United States Death Department

         I don't take personally the fact that everyone hates me. It's really just a matter of classical conditioning. People are like Pavlov's famous dogs, you know, so its only natural. The news I am forced to bring fills people with sadness, and they have connected that sadness with me.

         It is my responsibility, as an employee of the United States Death Department, to notify the loved ones and next of kin of the freshly deceased. I dress in my somber uniform and don my protective helmet and drive a black hearse. People shake their fists at the smiling skull with wings, the white logo painted on the side of my car. Under the logo is printed the phrase "Dedicated to bringing mourning with speed and compassion" in block letters.

         I understand that people don't hate me for personal reasons. It's not because I'm stubborn or mean or vain. It's because they've associated me with death. Often, when I give people the news in the form of a short poem or song, as is the custom at the USDD, they beg me to take it back or attack me for killing their husband or wife or firstborn son.

         "How could you, you heartless sonofabitch!" the mother screams at me, her face purple with rage. She beats her fists on my coat, under which I wear body armor because some people don't stop at punching. I smile and offer my condolences and turn to leave.

         "Don't you walk out like that. You can't kill my son and just walk out of here like that!" She doesn't realize or care that it wasn't me that killed her son. It's just my job to bring the news. I don't particularly like it, but it pays well.

         "You think you can kill a person like Ivan and just waltz in here and sing me a song. Why did you do it? Why Ivan?" She suddenly loses her violent disposition and slowly slides down the wall to the floor. I offer her a business card, but she doesn't take it. I leave it on the floor next to her.

         When I leave the house, children stop playing to stare at the car. One picks up a rock and hurls it at the hearse. The rock bounces off harmlessly, not even chipping off paint. I look at the list of homes I have to hit today, calculating in my head how long each one should take.

         For a long time, the pain I caused kept me up at night. I couldn't sleep because images of these people and their suffering flooded my mind. I blamed myself. I too was convinced that I had killed these people. After all, if I didn't tell them that someone was dead, it would be like they never died. Their surviving family could go on thinking they were alive and well in places unknown, and the dead could keep on being dead. Slowly, after not receiving letters or phone calls for a time, the dead would be forgotten. In a way, I believed it was my fault for making people accept the truth.

         I blow a note on my tuner, and launch into song.

There was a man that passed in bed,
He was alive, but now he's dead.
Killed by cancer in his head,
In loving memory of your father Ted.

         The man looks at me blankly. "You must be mistaken," he says, "my father is in perfect health." I reach out to hand him the business card. "Don't give that to me, I don't need it. My father never had cancer. In his last letter... he was fine." I set the card down on a table by the front door and start to leave. "How could you bring this into my home?" The man asks incredulously. "Who do you think you are?" I offer him my condolences and close the door behind me just in time to prevent being hit with a vase.

         Although people talk about being kind to their local Deathbringer, when confronted with the news, no one is. It's generally accepted that we will take the brunt of their mournful outbursts. One time, I informed a nice old lady that her husband of fifty years had died. From her mouth came a stream of expletives I would be embarrassed to repeat in front of a sailor. She calmed down, whispered an apology, and left before I could give her the business card. I left it sitting near the front door.

         I don't wear my uniform in public. If I did, I would never be able to sit in peace. Just the sight of the black coat is enough to stir people up. "Murderer," they yell. They ask me how I can sleep at night. Like I said, it used to be that I couldn't. Now, I'm just too tired to care. There are too many people and too much pain for me to handle. So I deny any involvement and stick to the USDD script. Besides, it isn't my fault that these people are dead.

         I knock on the green door. It is thick with years of paint. Standing in the darkness inside is a woman. Her hair is beginning to turn white, and, when she sees me, her face does too. She starts to shake her head.

         "Don't say it," she pleads. "You don't have to say it." I have to say it. I blow the key on my instrument, and sing:

Your husband Chuck
Was hit by a truck
While he crossed the street.
We looked all night
But try as we might
All we could find were his feet.

         "No," the woman moans. "I told you not to say it. If you hadn't said it..." She looks around as if she is lost. Her eyes lock into mine. I thank God there is still a screen door separating us, pull the card from my pocket, and wave it for the woman. She slams the door in my face, so I leave the card tucked between the door and the doorjamb.

         Sometimes I wonder if saying it out loud really does make it true. If I just kept quiet maybe these people would keep living. I mean, I know that doesn't make any practical sense, but practicality doesn't have much to do with my field of work. I imagine people's tortured souls floating above me, begging me not to start singing. If I would only shut up they could return to their bodies and continue with their lives. Still, I always sing. It's my job.

         Like a doctor, a Deathbringer is forced to be on call around the clock. It seems that people don't stick to their normal nine to five schedules when kicking the bucket. It's eleven o'clock at night when I am called to duty by the beeper sitting on my coffee table.

         A pretty teenage girl answers the door when I knock. The color vanishes from her cheeks after we make eye contact.

         “Can I speak to...” I pause to look down at my notebook. “Teddy Slauter, please.” The girl nods and turns slowly before running upstairs. She returns with a little boy in airplane pajamas. His hair is flat on one side, and he is rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. I get on one knee and sound a note on my tuner.

I must report that Mommy and Daddy
Won't be making it home tonight, sadly.
Their Mazda was T-Boned at Hoover and Knight
Because a heartless drunk driver ran through a red light.

They send you their love, and they want you to know,
That even the best among us must go.
So live it up now, while you've still got the time,
'Cause sooner or later, I'll be reciting your rhyme.

         I hold the card out to the boy in my open palm and give him the best smile I can muster. Teddy, smiling back at me, takes the card and studies it closely. The girl puts her hand on the top of his head as she tries to choke back her own tears. Although I doubt he can read, realization crystallizes over his face like ice on a pond. His quivering lip is the only warning I get before he jumps into my arms, sobbing.