The dark figure strode purposefully toward the softly glowing front gate of the Afterlife. Its eyes were black holes that could tug your soul away from you. Its face was hewn from the same black granite as the sarcophagi of the pharaohs. The cloak that hid its body was woven from threads of the night sky and the nothingness of non-existence. When it opened its mouth, it spoke in the deep menacing rumble of an earthquake.
“I’d like to make a withdrawal, please,” it said.
The Gatekeeper, appearing as a middle-aged woman with short brown frizzly hair, and wearing a practical khaki pantsuit, stared at Death over her red-rimmed glasses, unmoved.
“Ha, ha. Just kidding,” Death continued. Death had more of a sense of humor than most people realized, but it rarely paid off. Death had been working on that line for decades but now thought the other line about the holy man, the butter churn, and the three penguins might have made a bigger splash. “Seriously, though, I’d like to speak to Marvin Traubenik.”
“We don’t usually do that,” replied the Gatekeeper, primly. “Actually, we never do that. Souls do not return from the Afterlife, despite what a quarter of humanity believes about reincarnation.”
“It is a matter of cosmic importance,” intoned Death, striving to pitch its voice even lower, and thereby seem more serious and commanding. Some elephants on the Earth below looked up in confusion at the sound, being the only mortal beings capable of hearing it. “After all the souls I have brought you, is a single favor so much to ask?”
“Your soul business has been very slow lately,” objected the Gatekeeper.
“That is exactly why I need Traubenik,” replied Death.
The Gatekeeper paused, then asked “Who is this Traubenik, then?” Death felt it was starting to make some progress.
“He was the most-respected, thoughtful, and eloquent obituary writer that the New York Times ever had,” explained Death. “I want him to write one last obituary.”
The Gatekeeper frowned but then took a big breath, sighed it out, and nodded in assent. “Wait there,” she said, indicating with a wave of her hand a small plastic bench off to one side.
Death had envisioned this meeting many times over the past several centuries. Sometimes it was in a marble-floored library, with mahogany shelves, and soft leather armchairs. Sometimes it was floating abstractly over the earth, contemplating that orb which held nearly all of humanity’s collective experience. Death took its own turn at sighing, and sat on the plastic bench, which creaked alarmingly. After some time, Death’s reverie was interrupted.
“Hello?” spoke a voice, slowly. “I’m Marvin.”
Death looked up and stood to greet him. “Hello, Marvin. I am Death.”
“Yes, I remember you from last time,” said Marvin unenthusiastically. “I still can’t believe I fell down those stairs.”
“Yes, well…” Death trailed off, not sure what to say. After looking around awkwardly, Death asked, “Would you care to sit?”
Death shuffled to the right, and Marvin sat warily at one end of the bench. Death then sat, teetering at the other end to give Marvin as much space as possible. Marvin carefully picked a fold of Death’s cloak off his thigh, where it had fallen when Death sat. “So, what’s this all about?”
“I want you to write my obituary,” replied Death.
“Oh, are you dead now?” asked Marvin. “You look the same as before.”
“The terms life and death do not apply to me precisely. I came into being gradually as humanity evolved. And as the human population grew, so did my role. But it seems my services are no longer required, and I begin to fade.”
Marvin looked surprised for the first time. “What, is there some new system now? Some computer-automated way?”
“No,” said Death, resolutely. “It all has to do with Science and Medicine. In the early days, treatments for illnesses tended to be more deadly than helpful. I was quite in favor, really, although everyone still needed my services eventually. But in the 22nd century, longevity medicine really started to succeed—from simple interventions like nutrition and exercise, to sophisticated molecular nanobots that scraped arteries, hunted for cancer cells, cleaned up protein aggregates, and stimulated stem cells. Lifespans increased dramatically. Adding to that the declining birthrates, and business slowed greatly.”
“Amazing,” said Marvin, nodding. “This must have all happened after my time. But still, everyone dies eventually, no?”
“No,” asserted Death, dispiritedly. “With increasing integration of non-organic technologies—electronics, to use a simple term that you would understand—the 23rd century saw the first effectively immortal human beings.”
“Really?” said Marvin with emphasis. “Fascinating. So humans are like androids now? Or more like AIs? And do they have souls?”
“No and no, but yes, they have souls. A soul is an emergent phenomenon. It arises from particular complicated structural arrangements of matter. Unfortunately, those remaining human souls are now locked inside their immortal bodies.”
“Yes,” agreed Marvin, for once. “It is rather nice on the other side. They have brunch every day. And more television channels than you can count. Literally. One of my friends says there are ‘uncountably infinitely many’ channels, though I’m not entirely sure what it means.” After a pause, Marvin continued, “Well, if I’m going to write an obituary, tell me more about yourself.”
This is what they wrote:
Death died in the year 2584 AD, after a long bout of uselessness. During its career, it guided over 600 billion human souls to the Afterlife. It was arguably one of the greatest obsessions of humanity, along with Sex and Eating, appearing in innumerable works of literature, art, poetry, and film. Death never married and had no children, but is survived by several long-term acquaintances, including Taxes and Cheese. Death was several million years old.
T. J. Perkins is an aging professor who rediscovered his creative side during the covid pandemic, including writing, reading audiobooks, and playing piano. He lives in Canada, with his wife and decreasing numbers of children, who are growing up and having their own lives.
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