by Ted LoRusso

“Cancer or a bus?” she says.

Nick Tinklepaugh squirms in his chair, a bit startled. He was hoping for a few casual pleasantries first. Coffee. Maybe a scone.

“Cancer or a bus?” she asks again. She’s 31, neither plain nor beautiful, on the slim side, couple of cute little fleshy bumps exactly where they should be.

Enough for a fuck, Nick thinks.

She sits as stone-straight as a tombstone, well-aware that she’s been entrusted with a sober task. The only items on her shiny, uncluttered desk are a sleek computer and a small triangular wood block with an imitation brass plaque that reads: “Lady Jane Jonesy – Assisting Deputy – Department of Death and Dying.” She is in row C, grid Five, on the 15th floor of Big Government Building ‘D’.

Nick occupies the small chair to the left of her desk. The chair has no back.

“You must be quicker with your answers,” she says. “What will it be? Cancer or bus?”

“Is that it?” says Nick. “Those are my two choices?”

Lady Jonesy knows exactly who this guy is. She hoped he’d be different, though, not like those entitled slobs who think they can charm their way out of the inevitable. She needs him to act like the man he desperately wants to be. It’ll be sweeter that way. She blinks madly to avoid feeling the feelings she’s beginning to feel … again.

“According to our last fiscal report,” she says – focusing on his forehead and not his mouth, because his teeth are so damn white and that’s where she faltered last time—“your yearly income is a regrettable $88,000 per annum? Correct?”

“Give or take a bankruptcy, yes.”                                                                                                                         

“Mr. Tinklepaugh, this is no joking matter. Had you done better in school you would have managed a better job. You might be making, say, $120,000 per year. For that amount we would throw in a third choice, say a mugging gone horribly wrong or a bird attack. But it appears you floundered in school, I’m afraid, and by all accounts you are considered a mid-level failure. Therefore, the government can offer you a mere two choices for ‘method of death’ … Cancer or Bus?”

Nick wonders if this is one of those moments when it would behoove him to push, to argue, to fight for his goddamn life, but Lady Jane Jonesy wiggles her wristwatch with an imposed intensity, and why is she staring at my forehead?  He enters the fray, guns blazing—

“So, Ma’am, say I pick cancer. Do I get to pick what kind?”

“Certainly not. Now, lower your voice and answer the question. How would you like to die?”

“I’ll take a bus.”

Lady Jonesy peck-a-pecks her keyboard. “What kind of bus? City bus? Country excursion? Greyhound has a sleek cruiser that would do the job nicely.”

“I can’t choose the type of cancer, but I get to choose the type of bus?”

“Yes. The Death by Cancer Division is quite picky. But the Death by Bus people … I mean … it’s a bus, for god’s sake. Not a sub-dermal glioblastoma. That takes some planning. Whereas a bus…just turn on the ignition, make an illegal left, and Pow! Your brain will be instant pancake batter.”

“Just seems a bit unfair, is all I’m saying.”

“Well, as we say here in the Department of Death and Dying, ‘That’s life.’”

Nick’s vision darkens around the edges. He needs to carefully consider his next maneuver. He scans her for a weakness. There’s something about her, something about the way her chin tightens every time she takes one of her fierce little breaths, the way she anxiously fingers the top button of her blouse, the way she avoids looking directly at him. Then it hits him. Fuck, it’s her. It’s really her. He hoped he’d never see her again; but here she sits, ready to be plucked…again. He lowers his eyelids to half mast and drops into the drawl he uses at the Glass Zipper, “How long are you going to pretend you don’t know me?”

“I’m sorry?” she says.

“Jane. It’s me. Nick.”

The inside of Lady Jane’s nostrils become suddenly and unsparingly itchy, but she will not scratch, not in public, and definitely not in front of this guy. Instead, she says, “Interactions of a human nature with future dead people are frowned upon. Please answer the question. What type of bus?”

“Aw, c’mon, don’t you know me?”

“Yes, I know you. You’re Nicholas Tinklepaugh. You’re my one o’clock Method of Death assessment.” She gives out with a harrumph. “Oh, bother. Since you refuse to make a choice, I’ll make it for you.” More peck-a-pecking on her keyboard. “I’ve gone ahead and signed you up for “Death by Crosstown Bus.” I’ve entered it under “Random Acts,” which means it can happen at any time, at any moment. Our legal department compels me to inform you that it would be wise to make out your will as soon as possible.

She suspends her index finger over the “send” button.

“Will there be anything else?”

“Yes! And don’t you dare touch that button!”

Nick locks eyes with Lady Jane, freezing them into a miserable tableaux.

Lady Jane is the first to move. “I loved you,” she says with barely a puff of air, then pulls her finger back, “I mean—”

“So it is you,” says Nick.

“No, it is not, I assure you.” She re-positions her finger above the ‘Send’ button. “You need to go.”

He reaches over and gently pushes her finger away; she doesn’t resist.

“Hello you,” he says, “So…how much time do I have left?”

“As I’ve stated, we’re finished here.”

“No, I mean, how much time do I have before I meet my bus of death?”

“I’m not allowed to say.”

“But you know. Don’t you? You know.”

“Yes. It’s one of the perks of working for the government. We own the world. We know things.”

“Look, Jane, I hesitate to cash in on our former relationship—”

“What relationship? We met in a bar. You fed me Pad Thai. We fornicated. I fell in love. You disappeared.”

