. Their love must either be very new or very strong. A more outgoing old man would just ask them, but he wasn’t going to be that old man. He knows how to mind his business.

They giggle as they order their overly-complicated order, double espresso with skim milk and two pumps of some sugary syrup that negates getting skim milk in the first place. They should be annoying, but the owner finds them charming, makes little jokes as he rings them up. Their love is infectious.

The old man recalled being their age once. It was around the time people repeatedly started asking him when he’d get married, only a few short years before they gave up asking. He never had a good answer for them, as if falling in love were a choice one person makes alone, like getting a tattoo. It was a mutual thing, and he’d never found someone where the love had gone both ways. Love was usually unrequited. Sometimes he was the one unable to return the feelings. The stars just hadn’t aligned, despite others saying they would someday or “It will happen when you stop looking”. Such nice-sounding platitudes that he soon got tired of hearing.

He finishes his paper and leaves it on the table, a freebie for the next person who may want to flip through. He takes his to-go cup out into the street, starts to roam. Had to get out of there. Outside is better, can look at the clouds, look at the grass, look at the river. Not look at the young couple in love.

Love. The most wonderful feeling in the world. Whether it’s familial, platonic, romantic. Books are written about it, songs are sung about it, far too many movies get made about it. Sure, Valentine’s Day was invented to make money (what holiday wasn’t?), but the power of love is still a force to be reckoned with. But romantic love, agreed in unspoken words to be the most powerful kind, he’d never had the pleasure of experiencing. How had that happened?

On the other side of the street, he spotted a man in his fifties walking beside a young woman, maybe in her late twenties. She seemed to be wearing a sports bra as a top, and she was very visibly pregnant. They both looked miserable as they walked in silence. Was she his daughter? Younger wife? Mistress? Could be anything. But again, none of his business.

Perhaps he was looking to avoid a situation like that: a situation where you can tell two people are miserable together but they refuse to be alone. He never wanted to end up like that, trapped in his own home. He’d made himself as happy as he could, made money, had space. He had created his own life.

Memories kept coming back to him as he slowly made his way back to the house. Damn memories, a lot of them painful. Most men his age were getting senile, and he was almost jealous of them. He had to remember his past failures. He only remembered the hurt. Unrequited love. The rejection and embarrassment, how it kept him bedridden for weeks. But like with every bad feeling, it eventually stopped. He’d thought the end of the heartache meant that he had gotten over it. But after that time, he had never really pursued love again. One way to avoid getting hurt is to never try. Now, at this stage of his life, he wished he’d tried a little more.

He had gotten back to his house sooner than he’d realized. Maybe he was going senile after all. Something to look forward to, or perhaps not. He was proud of his house, of what he had done with it. There were lots of things to be proud of, still a lot of good things. No use getting cranky about the past. He goes inside to his favorite chair, puts his feet up, turns on the TV. It’s not a bad life, even at this age.

Tomorrow was Thursday. Maybe he’d get up early tomorrow, go to McDonald’s. Get a biscuit sandwich and see if the old men need any help solving the world’s problems. He could help with that, he really could.

Karen Dies

“I’d like to speak to a manger.”

Charon looked up, in spite of themselves. This was a new one, not something many people said as they boarded the vessel to cross the River Styx. A few other souls were already sitting patiently in the little boat, accepting of their fate. The woman that stood defiantly before them, however, seemed very annoyed.

Usually by the time these souls made it to the edge of the river they were resigned to their fate. Sure, occasionally someone would try to plead with death, but when Charon is standing before you, an actual skeleton clad in a billowing black cloak, you eventually have to accept that your time on Earth is up. Charon had taken many forms over the centuries, but lately had stuck with the “cloaked skeleton” appearance. Most people seemed to instantly recognize that look, the Western classic.

Charon usually stayed mute, to match the “creepy Grim Reaper” vibe. If this woman found Charon intimidating, then she hid it extraordinarily well. She seemed unfazed by their appearance, so there was no other option but to speak.

“Excuse me?” they asked. Charon could hear their voice, deep and whispery, reverberating into the air. Usually hearing “death” speak would startle you, but again this woman seemed unaffected.

“Your manager.” She repeated. “I’d like to speak to who’s in charge here.”

Manager. Who did this woman think she was? Charon gestured with a skeletal hand to the dark, almost black river. “Ma’am, this is the River Styx. You’re being ferried to the afterlife.”

The woman huffed. “Well, I don’t think I should be here. You should double-check your records.”

If Charon still had eyes in their sockets they would have rolled them. Luckily all signs of skin, organs, and muscles had long faded away, so the woman couldn’t see their annoyance. Charon pulled out the scroll from beneath their robes and opened it.

“What’s it say?” she asked impatiently.

“It’s loading.” Charon replied coolly. Names and causes started appearing and disappearing on the scroll. They took their time to find her name, preferring to make her wait. They literally had all the time in the world. A few of the souls sitting in the boat shifted restlessly, but no one spoke up. Finally, a name popped up.

“Carolyn Johnson?” Charon asked.

“Yes, that’s me.”

Charon nodded. “Yeah, you’re dead.”

Carolyn shook her head in frustration. “No, no, I’m not dead. Someone messed up somewhere. I want to speak to who’s in charge.”

Charon groaned inwardly. This was going to be a process. “It’s not easy to get ahold of who’s “in charge” here. A lot of people want to get ahold of Them after they pass over, but it takes a long time. But to get to Them, you have to get on the boat.” They tapped their scythe against the floor of the boat for effect.

Carolyn shook her head defiantly. “I’m not getting on that boat. You let “Them” know I’m here and they can come talk to me. I can wait.”

