Darkness Rushes Out of Itself
My internship with Death was unpaid, but sometimes it’s just about the experience. You can’t be afraid to get your hands dirty. Someone on LinkedIn told me that. At least I got a nice recommendation letter out of it.
When I was little, a skunk eroded for six months on the sidewalk outside my house. This was in a big city. Nobody knew anyone’s name. People on my street complained about roadkill, but only the flies tried to clean it up. I’d hopscotch over the skunk every morning and watch it look less and less like something I recognized. Nothing is dust to dust. It’s flesh to bones. It’s flesh to dirt. Flesh to teeth.
Now, I tell interviewers about what it was like to stroke the wing of a sick bird and slow its tiny, frantic lungs. To close the eyes of a flower, fold the earth over a slug. Most deer die in the fall. The average horse lives thirty years. My first day on the job, I was sent to the killing floor of a meat plant. Once the cows were stunned by the hammer, I’d stroke their ears and walk them forward. I’d make soft sounds that were almost words, hoping they’d understand. I’m not sure they heard me. They were mostly following my eyes.
People were more difficult, especially the ones who went suddenly. They had questions about insurance policies. They had regrets, usually involving the last person they had spoken to. They wanted to turn around. I leaned on my customer service training, though I didn’t have much to offer but bad news. The old ones were easier because they weren’t surprised to see me. A lot of them called me angel. A few of them called me Mother.
I haven’t had much luck since my internship ended. I came very close to landing the last job I interviewed for, but they wanted someone with more sales experience. To soften the blow, the hiring manager emailed me and said I was going places. You’re not afraid to pay your dues, he said. I think that’s true.
Death worked long hours, and so did I. Nights, weekends, national bank holidays. She usually took a small lunch break a little before 2am. Not as many people die at midnight as you might expect.
The internship had a high turnover rate. People burned out fast. Some of them found out the suggestion box was just for decoration. Some of them talked about unionizing and were served cease and desists. I tried to stay out of it. I was Employee of the Month five months out of six. I was sort of a natural. I’d spent most of my life imagining what it would feel like to be buried alive.
Before I met her, I heard that Death was the great equalizer. It would be nice if that was true. This is off the record.
We’d follow the shaking of bombs and gunfire and always arrive on the scene a little late. It all happened so fast. When we got there, they’d already be waiting in line. I wasn’t allowed to take the children. It was too delicate, Death would tell me. I wasn’t ready. There’s a very specific way to do it. You have to hold the babies like you’re trying to warm a frozen egg. You have to rock them until they fall asleep and keep rocking them until they learn to dream.
She only asked me one question before hiring me. She didn’t even glance at my resume. She leaned forward a little, smiling, like we were old friends. Maybe we were. Her office had lots of walls that might have been windows. She wore the same beige suit that my uncle wore to his coffin.
How do you think it feels? she asked.
I thought about the roadkill skunk. It probably never even heard the impact of the car.
Maybe dying felt like something warm.
No, she said sternly, before I could answer. Not what you want it to be like. How do you think it really feels?
Sophie Hoss loves the ocean and is in bed by 9pm every night. She has received a Pushcart Prize, and her words are scattered around in BOMB Magazine, The Baffler, Ninth Letter, Wigleaf, and elsewhere. Also, she has a small dog named Elmo who likes to wear little sweaters. You can read more of her work at sophiehosswriting.com.