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From Winamop.com
The Day I Died
by Mason Beyermann
I died on a Tuesday.
The day began as workdays do. The coffee tasted the same, the bus was seven minutes late, and it was cold. Unseasonably cold.
You could tell nobody saw it coming. Most people were wearing long-sleeved shirts and jackets half as warm as necessary. When a cold front hits unexpectedly, everybody wears the same expression: the one you make after taking a big shot of bad whiskey.
I feel strange talking in the past tense, so I’m going to switch to the present. Because when everything happened to me, it was the present.
“At least when a cold front comes in, everybody has their small talk for the day” I say.
Jeremy looks at me curiously for a moment, then frowns. “Yeah.” He draws the word out, like he’s thinking something he isn’t saying.
“Where did you go?” he asks.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“I don’t know. You were talking, and then you just zoned out for a second.”
“Oh, my bad.” I go back to copying numbers into a spreadsheet.
My job is a little more complicated than that, but if I try to explain it right now, I’m afraid I’ll fall asleep at my desk.
“You ever think about death?” I ask in Jeremy’s general direction.
Six and a half minutes pass between our last exchange and this one. That’s how we talk: like a couple of old men on a fishing trip, tossing out thoughts like hooks and waiting to see if anything bites.
“Huh?” He barely looks up from his papers.
“Death,” I say. “Dying. Kicking the bucket. Buying the farm. Going into the light.”
Jeremy sighs and rubs his temples. “Where’s this rain cloud coming from, man?”
“Yeah, sorry. Just… been thinking about something.”
He gives me a look. Distilled pity, I’d call it. The kind of look you give a stranger when you catch them staring off into the abyss of thought, their face like half a lemon with all the juice squeezed out of it. Then he goes back to his numbers, and I go back to mine.
After two minutes, Jeremy says, “With Bernstein breathing down our necks about budget cuts, that’s about all I can think about at this point in my life. But since you brought it up, I rarely think about death. No more than the average person, anyway. I’m more of a glass-half-full kind of guy.”
I’m feeling argumentative, so I say, “Glass half full, glass half empty. What does that even mean? There’s a lot more to it than that. For instance, what’s in the glass? Who is the glass for? Why not just fill it up all the way? And can’t glasses be broken?”
Jeremy exhales and sets his pen down with the patience of someone talking to a child. “Is this about your birthday again?”
“My birthday?” I scoff. “No. I just… something feels off today.”
“Well, it’s just a metaphor, dude. Do you really wanna spend your morning talking about broken glass?”
His face is now a cocktail of one part concern, one part I don’t have time for this. When I don’t respond, he rolls his eyes and begins shuffling through labeled papers in a small brown plastic organizer with an open top. A faded laminated sticker on the front reads Outgoing.
I watch him for a moment longer. Then we both melt back into our work and don’t speak much for the rest of the afternoon. When I glance at the label again, the letters strangely rearrange themselves.
Now it reads Going Out.
Going out today, are we? a voice says in my mind. Is today the day you’re “going out”? I shake the thought away as a shiver runs up my spine to the base of my skull.
When I leave the office, the sun is already low in a peach-cobbler sky, winter slouching into the streets with a wet, bone-deep chill.
An old, torn billboard hangs over Main and Sixth. It’s an ad for something. A hospital? A funeral home? I’m not sure. The only part I can make out through the faded paint and dying neon lights is the slogan:
YOU COULD BE NEXT. ARE YOU READY?
The words are big. Bigger than they should be. Like they are meant for me. They seem to be leaning out at me. My gaze lingers fifteen seconds too long before I force myself to keep walking and push the thought away.
Outside a bodega, an old radio wheezes out the news. “Dying. Kicking the bucket. Passing on. Buying the farm. Going into the light. Death! It’s what’s for dinner.”
The words dissolve into static as the radio’s owner turns the dial to an oldies station.
What the hell was that?
Continuing along my usual route, I pass a couple of familiar places. The dry cleaner that smells like bleach and mildew. Its door stays wide open from open to close, sending a cloud of steam out toward passersby. That has to be against some law, right? I always hold my breath until it’s behind me.