Oh, she could wait alright. There was a strict policy on souls who choose to linger on the shore instead of crossing the River. It was frowned upon, to say the least.

Charon put on their customer service voice. “Unfortunately, that’s not really an option. I know you can’t really see through the fog or anything, but there is nothing outside of this shore. You can’t leave here; you won’t even be able to try.”

There was a flash of realization in Ms. Johnson’s eyes. Charon guessed she’d just thought of storming off the shore and then was surprised when her legs wouldn’t move. The feeling of no escape would usually do the trick, but still she strengthened her resolve.

“Well, I’ll stay on this shore, then.” She huffed. She strutted over and pointedly sat down on a large rock, one of the few landmarks on this ghostly shore. Charon clenched their skeletal hand discreetly under their sleeves. Deep breath, count to ten. The souls in the boat stirred restlessly again. One of them began to tap their fingers against the hull impatiently.

“One moment, please” Charon told them. No one reacted. Charon lifted their scythe into the air and levitated themselves out of the boat, gliding slowly over to Carolyn Johnson. In addition to looking cool, levitating also helped to keep sand out of Sharon’s feet and robes. They hated that. They stopped and hovered over Ms. Johnson, not close enough to intimidate her, but close enough she wouldn’t be able to ignore.

“I can’t force you to get into the boat” they confessed. “But the Managers won’t come here to you. They’ll send things after you that will drag you to the afterlife by force. Those things are a lot scarier than me, and the process is quite painful.” As scary as the journey looked, traveling with Charon was the first and easiest way of getting to the afterlife. What They sent changed depending on the soul in question: three-headed dogs, shadow demons, a sea monster from under the River. Made Charon’s little boat look like a luxury cruise.

Ms. Johnson’s eyebrows went up in shock. “Are you trying to intimidate me? Well that won’t work, and don’t think I won’t tell your superior about that.”

Oh no, please don’t cost me my luxurious job of ferrying dead people across the River for all of eternity. Charon thought bitterly. They didn’t enjoy their work, but there were much worse jobs to be had in the afterlife. Better try another approach.

“Ms. Johnson,” they said, “I understand this can be a hard time. But we’re like going to the Post Office: nobody really wants to be here, but if you’re here then you’re here for a reason. So why don’t we work together and solve the problem?”

The woman scoffed, pretended to inspect her nails. “The “problem” is you people think I’m dead and I’m telling you I’m not.”

“You are” Charon insisted. “Living souls can’t access the shores of the River Styx.”

She just shrugged. “Well how could I have died, then? I wasn’t sick, I don’t remember any sort of accident.”

Charon flicked open the scroll again and started speed-reading. “It looks you had some sort of stroke, apparently while you were sleeping. You were probably dead before you realized what was happening.”

Again Ms. Johnson scoffed. “Well, that’s ridiculous; I’m too young to have a stroke! That doesn’t even run in my family!”

“It is rare,” Charon agreed, scanning through the “additional notes” section of the scroll. “but it does happen. And it did.”

“Well either way, I’d like to contest it.” She crossed her arms in a bitchy way and just glared at Charon. Charon did their best attempt at a polite shrug.

“I’m afraid you can’t contest death. It’s…final.”

She shook her head stubbornly. “Then I’ll stay here. What is this, purgatory or something?”

Charon clenched their scythe a little in frustration. “It’s kind of purgatory, but not really.” Ms. Johnson didn’t seem to like that answer, so Charon kept going. “Look, everything gets better after we cross the River. I know it looks dreary, with the fog and the black water, but believe me, this is the worst part.”

Ms. Johnson peered off into the shoreline, even though she couldn’t see anything. “So, what, that’s like Heaven?”

“Ehhhh we don’t like to label it. Everyone has their idea of what death will be like: they have different names for it, different expectations. In the end it doesn’t really matter; everyone goes to the same place and it gets sorted out from there.”

The woman’s finely-groomed eyebrows shot up. “So, what? Do bad people go to bad places?”

“Not quite” Charon admitted, annoyed they had to explain this when this woman would get this spiel again at Orientation. “It’s more like, in death you’ll spend some time processing all the bad things you did in life and the regrets you had. And for some people that takes a long time, and for others it doesn’t. But, you have an infinite amount of time. And once you’ve dealt with those regrets, things get better.”

Ms. Johnson nodded slowly, her face starting to soften. “Death seems complicated.”

Charon nodded their hooded head. “Yes.” They admitted. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

Carolyn Johnson looked over at the boat already full of souls They were all older than her, folks who knew their time was coming and had made peace with this fate. They looked so content, just sitting there waiting to go to the afterlife. A few of them looked in her direction with understanding pity. Tears welled up in Carolyn’s eyes. “I wanted more time.” It was practically a whisper.

Charon felt the tension go out of their bones. “I understand.”

“There were so many things I wanted to do, so many people I haven’t spoken to in…” her voice trailed off. Charon said nothing. They knew they didn’t have to. Carolyn laughed bitterly. “Guess I’m already working on my regrets, huh?”

Charon just nodded. Ms. Johnson got to her feet. “Alright, boatman, I guess we should go now.” Charon led the woman to the boat, to the empty seat waiting her. Once she was settled in, they pushed off the beach with their scythe and the boat began its usual journey across the deep black waters. The passengers were silent, as they always were during this part. Eventually Charon couldn’t pick Carolyn Johnson out from the rest of them. They hoped she’d find her peace soon enough.

This story was written from a prompt provided by this Writing Prompt Generator from Service Space.

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