Oldguy wakes up from a noonday snooze
to find Death once more setting up
his chess set, offering Oldguy the choice
of white or black. “Black,” mutters Oldguy.
“Revealing choice,” grins Death. “Means
you’ve been depressed, as well you
should be.” Reeling off a list of famous
suicides—Socrates, Cleopatra, Dudu Topaz—
Death says that he’d like to join the club
if he didn’t have to be Death. He explains
committing suicide would be like kissing himself
on the forehead: impossible, though it would
be a breeze for Oldguy, who says he couldn’t
kiss himself that way either. “No,” says Death,
“I meant a breeze to kill yourself.” He adds
there’s a banquet of methods, many of them
not all that painful or messy. “Why don’t
you try shooting yourself in the forehead,”
Oldguy suggests. Death counters that
Death’s death is an ontological impossibility,
that the kissing thing was just a metaphor.
“How would you do it with a semaphore?”
Oldguy asks. “I said ‘metaphor,’” snaps Death.
“Maybe if you sharpened it . . .” says Oldguy.
“No, no,” shouts Death, “metaphor,
METAPHOR!” “Still,” Oldguy continues,
“that’d make quite a mess, what with the flag
jamming things up.” Death declares
he didn’t come all this way to talk about
his goddamned suicide, that he didn’t ask
for this shit job where everybody hates you
and all you do is go around creeping
people out, causing misery for no reason
at all. “I could have been a dancer, if you’d
like to know,” he sobs. “But ‘Dance of Death,’
right? Try to get an agent with that hanging
around your neck.” He rakes the chess pieces
into a bag, folds up his board, and clatters off.
“How ’bout trying one of them plastic bags
over your head?” Oldguy calls after him.