Death in the City

their morning coffees, which were becoming ritualistic for them (a human routine Death was proud to have obtained) and Tim started putting on his jacket. “Okay, this one’s for Marco,” he said, showing his wallet. “But next one’s on you, right?”
“It’s on me?” asked Death.
“Yeah, that’s pretty fair,” said Tim.
“Okay,” said Death, clueless.
“Great, I’ll see you,” said Tim, tossing a few bills on the table and leaving the café. Death smiled at a very pretty young waitress with silky brown hair and deep emerald eyes as she walked up to him. She returned the gesture as she cleared the mugs and took the money Tim had left.
“Thank you,” said Death.
“Maria,” she said.
“Death.”
“What?”
“D—D—Derek,” said Death.
“Well goodness, I could have sworn you said something else,” said Maria. Death noticed she had a soft southern drawl to her voice. She was back to smiling as she wiped down the table and left.
Maine Street was not difficult to find; it was easily the largest street in the city, and people were crammed together on the sidewalks, walking together in rhythm. Many of the buildings that lined the street had “Help Wanted” signs in the windows. Death shrugged and walked into the first one he saw, and his job hunt began.
He was surprised to see that the place he walked into was a boxing gym. All around were men in full boxing getups, hitting large bags of sand, sparring in the ring, grunting and sweating and spitting. Death was hit with an aroma reminiscent of feet, sweat, and bengay, but kept walking until he came to a door that said, in dingy red letters, “OFFICE.”
Death knocked and was immediately greeted by a little man wearing very short shorts, and a sweatband around his head. He grunted, motioning for Death to come inside, and closed the door behind him.
“Yeah, what?” grunted the little man. He stuck an unlit cigar in his mouth and crossed his arms, looking straight up at Death. “Whadyawant?”
“Uh…wow,” said Death quietly. “I just saw you were looking for help here. I was wondering if I could have the job.”
“Canya spar? I need a sparring partner for Williams out there. The one he’s got has no heart. Y’need heart. The game is ninety percent heart, another ten percent heart. You got heart? I can’t take no one with no heart.”
“I…” started Death. “Yes. I…have heart.” And a few minutes later Death found himself in the ring with one of the largest men he had ever seen, dressed in his grey suit, a soft helmet, and red boxing gloves. The little man stood next to the ring and clanged the bell.
“Allrightgetatim!” he screamed. Death took this as a cue and, having no idea what he was doing, mimicked his fellow boxer’s fighting stance and motions. He arbitrarily threw light punches that weakly hit the air as the little man kept yelling, “Comon yah worm!”
Death’s adversary, Williams, was a handsome, very large black man, coated in a mist of sweat with a neat grin planted firmly on his thin face. He threw a heavy punch that landed right between Death’s eyes. The two boxers crumpled to the ground instantly as the little man jumped into the ring.
“Jeezum, whadyado?” he yelled, running to Williams and looking worried. Death took several seconds to wake out of a daze. When his head stopped threatening to split open and he could see and hear again, he looked at the big man and the little man standing over him and a realization hit him; the boxer had been reaped.
“Oh, damn,” muttered Death. He was placed on a list of people who were banned from the boxing gym, and he found himself back on Maine Street, jobless.
Only a short amount of walking and avoiding the throng of people on the sidewalk landed Death in the office of a major stockbroker, J. Stephens and Sons.
“So, do you have a resume for me?” asked a skinny young man in a silk tailored suit. His desk was minimal and classy and even his haircut looked obscenely expensive.
“No,” said Death. “But I can just tell you whatever you need to know.”
The man raised his eyebrows, moved a stack of papers on his desk to the side, and said, “Alright, well what experience do you have?” He leaned his elbows on his desk and fiddled with a well-chewed pencil.
“Experience?” asked Death. He thought back to the millions of years he had existed and tried to pull something from that. “Well, I’m good with…people. And I’m very well traveled. And I like…” he racked his brain, and then finished with, “coffee.” The words came out of his mouth as though they were not his own, and he felt very uncomfortable.
The man leaned back in his chair and looked like he was on the verge of laughter. He stroked his chin with a manicured hand. “I meant business experience. How much do you know about stocks, corporations, costs, exchange, fiscal policies, GDP, inflation, interest, supply and demand, markets, trade agreements, credit unions, CDs? Do you know anything about 401Ks or even the income limits of a traditional IRA?” The man stared at Death, panting lightly.
“No,” said Death slowly. “But I used to play the fiddle.”
“So you want me to hire you when you have absolutely no knowledge or experience whatsoever?”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
Death soon found himself searching on Maine Street again. He walked into a bakery and was greeted by a large, very jolly woman who hired him on the spot. He only spent forty minutes there before, under his watch, the oven caught fire and exploded. The ice cream stand he walked into was run by several teenage girls who called the police on him because they thought he had “malicious intentions.” Two hours later the cruisers were gone, and he moved onward.
Death began to lose hope. The very last building before Maine Street turned into Ernie Way was the local supermarket, FreePay Brothers. The day was growing dark and the letters on the façade