“I behaved badly. I’m really sorry. Now, won’t you agree that it takes a big man to admit a fault like that,” he leans in like a used-car salesman, “and now that I’ve admitted to being a jerk…is there any way, any way at all, of renegotiating the time of my death to, say 40, 50—okay, 60 years from now?

“As a matter of fact, there is,” she says, and offers him a duplicitous smile.

Almost, almost, he’s thinking, almost. Time for the dental charm ball. It’s what he’s known for. He smiles–so open-mouthed it hurts–and aims his teeth directly at her eyes.

“Well?” he says.

“It’s against the rules,” she says, blinking.

“I’ve made my living breaking rules,” he says through strobe-lit teeth. “C’mon, I’m sure you’ve broken a few. Rules, that is.”

“I have not.”

“There’s always a first—”

“That’s what you said three years ago.”

“But three years ago, I was an idiot. I didn’t know what true love was…er, is.”

“True love is immortal.”

“I agree. Let me prove it to you. If you’d only—”

“If I’d only what?”

“If you’d only see that I’m serious–”

“Seriously deranged!”

“Please, no, all I want to do is fornicate you…I mean, won’t you marry me. I love you.”

One by one the bones in Lady Jane’s vertebrae meld into one long, erect steel pole, forcing her chin upward to where it is now the highest point on her body. She stares at Nick from on high; stares at him like he’s that stupid poodle who isn’t getting the trick.

“Now, now, we mustn’t lie.”

“I’m not lying. I love you. I didn’t know it then, but I know it now. Marry me.”

She turns on her high-beams; the glare knocks Nick’s head back a couple of inches.

“I accept,” she says rather quickly.

Nick feels the weight of imminent death shatter and fall, like a used, discarded crucifix. He envisions a small, tidy wedding, not too many witnesses. A swift honeymoon in the Poconos, loads of sex, then two, maybe three years in, an amicable divorce wherein she gets his CD collection but he gets to live to be Ninety-Seven. Maybe more. Overflowing with gratitude, Nick leaps forward, grabs Lady Jane’s head like it’s a gift he’s always wanted but never got, and kisses her forehead.

She pushes him back onto his chair. “We’ll have plenty of time for that,” she says. Her eyes holding Nick in place, she unbuttons the top button of her blouse, reaches in and pulls out a long silver chain holding a shiny key. She swivels right, unlocks her bottom drawer and bends over, out of view. She sits up after a couple of seconds, holding an impossibly thick binder. The thud it makes when it lands on her desk is that of a severed head dropping next to a guillotine.

The thick binder, lovingly covered in pink satin with matching lace trim, looks to be about 20 years old. “My Special Day” is hand-embroidered on the cover page in frilly curlicue stitches.

Nick stares at it, open-mouthed.

“Open it,” she says firmly.

“You must have started this when you were in Kindergarten—”   

“Please! Open it … darling,” she says. He opens it. An assortment of tabs staggered up the right side designate chapters: Churches, Caterers, Bands, Bakeries. He flips to the chapter holding samples of napkins and table linens.

“I’ve opted for eggshell tablecloths and deep navy blue napkins so our guests who opt for somber wear won’t be covered in lint,” she says. “Keep going.”

He flips a heavy page to reveal an array of miniature wedding veils spread across two pages.

“It’s between numbers three or seven,” she says, then adds, “Keep going.” 

He turns the page. Dozens of china and flatware brochures.

“You can skip them. We’ve chosen Blue Willow.”

Nick turns another page and an entire wedding dress unfolds and rolls out onto his lap.

“You mustn’t peek,” she admonishes, “You’re Chapter 14.”

Lady Jane flaps the pages over to Chapter Fourteen.

“Tuxedos. All you have to do is choose one,” she says, “I find number four suitable.” She turns more pages. “Chapter Fifteen is our vows. We won’t need Chapters Sixteen and Seventeen for a while. Gynecologists. Day-Cares.”

Nick’s eyes fill with blood-wet fear.

“Okay, look. I’m all for marriage—”

“You appear a tad nervous,” She flips the pages. “Not to worry. Here’s our prenuptial.”

“Okay … okay … okay … but—”

“But what?”

He stands, befogged.

“But I—I—look—I—I don’t know what to say—It’s a bit of of the blue—I think maybe we should take our time—I mean—why don’t you do what you need to do to delay my bus of death, and I’ll stop by tomorrow, take you to lunch, and then we can start making plans. If that’s all right with you?”

“It is,” she says, and adds with a brutal finality, “and it isn’t.” She refolds her wedding dress and carefully places it back inside her “My Special Day” binder.  She closes the book, lifts it with a grunt, and drops it back into its hole. She locks the drawer, tucks the key back inside her blouse, buttons her top button. She pauses long enough to catch her breath; then with a face full of shame, anger, and regret, she raises her right hand, index finger extended, and with a pathetic little whimper, presses, ‘Send.’

He can’t allow this moment to pass; he can fix it; he knows he can fix it. He gets down on one knee and flashes the biggest smile of his life, “But, I love you. I’m – ”

“Next!” she calls out.

Outside on the cold, damp, unpleasant pavement, the pain of what-could-have-been hits him fully and strong. He remembers her velvety skin, her tinkling laugh, the kitten-like mews she made when they screwed. He remembers the tiny twinge of regret he felt when he deleted her number. He reaches for his car keys and remembers he sold his car to pay his dental hygienist. He walks to the curb, sits on the nearest bench, and waits for his bus.