Four Short Steps

By:  Kel

Kelingtyn@yahoo.com

 

“Who the hell are you?!?” 

 

Brandon Jeffries III jumped back in horrified amazement at the figure standing before him.  Right there in front of him where no figure had existed a scant three seconds earlier.  A figure which didn’t seem nearly as surprised to see him as Brandon himself was, at least, he didn’t seem surprised.  He merely stared at him with a somewhat bemused and bored expression on his face as though he were completely used to materializing out of thin air and having perfect strangers question his existence. 

 

“Sorry,” the figure said blandly, ignoring Brandon’s question.  “I wasn’t expecting anyone.  Technically I’m off duty and this portal’s closed.  Still, you are here and since I’m the only one around…” he let his voice trail off and regarded Brandon with one raised eyebrow. 

 

“You know, you shouldn’t sneak up on people like that,” Brandon grumbled, disregarding both the incomprehensible words and the frankly appraising look.  “You could give them a heart attack.”

 

“Rather redundant, don’t you think?” the figure inquired dryly.  “Besides,” he continued, shrugging his somewhat translucent shoulders.  “I didn’t sneak up on you.  ‘Sneaking up on you’ would imply that I was behind you when in fact I am standing right in front of you.  No “sneaking” about it.”  He shrugged again.  “Now what’s your name?” he inquired idly.

 

“Brandon Jeffries III,” Brandon replied automatically.  “Hey!  But! ---where did that come from?” he demanded, his attention caught by the clipboard the figure held, rifling through its pages in a somewhat idle fashion. 

 

“Jeffries, Jeffries,” it muttered.  “Hmm.  Don’t see you here.”  He continued moving pages back and forth, scanning them quickly and paying no attention to the sputtering coming from the man before him.  He finally made a dismissive gesture with his hand.  “No matter,” he said and Brandon watched as the clipboard abruptly disappeared.  “Happens sometimes you know,” the figure continued.  “People just show up out of the blue.  Although,” he mused “’People’ might not be the most appropriate word considering the circumstances…”

 

Brandon Jeffries III took a long, deep breath and released it slowly.  “I don’t know who you are,” he said carefully, holding his hands in front of him as though to keep the figure at bay.  “And I don’t know where I am, exactly.  But if it’s all the same to you,” he continued, taking one careful step backward, “I think I’ll just be going now.”  Brandon followed his first step with one more, keeping his eyes locked on the figure in front of him.  He reached one hand out behind him, continuing to move quietly while his fingers stretched toward the doorknob he knew existed.  After all, he’d only just gone through the door, closed it behind him and taken exactly three steps forward before this---this---“thing” had appeared and nearly caused his early demise.

 

Three steps.  Four.  Five.  “I’m afraid it’s not there,” the figure said, not unkindly. 

 

“What’s not there?” Brandon demanded, still putting one foot carefully behind the other.  Funny how the distance between him and his host didn’t seem to be increasing at all.

 

“What you’re looking for,” the figure replied.  “The door,” he continued helpfully when Brandon continued to take measured steps backwards.  “It disappears as soon as you step through it,” he explained.

 

“It most certainly does not!” Brandon replied hotly, but coming to a standstill.  “I’ve gone through that door hundreds of times.  I distinctly remember closing it behind me and I heard it click.  Besides,” he continued.  “Doors simply do not disappear.”

 

“Oh but you see, this one does,” the figure assured him.  “Look for yourself.”  He nodded helpfully to some point beyond Brandon’s left shoulder.  “It’s all right,” he assured him.  “You can turn around and look.  I promise I won’t move a step.”  He made a quick crossing motion with his index finger in front of his chest. 

 

Brandon looked at him suspiciously.  “Why should I believe you?” he asked. 

 

The figure gave a long suffering sigh.  “Believe me or don’t believe me; it really doesn’t change anything.  The door is not there, does not exist and we can stand here for another millennium if you want to and it still won’t exist.”

 

Brandon folded his arms tightly in front of him and continued to stare at the figure.  “You are making absolutely no sense whatsoever,” he said loftily. 

 

“All right.  Then let’s try it this way, shall we?  You agree that you can see me?” the figure asked.

 

“Of course I can see you!” Brandon snapped.

 

“Good,” the figure said, ignoring Brandon’s petulance.  “Then if I take two steps to my left, would you agree that you can still see me?”