A block farther, there’s this pizza place called Pie-Sano’s. The name is hyphenated, with pai changed to pie, and the O is a pizza with one slice cut out. They’re always playing generic Italian music, and the walls are painted with scenes of an Italian countryside dotted with vineyards.
The guy who owns it is a short, stocky, balding pervert who makes passes at every pretty girl who walks in. Sometimes I can hear him and his wife (at least, I think she’s his wife) screaming at each other in the apartment above.
I pass a black-and-white missing-person poster, its edges curled and blackened like it’s been burned. The photo is of a woman in her twenties, smiling like she just upgraded from a learner’s permit to a driver’s license.
Above her picture, in big, bold letters, is the word MISSING. Beneath the picture, toward the bottom of the paper, is the following information:
Name: REBECCA WALYNN
Age: 22
Sex: Female
Someone has roughly penciled a y at the end of Sex.
Last seen Sunday. PLEASE CALL THE AUTHORITIES WITH ANY INFORMATION.
I feel bad about walking right past it, so I make obligatory eye contact with the girl’s photo for the required 7.25 seconds before moving on. As I walk away from the missing girl, I keep my head down to avoid making eye contact with the painfully frigid wind.
I walk two more blocks without incident and arrive at my apartment staircase.
There’s a quaint coffee shop right next to my building. It smells like cinnamon and roasting coffee beans. It’s enough to make your mouth water, but that’s not the reason I go in after work. I’m not really partial to a caffeine buzz in the evening. The reason I go in almost every day is to see Diana. She’s the kind of girl who makes you forget what you’re saying. There’s a certain presence in her eyes. The only way I know how to describe it is real beauty.
I have this little dance I do to check if she’s working without having to go in. I walk by quickly and glance at the counter. There’s typically only one barista working at a time, so if she’s there, I’ll know right away.
She is working the counter today. Her dark blonde hair is pulled back into a loose, cascading ponytail, and her sharp green eyes are focused on something she’s writing. A little rose-gold stud sits in her left nostril. I’ve already passed the door, so to look nonchalant, I do a quick spin, walk back to the storefront, and pull the door toward me.
I’m excited and nervous, so I forget that the door is a push, not a pull. It bangs against the frame so loudly that a woman sitting just inside jumps and spills a little coffee on her hand. I curse myself for making such a stupid mistake. Bright red with embarrassment, I push the door inward. It gives way easily, and a small magnetic sensor at the top chimes a welcoming, harmonious note: ding.
She looks up from her writing, sees me standing in the doorway, and smiles. Everyone else is looking at me over the rims of their various cups because of the noise, but when she smiles, I forget them.
I walk up, set my key fob and wallet down on the counter, and look into her warm green eyes. They invite me in with what I hope is an equal sense of attraction.
“Are you gonna die today?” she says.
The words crawl into my brain like cold fingers. All I can stupidly cough out is “What?”
She blinks away a hint of confusion. “What can I get you today?”
I force a laugh that doesn’t quite sound human. “Ha, sorry. Can I get a small hot white mocha with two pumps of peppermint?”
Before I finish speaking, her hands blur with the preternatural speed of a courtroom stenographer.
“Of course,” she says with a knowing smile. “That’s funny. I just made the same thing for myself.” The way she says it feels like a wink, if that makes sense.
Learning her favorite drink took a decent amount of detective work on my part. I spent a lot of time picking up subtle cues and asking her coworkers questions before finally acquiring the information. I usually stick to black coffee, maybe with a splash of milk and half a packet of Sugar in the Raw if I’m feeling adventurous. A white mocha with two pumps of peppermint is about twenty thousand leagues too sweet for me.
The machine hisses, steam curling up like ghosts. She works with the elegant grace and casual precision of an Olympic athlete.
Near the window, some guy in a suit is on his phone. I’m not listening. Until I am.
“Yeah, I don’t know,” he says. “I think the guy next to me who just ordered coffee is going to die.”
