Inquire Within
I was at the end of my emotional and financial rope. It had been almost a year since I’d lost my job, and the daily search of the want ads in the newspaper continued to prove a waste of time. With the economy in such a sad state the ratio of job-seekers to jobs was about 300-1. I dropped off my resume at every employment agency in town and left with the hollow assurance they would “call if something in your field comes up.” My “field” had greatly expanded to include dishwasher, newspaper delivery, and just about anything else I was physically able to do.
My pride vanished about the same time as my savings. Here I was, 45 years old, divorced, broke, with no job prospects in sight. Calls from creditors became a game of seeing who could be the nastiest before I’d hang up. I’d considered having the phone turned off, but decided that wouldn’t be such a good idea if I was trying to get a job. Even though I was careful about checking the caller ID before I answered, they’d figure clever little ways around that. The phone and rent were necessary expenses. Unemployment barely covered those, and I was already two weeks late with the rent.
Feeling more than the usual dejection and rejection as I sloshed through the pouring rain to my apartment after another day of job-hunting, my attention was drawn to a hand as it poked from behind a curtain and put a sign in the window of an ornately decorated building. “Position Available. Inquire Within.”
There was no name on the building to indicate what kind of business it was. Although I was exhausted and my feet screamed for mercy, I looked upon this serendipitous event with a flutter of excitement at the possibility I could be the first to “inquire within.” Maybe my luck was about to change for the better.
After a quick glimpse at my reflection in the window to be sure I still looked reasonably professional, I opened the wrought-iron door and stepped inside.
The first thing I noticed was the smell: dusty. The next thing I noticed was the lighting: barely any.
I’d just about convinced myself that this might not be the golden opportunity I first imagined, when a voice crackled out of nowhere: “Welcome. Please have a seat. I will be with you presently. Please make yourself comfortable.”
Old. Creaky old. Dusty. Definitely male. Then an audible click, followed by somber-sounding music that reminded me of my childhood and all the Sundays I spent kneeling on a barely-padded rail at Mass, apologizing for things I hadn’t done. My knees still ached at the memory.
My eyes now accustomed to the dim-lit room, I saw there wasn’t much in the way of furnishings. A desk and swivel chair, and old-fashioned winged-back chair facing it were in the center of the room. The desk was clean with the exception of a calendar. The one-page-per-day kind with quaint thoughts supposed to be inspirational, but are usually just sappy.
The main source of light came from an antique-looking lamp on the desk; the only other light came from the two small windows on the street side of the room. A large oak bookcase against the wall contained a collection of leather-bound books with titles I didn’t recognize. There were three framed pictures on one wall; typical landscapes without much color. Other than the entrance door I came through, the only other door was at the back of the room.
I still saw nothing to indicate what kind of a company it was. No literature, no signage. No business cards on the desk. Nothing. The room was totally devoid of any hint as to the nature of the business.
As I sat down in the wing-backed chair, the urge to leave overcame me once again.
But, I resisted that urge and sat back in the chair and waited. And waited. Finally, the door at the rear of the room opened and a very old man shuffled in, dressed in a black suit and looking very much like a character from Night of the Living Dead. He struggled to sit in the chair behind the desk and then put on a pair of very old wire-framed glasses. I guessed him to be well over 6’ tall. His white hair fell in wispy strands across his forehead.
Finally, he spoke.
“I’m sorry for the delay in greeting you,” he croaked. “My manners aren’t generally so lacking. Please forgive me. Another matter arose that required my immediate attention.”
I assured him that it was not a problem and waited for him to continue. As he spoke, I thought he was quite possibly the oldest person I had ever seen. You could clearly see his veins beneath the tissue-paper-like skin of his gnarled hands. It was almost a distraction. But I forced myself to focus.
“You are no doubt wondering as to the nature of the position available. I’m in the public relations business. And as you can see, my years are many and I have found the tasks required of me to exceed my energies. Indeed, I am no longer as thorough as I once was. Therefore, I have decided to retire, so to speak, and am hopeful of finding someone to carry on in my stead.”
“What type of public relations? Exactly.”