 

Brandon rolled his eyes.  “Yes” he said stiffly.

 

“Good!” the figure said briskly.  “Then I am going to continue to take two steps at a time until I am standing behind you.  You will continue to turn with me until you are staring at the point which is currently at your back.  When we finish I will be standing in front of you and the door.  Which isn’t there anymore,” he added.  “Right,” he continued when Brandon didn’t answer.  “Here we go then,” he said cheerfully, taking two careful steps left and forward and making sure Brandon turned with him.  Two steps at a time they worked their way around the half circle until Brandon was staring at---the wall.  The wall where only a few minutes before there had been a door.

 

There *had* been a door, hadn’t there?  He remembered.  He’d been sitting at his kitchen table and then it was time to leave for work.  He’d stood up, walked to the door, grasped the handle, turned it and stepped into---here.  Not his garage at all----not the dim, cavernous room which smelled slightly of gasoline and motor oil and housed his lawn mower and snow blower and various and sundry garden tools.  Not there at all, but here---in this room which wasn’t exactly a room now that he looked at it closely.  There were walls but---they weren’t exactly walls.  They seemed to fade in and out of existence.  No, that wasn’t quite right.  They were *there* but---not quite.  They were real but---not.  Something existed beyond them but---not really. 

 

He shook his head to clear it and heard the figure saying “Yes, yes, I know.  It’s there and it’s not there, you’re here and you’re not here, you weren’t here at all, you were there and you simply don’t understand.” 

 

“I---but I was just thinking---I wasn’t talking,” Brandon stumbled over his words.  “How did you hear---?”

 

“Oh don’t worry, I can’t read your mind.  It’s just that I’ve heard it all before you know.  As a general rule most of you aren’t all that different from one another.  Your reactions are all pretty much the same.”

 

“But I don’t understand,” Brandon said patiently.  “How can a door that was there suddenly not be there?  It’s not possible.  There are laws.  Of physics and things,” he ended vaguely.

 

“Oh dear heaven, you’re one of those logical types aren’t you? the figure asked.  “Your type always makes it so much more difficult on yourselves.”  He shook his head.  “Well, let me try to explain.  Once you go through the door, it disappears.  It’s quite simple really.”  He paused and, sighing at Brandon’s blank expression, tried again.  “You’ve passed over,” he said.

 

“Passed over *what*?” Brandon demanded.

 

“The border?  The veil?  Just---you know---*over*” the figure gestured vaguely.  “Gone beyond.”

 

“Beyond---?” Brandon let his voice trail off in questioning encouragement.

 

“Beyond---oh, beyond whatever it is you call it.  I believe most of you call it “passing on” or something like that.”

 

The figure watched as Brandon’s face squinched itself up in an effort to understand.  His eyes narrowed, eyebrows lowered and then shot straight up again in comically horrified realization.

 

“You mean I’m DEAD?” 

 

“Oh please don’t shout.  Not that it really matters since I can’t exactly hear anyway---or at least not in the way that you hear.  Could hear.  Used to hear,” he corrected himself.  “And “dead” is such a crass way to put it,” he continued.  “Particularly when you don’t understand the meaning of the word anyway,” he grumbled.  “I cannot tell you how much education I have to do with the newly departed.  And I assure you, when I took this job no one told me I would have to hold your hands and say “there, there” and “it’s all right” and make soothing noises.  And it’s not like I actually get compensated for it.  I’m simply the gatekeeper; no one said a word about needing to be compassionate.”  The figure glared at Brandon and then seemed to collect himself.

 

“Oh all right,” he sighed.  “Go ahead.  Get on with it.”  He schooled his features into what he thought was an appropriate expression of sympathy and waited. 

 

“Get on with what?” Brandon asked.

 

“The usual.  Wailing, moaning, gnashing of teeth.  Go ahead, it’s all right,” he encouraged.  “Get it out of your system.”

 

Brandon stared at the figure for a long moment and then seemed to slump into himself.  He sat down abruptly, beyond surprise at the chair that materialized under him as he sank into its soft folds. 

 

“So it’s all real?” he finally asked softly. 

 

“Well, “real” is a relative term” the figure replied cautiously.  “It’s not “real” as you used to know “real” but it’s “real” in the sense of what you know now.  Or will know,” he added “as soon as you’ve had a bit of time to get used to it.”