I turn and listen more closely. He’s not even looking at me. Just talking on his phone. Just words. I don’t even realize I’m walking toward him until Diana sets the coffee down on the counter.
“That’s gonna be a good one. I can tell,” she says, smiling with one corner of her mouth. I usually love it when she does that, but I’m too distracted by what he said.
“Am I going crazy?” The question leaves my mouth before I realize I’ve spoken aloud.
“I feel that way sometimes, too. What do you mean, specifically?” Her half-smile gives way to a flicker of concern and understanding.
“Oh, I don’t know. Just a feeling,” I say a little too quickly. I feel the sudden urge to get out of here and lock myself in my apartment.
“I’m sorry. I’ve got to go.” I keep my eyes on the man by the window.
“Oh, okay. I’ll be here in the morning if you need a pick-me-up,” Diana says.
I think about that phrase: pick me up. I turn the words over in my head. I’d like to hear her say them followed by “for a date” or “at my place.”
I absentmindedly open my wallet to get some cash and see my driver’s license through the clear plastic sleeve inside. I remember when the picture was taken. I had just started to ask, “Where should I look?” when the attendant snapped the photo, forever locking me in a state of bewilderment, a half-spoken word caught on my lips. Or at least until I get it renewed next year.
I realize now that I have no idea how old Diana is. She looked about my age when I first saw her, and since it’s incredibly rude to ask a lady her age, I’ve never given it much thought.
To my horror, I notice something else. A small, familiar dash sits next to my birth date.
My mind feels the way my mouth does when all the saliva dries up. Has that dash always been there? Isn’t that only there when…
When it’s followed by a date of death, the little voice in my mind finishes for me.
You think you’ll try to blink something away when you see what you don’t believe, but in reality, you just stare stupidly, as if blinking were no longer a natural bodily process.
I snap out of it when Diana asks, “Are you sure everything’s okay?” She wears an expression of genuine concern now. I much prefer her half-smile.
Thoroughly embarrassed and eager to get back to my apartment, I just say, “Yeah, totally. Of course. Thanks again.”
Then I hand her a ten, grab my coffee, and rush out without looking back.
My apartment is just as I left it: small, silent, with walls the color of old teeth.
I close the door behind me, lock it with a soft click, and hang my coat on the hook the superintendent installed.
Nowhere near in the mood to cook, I tear open a bag of Doritos and pour myself a nearly full glass of whiskey. I take three gulps, each more than moderate, and feel the fumes seep into my eyes, making them water slightly. I wince as it goes down, realizing I’ve never drunk half a glass of whiskey this quickly.
Holding the glass at eye level, I say, “Ha. Half empty.”
I grab the whiskey bottle and my “dinner” in one hand, the half-empty glass in the other, and slump down into my favorite spot.
Being a bachelor, I have an old, raggedy loveseat positioned about ten inches from my little box TV, which I purchased from a thrift store last year. The TV sits atop my well-used (and well-loved) VCR, which I salvaged from a yard sale my parents had some years back. The whole setup rests on a dilapidated nightstand the previous resident left behind. The landlord told me I could have it if I wanted, so the day I moved in, I christened it my new “entertainment center.”
I have a small library of VHS tapes that I watch in constant rotation. They’re stacked haphazardly on the floor next to my TV stand. I grab one from near the top of the pile. Its jet-black case bears stark white letters in an angry Gothic font: Nosferatu.
I pull the tape free from its sleeve, turn on the VCR, and push it into the slot. The mechanism comes to life with its familiar, comforting hum and click as it draws the tape in the rest of the way. By the time the FBI warning disappears and the title comes up, I’ve poured myself another drink.
I pop a chip into my mouth and crunch loudly. Looking down at the glass in my hand, I murmur, “Look at that. Now it’s half full,” and sputter out a little chuckle along with a few bits of chip.
By the time I start pouring my third glass, I’ve forgotten the unsettling events of the day. I ignore my conscience as it suggests, Maybe three glasses is too many.