“I provide a service to those who have found themselves at a turning point in their lives and require assistance in bridging the “gap” between their old and new lives. Relocating is a good way to define it. For some individuals, moving to the next stage of their life can be a particularly trying and unsettling experience.
“Again, I apologize. I have failed to introduce myself. I am Hirem G. Trepare, at your service. And may I inquire as to your name, sir?”
“Fitzgerald. Andrew Fitzgerald,” I replied, becoming more and more curious about this odd man.
“Mr. Fitzgerald. It is indeed my pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir. Now, can you tell me a bit about yourself? Do you like working with people? Helping them? Does it bother you to deal with people in distress, let’s say.”
I quickly rifled through my memory banks to try and come up with an impressive anecdote to demonstrate my stellar “people” skills, but when none immediately presented itself, I could only offer “Oh yes. I’m very good with people. People like me. I like them. Just the other day, I helped my neighbor find his cat which had escaped .” I immediately felt ridiculous. It was stupid and a lie, but it was the best I could do under pressure. A kind of verbal performance anxiety, I guess.
What I found strange was, the old man never took any notes. He never wrote anything down. I couldn’t decide if this was good or bad sign. The whole thing had me thoroughly mystified. And more than a little intrigued.
“There is considerable travel involved, I’m afraid. And the hours can be quite irregular. Would this present a difficulty for you, Mr. Fitzgerald?”
Now, ordinarily, I liked to keep regular work hours, but the situation I’d been in for the past 11 months was anything BUT ordinary. Besides, I really didn’t really have a lot going on in my life. And what the hell, it wasn’t as if I’d have to do it forever.
“Not an issue for me. No.”
“Excellent. Of course, I will accompany you on your visits for a period of time until you get accustomed to it. I find it’s best to jump right in and learn as you go. Each case is different, so there really isn’t a lot of training to do to prepare.”
The old man didn’t offer much in the way of details, but there didn’t appear to be a whole lot to it; just helping people with relocation issues. He asked about my family, and I explained that I was divorced and had no close relatives. He seemed pleased at that and said it would probably make it easier to adapt to the irregular hours and travel.
He talked about how satisfying the position was for him, and that he hoped I would feel the same. He didn’t really want to retire, but his advanced age was making it difficult to travel. Apparently, he had gone to the wrong address a few times, and it had caused a lot of problems getting the person resituated.
He described the work a little more, mostly telling how much he enjoyed helping people and how at first some of them resisted his instructions. But in the end they always understood his methods and thanked him for his help.
Finally, there didn’t seem to be anything more to ask. Except for the salary. And I waited for what seemed a good time to bring up the subject. But he must have anticipated the question because he leaned back in his chair with his fingers clasped in front of him and said, “I expect you’re wondering about compensation. I’m sure you will find the salary quite generous. And we offer a very comprehensive medical plan.“
I waited to hear more about this “generous salary.”
“As I said, the salary is quite generous. You will be earning $10,000 per month. And, as I mentioned, your medical expenses will be completely taken care of.”
I tried to keep my composure. Ten grand??? Per MONTH???? I hadn’t made anywhere NEAR that. EVER. When I got my senses back, I thought: Wait a minute. Did I hear him right? He must have meant per year….
He must have read my mind because before I could say another word, he said: “That’s right. $10,000 per month. And, yes, I assure you it is completely legitimate. We have been in this business for many, many years.”
I have to admit that at this point, my mind was focusing on the ten grand. I’d already decided the first thing I was going to do was move out of the dump of a studio I was in. Then another thought struck me: How was I going to travel? I’d had to sell my car months ago. Couldn’t afford the insurance or the gas.
Again, it was like he read my thoughts.
“Oh, yes, one more thing. Your transportation will of course be provided to you.”
I sat there, trying to soak it all in. Almost expecting to find it was all a dream. Or some kind of huge cosmic joke.
“I’m sorry that I can’t give you more time to make your decision. But I’m afraid I will have to ask for your response immediately. I have other pressing obligations to attend to elsewhere. Will this present a problem for you?”
A problem for ME? For 10 grand a month I should have more problems like that! For a split second, I wondered why he wasn’t asking for a resume, or application, or even references. But then I figured, that was his problem.