 

“My head is going to explode,” Brandon mumbled into the hands that were covering his face.  “Not that that would make much difference now, I don’t suppose,” he added with a slightly hysterical laugh.

 

“Okay,” he started again, trying to collect the wits he’d apparently left in his kitchen.  “Let’s not try to define ‘real’.  Let’s just assume we know what it means and continue on from there.  So.  You.  Are you---Death?” Brandon winced as he said the word.

 

“Oh goodness no!” the figure exclaimed.  “I’m just a gatekeeper.  One of hundreds, actually.  I mean, do you know how many people we serve every day?” he demanded.

 

“No, and frankly I’m not really interested in statistics at the moment,” Brandon shot back.  “I want to know exactly where I am, I want to know if there is a---a---*being*---named Death and I want to know what’s going to happen next and I want to know all of those things *right* now!”

 

“Well there’s no need to get huffy about it,” the figure reproved.  “There’s no hurry.  It’s not as though you’ve a schedule to keep anymore,” he reminded him.  “Now, to your questions:  first,” the figure held up one finger “you are in Transition.  You are no longer a part of the world that you knew but you’ve not yet entered the new one.  Everyone comes here although the portal varies.  Sometimes it’s the process of getting into a car, or stepping through a train turnstile, or simply walking from one room to the next.  One second you’re in the dining room, say, and you take a step over the threshold into what should be your sitting room but it’s not your sitting room at all, it’s Transition.”  The figure smiled broadly as though that explained everything to complete satisfaction.  “You simply chose the garage.  Not exactly glamorous, but it happens.”

 

The figure held up two fingers and continued “Yes, there is a Being named Death.  I don’t know why that should be such a surprise to you.  This is a huge operation; someone has to be in charge.  He’s quite good at it, actually,” the figure mused.  “Very organized and all.”

 

“And---and does he wear the black robes?” Brandon asked sarcasm evident in his voice.   “And carry a scythe?”

 

“Oh goodness no!” the figure laughed.  “That’s just folklore, fairy tales,” he said dismissively.  “Nobody wears black---that went out with the Dark Ages.”  He laughed uproariously and it echoed in Brandon’s head and then abruptly stopped.  “Wearing black---Dark Ages---get it?  Oh never mind” the figure grumbled.  “Death does not wear black and he does not carry scythe.  He wears Armani suits and carries a leather briefcase.  He’s quite a nice guy actually,” the figure continued.  “Gives us all a bonus once a year and never forgets our birthdays.”

 

“You have a birthday?” Brandon’s voice was faint.

 

“Of course.  Just because someone is dead doesn’t mean they stop aging,” he pointed out.

 

“Right.  Of course not.  I’m just being ridiculous,” Brandon said.

 

“Glad to see you’re getting it!” the figure said jovially.  “There might be hope for you yet.  You know, we could always use a good gatekeeper.”  The figure eyed him appraisingly.  “You might do, you know.  We could use you with the Logic types.  Like talking to like, you know.”

 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Brandon said flatly.  “Stop changing the subject and answer my question!”

 

“I am answering it,” the figure replied.  “But I do have to tell you I don’t particularly appreciate your tone.  I’m doing the best I can with you but I’ve already told you, no one said I had to cultivate compassion.  It simply wasn’t in the job description!  But---as for what happens next, that’s what I’m trying to tell you.  You get a job.  After we’re done I’ll talk to Death and see----“

 

“You’ll talk to Death?”  Brandon cut him off abruptly.  “You mean he’s here?”

“Of course he’s here.”  The figure jerked his head toward the door that materialized behind him.  “That’s his office and it *is* a workday, you know.”

 

Brandon jumped to his feet and started toward the door.

 

“What do you think you’re doing?” The figure hurled itself in front of Brandon.

 

“Get out of the way,” Brandon snarled.  “This is all some ghastly mistake and if the person in charge is here then I demand to talk to him.  Right now,” he added, pushing the figure’s shoulder to make him move.

 

But the figure didn’t move and Brandon’s hand simply passed through what felt like air.  Cold air, granted, but air nonetheless.

 

“That is not a very nice thing to do,” the figure said coldly.  “I realize it’s all well and good to need to prove to yourself that I don’t really exist or at least that I don’t really have a body.  But you could just ask you know.  I’ve no problem with people having questions, I’m more than happy to discuss anything you like but I consider it incredibly bad manners to simply push through someone.  I have been very patient with you, all things considered, and I think you owe me an apology.”