Once it’s poured, I leave it on the table.
By the time the end credits roll, the crumpled chip bag lies discarded on the floor, the last of the crumbs spilling from its open mouth. The whiskey bottle sits on the coffee table. The glass in my hand is half empty.
Or half full.
I don’t want to think about it anymore…
The next thing I know, my phone is ringing. The only thought I can conjure is that whoever chose the hideous, blasting jangle a phone makes should be ostracized.
I dive forward and snatch the handset from where it rests on the floor in the back corner of the room. “Hello,” I croak, my head thick with boozed sleep.
“Fell asleep with a half-empty glass of rye in your hand again?” Jeremy’s sarcastic tone carries a hint of urgency, which I ignore.
I rub my eyes. “You mean half full.”
Jeremy chuckles. “Ah, my boy, you’ve seen the light.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I guess I have.”
“Well, in that case, you’re gonna love this. You’re late. And with Bernstein looking to drop the ax, you picked a bad day for it.”
I check the time. “Shit!” I blurt. “I’ll be right there. Distract him if you can.”
I can almost see Jeremy hunching over and discreetly covering his mouth so no one can read his lips. He whispers into the phone, “Last I heard, he was upstairs in a board meeting. You’ve probably got about half an hour before anyone notices.”
“Okay, thanks,” I say before hanging up.
When I stand and turn off the TV, I brace myself for dizziness and a rhinoceros-sized headache. But to my surprise, I feel fine.
I throw on a new shirt and grab my coat on the way out. Remembering how unprepared for the cold I was yesterday, I hang my first choice back up and grab my slightly thicker winter coat instead. I lock the door behind me, sprint down the stairs, and yank open the building’s front door.
The air feels different.
Lighter.
Warmer.
Today, I’m not slapped across the face by an angry, snarling cold wind. It’s still and temperate.
Maybe it was the sleep; maybe it was the whiskey, I think. But whatever the reason, everything suddenly seems… clearer.
The unnerving things I encountered yesterday—the billboard, the news, the missing-person poster, the man in the coffee shop, the date on my driver’s license—none of it feels as significant now. It’s no longer viscous in my mind.
I look over and see that same billboard, but now the slogan is different. It still reads:
ARE YOU READY?
But beside it, in bold letters, are the words:
FOR A BRAND-NEW YOU?
“It’s a damn fitness ad,” I say, laughing to myself.
I pull out my wallet to look at my driver’s license. The only date on it is my birth date. No ominous dash.
With a newfound lust for life, I turn left and almost start skipping on my way to work. I get about three steps before a thought clicks into place like the final piece of a puzzle.
I whip around 180 degrees, walk past my apartment steps, and push through the door into the coffee shop.
There she is.
Her hair, no longer pulled back, now cascades down in luscious waves. Her bangs are pinned to one side with a silver clip inlaid with some magnificent stone. An opal, maybe.
There’s one person ahead of me in line, but they already have their drink in hand and look like they’re about to wrap up their conversation. I seize my chance and slip into line behind them.
After what feels like ten minutes of chitchat, though it couldn’t have been longer than twenty-five seconds, they say, “Thanks again,” and step away, disappearing into that nowhere where strangers go.
I walk right up to the counter and say, “Hi,” as casually as I can. The last thing I want is to seem overexcited.
She smiles. I’m glad to see you’re still alive.
At least, that’s what her eyes say.
What she actually says is, “Hi.” Blissfully simple.
I make eye contact as best I know how and say, “Listen, I’ve been coming here for, like, forever. Well, not forever, but… I’ve been meaning to ask you out.”
Her eyebrows rise ever so slightly, but the way she seems to look straight into me remains unchanged. She smiles, nods gently, and says the most wonderful phrase I have ever heard.
“I’d love to.”
I could melt. I only think about it for a moment before asking if she’s free tonight.
“Tonight is perfect,” she says with a smile I never want to take my eyes off.
