Skippin' the Obits

by frogbook

Sentence Contest Winner

There was a knock on the door.

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I don't read the paper no more. If I subscribe, it just ends up in piles on the floor, and Lord knows, I don't need any more junk. My house borders on hoarding, as it is.

Every time I stop the subscription, I am bombarded with offers of a cheaper price -- they shoulda thought of that before I decided I don't need it no more.

Only problem is, I don't know who dies any more. At my age that could be a bad thing. Hell, might even be me in that obit section, one of these days and I wouldn't even know it!

Sure, I watch the news, but ya gotta be famous to die on the news, or maybe infamous. At least ya gotta die in some fantastic or utterly gross way. Average Joe just passes outta this old world and might not even be noticed. Maybe outside, on the porch swing, if yer lucky, skeleton restin' there picked clean by the magpies.

Then when you miss folks' funerals there are hard feelins', like yer supposed to know by instinct, every time an acquaintance has an arrhythmia.

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Don't know how I know, the knock at the door is my old friend, Sam. I feel darn certain, he ain't happy that I wasn't there to deliver his eulogy. It ain't like I had a ten page, glowin' review of his life, hell we did some purty bad deeds in our younger days.

Oh sure, my instinct kicks in now, when there's a ghost at the door. Maybe I should study up on the ESP, so I can predict those arrhythmias after all. May be too late now, though, dependin' on how pissed ole Sam is.

I guess, I better suck it up and answer the damn door, don't seem like he's gonna just give up and mosey on back to his grave.

I gotta admit I'm a little scared and walkin' even slower than usual when I approach that door. I don't look out the peep hole, cuz I know who's there and I might lose my nerve.

I swing the creaky old thing on its hinges, and low and behold, there he stands, Old Sam. He's always been a skinny one, my friend, but if you can believe it, he is even more gaunt now, eyes and cheeks sunken in hollows, shadows playin' there. He don't look none too happy... course who kin blame him.

He's wearin' his Sunday-go-to-meetin' black suit, almost a tux, his usual red tie, and patent leather loafers. I'm thinkin' this wouldn't be an outfit I'd be likein' to wear for eternity. I'd take an old pair of levis and a soft flannel shirt for the long sleep.

I see that there's some dirt hangin' here and there on the suit and it's a little disgustin' when a few worms cling to the pant legs. Skin of his hands is lookin' a bit green too, and the smell ain't roses.

I see all this in a split second, then he raises his partially skeletal hand towards me. I close my eyes waitin' for the blow.

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I'm sweatin' a bit as I wake up, and I look around quickly, happy to be in my own bed. I need to stop drinkin' that rotgut after midnight. Guess it brings on the guilts and all.

I throw some water on my face and go look at the front door, which is secure and locked. I have to tell ya, I breathe a little sigh of relief .... only thing I can't figure out is those muddy footprints outside.