A storm was brewing for hours. It finally broke with an ear splitting bolt of lightning that flashed across the sky, followed by a thunderous roar.
All of a sudden there was a loud single paradiddle knock at the door. I called to my wife, “Honey, please see who it is."
She opened the door and a skinless spirit-like stranger appeared wearing a long black robe with a hood, and holding a tall scythe. He announced, "I'm the Grim Reaper--I'm here for your husband.”
"Bernie, there's someone here for you," she shouted.
"Tell them to come in," I said.
My wife warmly invited the stranger to enter. "Can I take your robe and scythe?" she asked.
"No thank you--I don't intend to be here long."
"My goodness, you look like a bag of bare bones--let me get you something to eat."
"That's very kind of you, but it won't be necessary. Besides, everything I eat goes right through me."
When I first saw the Reaper I started trembling and asked (as if I didn't know), "What can I do for you?"
"It's time, Bernie," he answered, "I've been given instructions to take you home."
"But this is my home," I said. "I don't want to leave. Besides, I’m the drummer and leader in a new big jazz band—we’re due to make a recording, and we're opening in a famous nightclub in two days —if I went with you it might delay the recording as well as the opening. The musicians in the band need me. Also, my family needs me."
"No one ever wants to come with me, and each one has their own story as to why they don’t want to come, but I've been given my instructions.”
"How can you be certain that I'm the right person?" I asked.
"I was provided with your name, address, and this photo."
When I saw what he called a photo I said, "That's absurd--it's not a photo, it's a mirror. When I look into it all I see is a picture of myself--my reflection."
"Exactly--that's how I know for sure it's you."
"Haven't you ever made a mistake?" I asked.
"There may have been one or two in the far distant past--I can't be certain. My memory is not what it used to be, and it used to be terrible."
"Well, there you have it,” I insisted. "It must be a mistake. I know I haven’t been taking great care of myself, not doing enough exercise and sitting too much. But aside from some pains in my head and chest I’m feeling fine, Also, people are usually taken home when they're in their 80's and older. I'm only 67, and the 60's is the new 50's. I'm positive there's some horrendous mistake."
"That's cute--the 60's is the new 50’s,” commented the Reaper, “but It makes no difference if the 60's was the new 20's--you've been called home. And if it is one of those rare mistakes I can't do anything about it. You have to first present your case to a special committee. Of course, once you come with me, even if the committee agrees it was a mistake there's no way back."
"In that case go back on your own and explain a mistake has been made."
"I'm not empowered to do that. Once I have your name, address, and this mirror that's it. Besides, you're the one claiming there's been a mistake--that's not proof a mistake has been made."
"This whole thing makes no sense. The only picture you have of me is my reflection in a mirror. And you admit there's a possibility, even though remote, that there could be a mistake. Still, I must come with you, and there's no way back even if a mistake has been made."
"Yes, exactly. I'm afraid so."
"This is like a comedy of the absurd," I said. "I'm not ready--I don't want to go--I won't go. I refuse your one-way ticket to Eternityville."
"Most everyone behaves the same way. Eventually they come to realize it's fruitless--when it's time it's time. And Buddy--you're time has come. Please don't make a fuss--my job is hard enough--there's nothing anyone can do."
"Please sit down," I pleaded. "Let's talk this over, man to Reaper."
“Look Bernie, I like you," answered the Reaper, "and I'm a little ahead of schedule, so I'd be happy to take a short time off to discuss the matter."
"Wonderful--would you like a drink?" I asked.
"Actually I would. I don't usually drink spirits, but do you happen to have any alcohol?"
"Of course I do--how about some Johnny Walker Black Label?"
"That would be fine. Just a teeny weeny tiny TRIPLE SCOTCH! And I'll need a mop. Anytime I drink it goes right through me."
"Tell me--what do I call you?” I asked. "Grim, Reaper, Reap?"
"Well, my parents gave me the name of James, but my friends nicknamed me, Grim Jim. You can simply call me Grim."
I said to him, "Grim, there's an important jazz concert that will soon begin on tv, and the band has a fantastic drummer—he’s a personal friend and I've been waiting to watch it. Perhaps we can listen to it together.”
"Bernie, I love music, and I'd like to watch it, but I don't think you're allowing yourself to grasp the gravity of the situation, and why I'm here."
"Let me assure you, Grim, I fully understand the situation--all too well. I'm curious--how did you get your job?"
"Like so many other things in death it's political. As the old saying goes, it's not what you know, it's who you know. Luckily for me the previous Reaper retired, and I had the right connections to get the job."
"Do you actually enjoy what you do?"
"I'll say this--it's a Hell of a lot better than where I was working previously."
