With my job description, and everything else that goes along with it, you wouldn't think that I'd have much to do with humor. For the most part, you'd be right.
Occasionally, though, there are those instances that come along, like the lone curly fry in an order of the otherwise conventional variety, where you're pleasantly surprised by the change and have to react accordingly.
He was still in the dust when I found him, legs splayed out in front, palms flat on the ground behind. There was a layer of dust on his thick, wide spectacles, another over his face, and a few more layers down everywhere else. Not too far away, his suitcase sat open in the dirt, its contents scattered to the world at large.
He saw me as I glided to him, but his eyes were distant, unfocused, and for a second I had the feeling he didn't even recognize me. I was apparently right. Most of the time when I'm at work, it's the other guy who begins the conversation, usually with a few protests and some pleading and groveling. I'd seen them all, but after a couple of minutes of awkward silence, it seemed he wasn't the usual variety.
I decided to take the plunge.
"Bad day?"
His eyes refocused, running up and down the vast dust plains before jumping to me. Anger and frustration wasn't something that you saw all the time, but it did find its way to you occasionally.
"The nerve of that guy," he sputtered, "The nerve!"
His eyes slid off me again, back over my shoulder and into the distance. He'd forgotten me already, by the looks of it, so I felt the need to prod.
"What did he do?"
The look he gave me was the one usually reserved for the annoying fly that returns incessantly, even with the rolled up newspaper to inform them that their services were no longer required.
"WHAT?!" he demanded, irritably.
I gestured at him, "What did he do?"
Disappointment closed curtains over his annoyance, in turn giving way to misery.
"I just showed him the 1658 Vintage," he said, lower lip trembling, "And he slammed the door in my face!"
Heartbroken, he gestured at the shards of something large and round scattered by his ankle, "That was my last 1658 Vintage, too."
"A shame," I ventured, "That yellow on brown really stood out."
"Yellow was the residue left over." he sighed, "That's what made it unique."
"I see."
He shook his head wildly, rattling the thoughts in his head as if hoping they'd settle in place where they were supposed to. As if deciding to make the best of it, he climbed to his feet and ambitiously began to try and dust himself off.
He looked up at me in the midst of his endeavors.
"How well do you know your chamber pots?" he asked, his tone abruptly businesslike, eyes looking me up and down out of what could have been habit. Whether or not he was sizing me up for one was uncomfortably unclear. He noticed my cowl shift, and laughed.
"Forgive me, where are my manners," he stood and reached up above his head. When his fingers groped air, he blushed and looked around, flustered, till he spotted a little bowler hat on the ground a few feet behind him. He stooped to grab it, briskly beat the dust off it and, hat in hands, offered me a slight bow.
"Ross Rutherford," he said, "Collector and salesman of the rarest and most sought after, vintage chamber pots you could find in this century, and manufacturer of the highest quality custom made recreational chamber pots available on the market,"
"Pleasure," I said. Even though he was looking right at me, he hardly seemed fazed, which was rather unusual.
I sensed a lull in the conversation.
"How's business?" I asked.
He shrugged in the middle of beating the dust off his chest, "Well... not too good, really. My best custom made ones don't sell more than one or two a month, and they're doing better than the vintages."
He passed a hand over his forehead and sighed, "People just don't appreciate culture anymore."
"That's a shame," I agreed, "Especially with the residue still on those vintage models. They don't know what they're missing."
He beamed.
"So, you're forced to resort to going door to door?" I nodded at the broken down shack a few feet away from us.
He ran a forlorn hand through his dusty hair.
"A man's gotta do what he's gotta do, right? I mean, it doesn't make much of a difference either way. But most people are nice about being disturbed at all hours during the day to talk about buying chamber pots. They tell you nicely that they'll have a restraining order on you, so you know it's time to move on. But this guy?"
He sighed and shook his head, "Slammed the door on me, he did, and ruined a perfectly good chamber pot. There was no need to damage the merchandise."
I looked away from him and examined the shack. I knew well of the owner, him having kept me busy on occasion, but it wasn't his time just yet. Ross, on the other hand...
"Why come out to the desert, Ross?" I sighed, "Why all the way out here?"
He smiled, sadly, halfheartedly swiping the dust off his forearm, "There's not many places left to go when most of the townsfolk want you out of there town, is there?"
"But here of all places?" I shook my head, "Ross, this guy is a psycho. He dotes on his collection of knives and guns, and practically prays to a copy of the second amendment hanging on his wall. What would you expect of a house all the way out here in the desert?"
His mouth had gaped while I spoke, and now he drove a fist into his palm.
"Darn it," he said, annoyed, "Makes sense now. But I figured a desert would be a good a market as any, you know? With deserts and lack of plumbing..."
"Do you know why I'm here, Ross?" I interrupted gently.
He trailed off into silence and looked at me, puzzled.
"I... I haven't the faintest idea, to be frank."
"He didn't just slam the door on you, Ross," I said, "He blew out your torso with his favorite shotgun."
Ross's smile twitched.
"Come again, please?" he asked, politely.
"You're dead, Ross." I said, "He shot you on his front door and left you there."
I pointed. Slowly, uncomprehending, he turned around, his jaw lowering as he took in the mangled body sprawled out on in the sun, gathering dust as the blood soaking into the sand.
He ran a tongue around his dry lips, a man searching desperately for something to say.
"Well, that would explain it," he offered at last, "I knew it hurt a lot more than it should have had."
After centuries of telling people that they just passed their expiry date, you tend to get used to the reactions. You get the standard sad acceptance, the standard hysterics... it's never easy. And it doesn't get easier.
He tore his eyes away from his own corpse and shook his head, "This how it ends, then. All those years of plodding up and down..."
He shuddered.
"It wasn't an easy life, you know?" he said, lower lip trembling, "Holding onto a passion, and having your family leave you because of it, and everyone else think you're mad. I know what they call me, you know. I ignore it, but doesn't mean I don't hear it."
I nodded, "It was a harsh life to lead, friend."
Ross Rutherford sighed, "Well, it's over now."
He shook his head again, then looked up and looked me over, "Wait, wouldn't this make you..."
"Call me Reaper," I supplied, "T. G. Reaper. I don't even mind Grim, for short."
He nodded, understanding.
"That would explain the..."
"Robe, cowl, and skeletal hands, yes,"
"And the shiny scythe?"
Even under the circumstances, I couldn't help feel delighted that he'd noticed.
"Polished it all night," I said. I beamed, even though I knew he couldn't see my face.
He nodded thoughtfully.
"How big are they on chamber pots in the afterlife?" he wondered.
"Why don't we go find out?" I suggested.
He took my hand.