 

Brandon’s gaze went from the stern face of the figure to the place where his arm abruptly vanished into a shoulder.  He slowly pulled his arm back and it was suddenly warm again.  He blushed slightly.  “I do beg your pardon,” he said softly.  “I’m not myself at the moment,” he added.  “But, I really do want to see him,” he insisted.

 

The figure regarded him silently for a long moment.  “Are you sure you want to go through that door?” he asked softly.

 

Brandon raised his eyes to the darker eyes of the figure before him and took in the serious, stern countenance.  “You’re the fourteen thousandth, six hundred and forty seventh person to come through my particular threshold,” the figure continued.  “Of those, three thousand sixty two have asked for an audience, two hundred fourteen have been granted an interview and thirteen have had their cases reviewed.  Only two decisions were ever reversed.”  The figure paused and then continued.  “I don’t think those are very good odds,” he said gently.

 

“But two were reversed!” Brandon pointed out.  “Why shouldn’t I be the third one?  It’s a slim chance but it’s still a chance” he argued.  “I’ve played horses with odds just as bad.”

 

“And did you win?” the figure asked softly.

 

The question hung thickly between them until Brandon closed his eyes against the gentle understanding in the figure’s face.  “No,” he admitted.  “I didn’t win.  But---I don’t want this.”  His voice was pleading.  “I just---I was just going to work, just like I do every day and I don’t---want it to be any different; there’s no reason for it,” he finished, his voice trembling and catching in a half sob. 

 

The figure regarded the man before him.  Brandon looked so very lost and so---dejected.  Frightened, even.   He sighed silently.  Compassion.  He could do compassion.  He found himself suddenly wanting to help this man who seemed so shocked that the ground underneath his feet was no longer solid.   Never really had been solid but that wasn’t something he was going to point out at present.

 

“Nothing’s going to change, is it?” Brandon asked, realization beginning to tinge the outer circle of his words.  “I could go in there and I could beg and plead and I’d still be here.  And the door really has disappeared.  Completely.”

 

The figure nodded silently.  “You know,” he said softly, putting an arm around Brandon’s shoulders and urging him down with him onto the chair which inexplicably arranged itself into a sofa, “it’s going to be all right.  I promise.”  Brandon didn’t think to wonder at how the figure’s arm managed to stay solid and warm against him, he merely held onto the gesture of comfort and let himself shift closer to the sudden warmth.  “Everything’s going to work out,” the figure crooned softly.  “I’ll stay with you.”

 

“What---what comes next?” Brandon finally asked his voice barely above a whisper.

 

“What comes next is just---what comes next,” the figure replied.  “It won’t be bad,” he assured him.  “It never is.  But I’ll go with you.  And for now, we can just sit here as long as you like.  There’s no hurry.  After all, we’ve all---“

 

“---the time in the world,” Brandon finished.  “Yes,” he mused softly.  “I think I’m beginning to understand that.” 

 

They sat together for a long time, the figure’s hand gently carding through Brandon’s hair.  The perfect quiet of the room surrounded them, not even the rhythmic sound of breathing breaking through the stillness.  Finally Brandon sighed and looked up into the figure’s face.  He tried a brave smile.  “I think I’m ready,” he said softly. 

 

The figure nodded and stood, pulling Brandon to his feet.  The door in front of them swung open with silent invitation and, still holding tightly to the hand that anchored him, Brandon and the figure stepped across the threshold.

*************************************************

 

“Jesus,” the man at the table muttered, staring into the half-empty coffee cup.  He shook his head hard as though to clear it and then continued to stare into the cooling liquid.  “God,” he continued, “what a nightmare.”  He sat for a long time at the table, grasping at scraps of the dream that seemed so real---doors that opened and closed at will, Death in an Armani suit, and over all of it the warm fragments of a conversation just out of reach.  Then with a decisive shake of his head, Brandon Jeffries III stood up and pushed his cup away from him.  He straightened his tie, picked his keys up from the table and made his way across the room.  He grasped the knob, turned it resolutely and pushed. The garage opened before him; his car only four short steps away.  He took a deep breath, stepped across the threshold and pulled the door firmly shut behind him. 

 

The End