"You seem like a reasonable fellow--isn't there anything I can do or say to persuade you to return another day? I'm feeling fine--I just need a little more time to wrap my ahead around the idea that it's all over--from one second to the next--puff!”
“Bernie, I wish I could help, but it's like I said--when it's time it's time. Incidentally, this Scotch is excellent."
I asked him, "Tell me, when were you sent for?"
"Well, I wasn't exactly sent for--I was married, and my wife murdered me, so instead of being sent for you could simply say I was sent-- way ahead of schedule."
"That's terrible--I'm sorry to hear that."
"I assure you I got even with her--I made a special deal--if my wife was sent for much sooner than necessary, and I was allowed to be the Grim Reaper to escort her home, I would work overtime for the next 200 years. I was lucky—consent was given."
"You know, of course,” I said, " that while everyone accepts the inevitability that they'll have a visit from you one day, there are still many who don't believe, or are not sure about the existence of God or a Heaven and Hell."
All of a sudden Grim surprised me when he turned to my wife and asked, "Are you a true believer?"
She answered, "No, I'm an atheist, thank God."
Grim turned back to me with a wry grin on his face commenting, "And you think what I say is absurd."
"There are many different religions--is there one in particular that's right?” I asked. “What about intelligent life on other planets--are we the only human-type creatures in the entire universe? And is there such a thing as reincarnation? If yes, do animals also get reincarnated? And was there really a Big Bang? If so, what was before the Big Bang?"
"You sure don't ask easy questions,” complained the Reaper. “You’re doing my head in. I've never had the opportunity to meet or ask anyone in the know about those questions--I'm too busy 24/7 bringing people home.”
“Well, at least tell me if there’s music where I’m going. As I mentioned I’m a professional drummer—can I play drums there?” Grim explained, “Funnily enough I tried my hand at playing drums when I was a kid, but I never took lessons— I gave it up soon enough. As far as I know there’s only a string section all with harps —I’ve never seen or heard of any drumming or other percussion, but I don’t know for certain. Oh—and as I recall there was some lone guy who played some sort of horn."
All of a sudden there was another loud single paradiddle knock at the door. I called out, "Honey, please see who it is."
My wife opened the door to another strange-looking stranger, wearing a black robe with a hood, and holding a tall scythe.
"I'm the Grim Reaper," he said, "I've come for your husband."
My wife yelled, “Bernie--it's another Grim Reaper--he's come to collect you."
When the first Grim Reaper heard that he rushed to the front door, saw his friend and said, “Harry, what are you doing here?"
"How are you, Jimmy Boy?" he answered, "I haven't seen you in eons. You look great--haven't changed a bit. I was given this address to take home someone named Bernie, and I have my trusty mirror to make sure it's the right person.”
"Something is very wrong, Harry--both of us can't have been sent to the same house. But listen, I have to tell you this guy has some great tasting Scotch."
As they were talking the telephone rang and Bernie's wife answered it. She turned to the first Grim Reaper and said, "It's a call for you--a very long distance call."
The Reaper was somewhat shocked, "A long distance call for me? That is a surprise--I'm never called when I'm out working."
The Reaper picked up the receiver, listened intently to the voice on the other end of the phone, then hung up. His bare bones were creaking and shaking as he turned to Bernie, and in an extremely apologetic voice said, “Bernie, I am so so sorry--you were right after all--apparently there has been a dreadful mistake. New technology was installed a short time ago, and there’s been a glitch in the system. I’m to take home a plumber not a drummer. I’ve been given the wrong address--I'm supposed to go to a different house where there's someone who looks just like you when he looks into my mirror.This is not my fault. And Harry--I was told to tell you to forget it--there was a mixup--you were given the wrong address as well."
As you can imagine I was flabbergasted. I really gave this unwanted visitor a piece of my mind. "I have to tell you, Grim, that you coming into my home could have actually provoked a heart attack and death--then I'd really have to be taken home. You come knocking at my door--you give me some cock-and-bull story about knowing it's me you're here for because you have a picture of me that turns out to be a mirror! Moreover, a second clown looking like a bag of bare bones shows up wanting to take me home as well. I'm going to make an official complaint, but I don't know who or where to write to. I never want to see the likes of either of you again. By the way, people call me Buddy.”
“OK—Bernie or Buddy—whatever you prefer. I can certainly understand why you feel the way you do. As I said, I'm so so sorry, but there's no complaints department to which you can write. Harry and I will leave immediately, but I'm afraid to tell you that you'll definitely have to see the likes of one of us again--I just can't say when.”
(NOTE: Bernard Rich, nicknamed Buddy, was born in 1917. In 1987, Grim the Reaper, returned as he said he would.)