I remember a dorky monologue I once gave her, something like, “In mythology, Diana is the goddess of the hunt, the moon, and nature. She’s very, very highly respected…” Blah, blah, blah.
Looking at her now, I wish I could tell her that Diana was wild, brave, and beautiful. That she lived among the trees and was the envy of all.
I want to tell her that she looks like a goddess to me. Wild. Brave. Beautiful.
She glances down at her watch, then back up at me, and says the words I’ve been wanting to hear for longer than I can remember.
“Do you wanna pick me up at seven?”
The words tumble out of me like clothes from a dryer opened while it’s still running. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to hear you say that.”
Then I actually do kick myself a little.
She laughs. “Took you long enough,” she says playfully. “I thought I was gonna have to do it myself.”
She seems so confident, and all I can think to say is, “I’m not really good at this sort of thing.”
“You should have more confidence in yourself,” she replies, setting a cup of black coffee on the counter in front of me. “I only filled it half full in case you wanted milk or…”
“Sugar in the Raw,” we say in unison, our voices overlapping.
“You knew the whole time, didn’t you?” I ask, embarrassed.
She gives me a knowing smile. “I did, yeah. From, like, the first time you ordered the mocha. You never really drank any of it, and you seemed to be in pain whenever you did.”
I pray the burning heat in my face doesn’t send her running for the fire extinguisher to put me out. I laugh awkwardly. “Yeah. I learned it was your favorite and just wanted to connect with you, you know?”
“No, I liked it. I thought it was sweet.” She pauses for a second or two. “How do you feel about sushi?”
I can hear a little hope nestled in the question like a bear cub.
I decide to answer honestly. “I’m not very familiar with it, but I like what I’ve had.”
She seems to like that I’m not trying to pretend anything. “Great! I can show you the ropes.”
I feel like I’m vibrating.
Okay, remain calm. Be cool. What would Han Solo say here?
With this in mind, I say, “Great. Can’t wait. See you at seven.”
Not wanting to ruin this high, I smile really big. Not too big, warns that little voice in my head. I grab my coffee and leave the shop feeling lighter than I have in years.
I pull the door open and head left toward work. Looking down at my watch, I realize I now have six minutes to get there.
I’m still checking the time when he emerges from the alley as if he’s been waiting for me. The moment plays out with movie-like serendipity. He steps directly into my path, and I walk right into him at full stride.
He lets out an almost comical “Oof!” as the glass he’s holding flies from his hand and explodes against the sidewalk.
“The fuck!” he yells in a muffled, lip-heavy way that makes it clear he’s missing almost all his teeth.
“Oh God, I’m so sorry,” I choke out. “I didn’t even see y—”
You is supposed to be the last word of that sentence, but it sticks in my throat as I register the figure in front of me. The one some might call a man.
A dirty coat, short hair hacked off as if without the aid of a mirror, and a face that hasn’t seen kindness in years. But his eyes: there’s something in them. The Devil? The universe? Nothingness? I can’t quite put my finger on it.
His right hand, the one that held the glass only seconds ago, snaps open and closed at his side as if longing for its missing companion. His other hand is occupied with something I can’t quite see.
His lips move. A mutter. A whisper. I can’t hear him.
“What?” I ask.
The knife goes in fast.
At first, it feels like nothing. Just pressure in my chest. Just a push.
Then the heat spreads, and my legs don’t work, and I’m on the ground.
I feel his hands rummaging through my pockets. Hear his footsteps sprinting away.
My breath comes in short bursts. The sky is very, very far away.
I feel something slip from my hand.
The whiskey glass. I’d been carrying it this whole time.
No.
Not the whiskey glass.
It’s the coffee cup Diana gave me.
It rolls from my fingers, coffee staining the sidewalk as it mixes with the growing pool of blood. Both are equally hot.
Someone is screaming.
The man is still running, shrinking into the distance.
I see the glass that fell from his hand, shattered beside my overturned cup.
Half full.
Half empty.
It doesn’t matter.
The glass still breaks.
These are my last thoughts.
Copyright reserved. Please do not reproduce without consent.