“Not at all,” I replied, resisting the urge to leap across the desk and hug the old geezer. “It sounds like something that will fit right into my life.”
“Excellent! That’s excellent indeed! I’m very pleased that you’ve decided to join me. I’m confident you will find this position very enlightening. A whole new world will open for you. Would you be able to begin immediately?”
I assured him I would.
The old man sat forward in his chair and said, “Mr. Fitzgerald, I cannot describe to you how pleased I am with your decision. And if you wouldn’t find it objectionable, would you like to join me in a toast as a way of memorializing your decision?”
“Sure. It will be the perfect ending to the day,” I replied.
“I will return momentarily. I do hope that scotch will be to your liking? I’m afraid it’s all I have.” He grinned in an oddly creepy way as he rose from the chair, shuffled across the floor, and left the room.
My inner alert system was blinded by flashing dollar signs, so I failed to notice the red flags waving frantically in my head. And I brushed off the initial urge to flee that had come over me when I first entered the room. My mind just kept going back to the 10 grand.
He came back into the room carrying a silver tray with an ornate crystal-looking decanter and two matching glasses. He placed the tray on the table and sat down, then poured the scotch into each glass.
“Here’s to your new position, Mr. Fitzgerald. I look forward to mentoring you.”
We clinked our glasses and downed the scotch in one motion. Then that creepy smile flitted across his face again.
Suddenly, it felt as if someone had turned up the heat in the room. And my eyes began to blur.
“Are you feeling unwell, Mr. Fitzgerald? You appear quite flushed.”
“Actually, it seems to have gotten warmer in here all of the sudden. Perhaps I should just get some fresh air. I’m fine, really. Probably the scotch on an empty stomach. Maybe that wasn’t such a good idea, after all.”
“Oh, dear, Mr. Fitzgerald. I’m so sorry. I’m afraid your distress is my doing. Perhaps you would like to lie down in the back room for a few moments until it passes?”
“Thanks, but I think I’ll just step outside and get some air.” I tried to stand, but my feet and legs felt like Jell-O.
“Let me assist you, Mr. Fitzgerald,” croaked the old man as he came around the desk to my chair. “I really do insist that you lie down for a bit. I wouldn’t want to be responsible for anything unfortunate happening to you.” And with that, he grabbed my arm and propelled me to the door at the back of the room. The first thing I noticed was he was awfully strong for such a scrawny old geezer.
My head was seriously swimming by this time. I could barely see. And my heart began to pound furiously. Suddenly, with what little conscious thought I had left, I realized this was more than alcohol on an empty stomach. I was getting weaker by the minute.
The old man continued to maneuver me into the back room. By now, he was practically carrying me as he laid me down on a cot in the corner. My weak attempts at resistance were useless. I could not move. I could hear the old man shuffling around the room, and then felt him standing over me. With my blurred vision, I could barely make out his shape. And his voice echoed as if we were in a tunnel. My arm flailed at the vision, but grasped nothing but empty air.
“Mr. Fitzgerald, I’m afraid I haven’t been entirely forthcoming with the details about your new position. It is my task to accompany those who are leaving this life and going to the next. Relocating, as I believe I described it. While everything I told you is true, I neglected to mention that in order for me to retire, it is necessary for me to find a replacement among the living.
“So, you see, I have selected you. It is useless for you to resist. The fatal potion will take effect fully in just a few moments. At which time, life as you know it will terminate and I shall escort you to the next plane to begin your training.
“Just one other thing, Mr. Fitzgerald….remember I mentioned those unfortunate situations where I found myself at the wrong location? People refer to those as near-death experiences. Sadly, they have become a reflection upon my abilities, which is the reason I am being forced to retire. I trust you will not be making the same errors.”
I could feel my heartbeat slowing. At first I wondered how he could have poisoned me when we both drank from the same decanter. Then it hit me: He was already dead. Little by little, I felt life leaving my body, starting with my feet and working its way to my brain.
Finally, I closed my eyes. Then, suddenly, I found myself at the end of a tunnel in front of a brilliant white light. And true to his word, next to me stood Hirem G. Trepare: The Grim Reaper, Retired.
