Mrs. Morrison was too busy to die. In fact, Mrs. Morrison thought the whole idea of death was a terrific waste of time. Imagine all the work that could be done if one didn’t have that eventual all-too-common annoyance hanging over them. To be reduced to a bag of bones was unacceptable. The saggy skin and droopy eyes. The bad posture and horrible smells that one was prone to as one approached the final paragraph of one’s story. It most certainly wasn’t how she planned to exit the theater.
Dear Warren had bailed far too early. Now there was a case of a bad decision returning to bite you. Climbing all over the condo roof hauling a power washer. What an idiot. Her hunky, much younger neighbor had offered to blast the mildew and dirt from their shared exterior and of course she had allowed him the honor. He did have a nice body, and his tendency to wear very, very short cut-offs didn’t hurt the effect either. It wasn’t her fault the pump down at the retention pond had been replaced with a newer, more powerful version. She paid extra for that upgrade. The second he squeezed the trigger-boingo-off the ladder he flew. A double flip and right onto the patio umbrella. Who knew they were so, so pointy.
At the time she was busy watching her other neighbor through the picture window and wouldn’t have noticed Warren’s demise except for the dreadful noise and screaming. A little consideration would have been appreciated. That had been a busy, busy week. She was still dealing with the disposal of the pizza delivery boy. He put up quite a fuss. It took two solid whacks with the 32” Louisville Slugger before he crumpled. And what a mess on the new tile floor. Thank goodness it was that fancy vinyl that cleaned up so easily. She would have to replace the blade on the Saws All.
Things were also piling up in the basement. The condo’s ground floor was a complete bedroom, living room, full bath level with a walkout to the shared green area. She supposed the management would eventually stumble over the recent mounds of dirt just outside the sliding glass door in the common area covering the flooring crew. She wondered when the carpet people would send the invoice with the balance due. There was only room for one or two more freezers. The electric bill was well past due and the smell was affecting her sinuses.
Mrs. Morrison was far too busy to worry about what might become of her collection of animal pelts. Goodness, the neighborhood had gotten quieter lately. It had been a busy, busy year. Mrs. Morrison sighed and looked up from her cot. Those nice men were back. Earlier they had come and taken away her tray. Wasn’t that nice of them to ask her if she wanted a special meal. The roast was delicious. The cherry sundae (with chocolate ice cream of course) was to die for. They said it was time. Perhaps she could…just this once…go for a nice walk. She wasn’t that busy.
Warren Jones is a jazz bassist, composer, and writer working near Lake Michigan. His writing can be found at The Birds We Piled Loosely and KYSOFlash literary magazines. His music is available on CDBaby.