This is What it Sounds Like
2:18 AM. It’s not as if I like my job, but someone’s got to do it. The septic tank won’t drain itself, if you know what I mean.
And don’t hate me for it. I’m not the crunch Seymour and Adam heard as their car slammed into the guard rail, killing them both. I’m not the clap in Jane’s ear as she pointed the gun at her head, and squeezed the trigger. And don’t you dare blame me for the nagging doubt in the back of Josh’s head a split second before his humvee hit that roadside bomb.
That was you. You all. You humans killed them, not me. That’s not how I work.
That’s not the sound of someone dying. That’s the sound of someone being killed.
There’s a difference. Trust me.
You want to know what it sounds like? What I sound like? Ask Jim.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
5:43 PM. The phone rings. Jim clicks off the television set and picks up the receiver.
“Hey dad, did you see the game?”
“Yeah. Pretty wild, eh? I almost feel sorry for the Colts.”
“I wouldn’t go that far. Polamalu’s pick was legit. The Colts just blew too many chances.”
“…So…Three weeks, huh?”
“Yep.”
“I hope you’ve got something special planned.”
“Of course, dad. Three quarters of a century on the planet calls for a celebration.”
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
9:54 PM. Jim takes off his dentures and climbs into bed.
“I still think we need a bigger TV.”
“Go to sleep, honey. I’m sure you’ll get a shiny new TV in three weeks.”
“I sure hope so. Remember what Timmy got me last year? A damn Penn State sweatshirt. If I had wanted damn a sweatshirt, I would have gone to Wal-Mart.”
“Go to sleep, Jim.”
Jim’s wife reaches over and turns off the light.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
10:07 PM. Jim falls asleep.
Silence.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
12:59 PM. The wind howls, rattling the frame of the house. Deer traverse Jim’s lawn, nibbling on shrubs. Outside, the world continues ‘round, but inside Jim’s bedroom there is only
Silence.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
2:16 AM. And this is what it sounds like when a man dies.
Silence.
2:18 AM. It’s not as if I like my job, but someone’s got to do it. The septic tank won’t drain itself, if you know what I mean.
And don’t hate me for it. I’m not the crunch Seymour and Adam heard as their car slammed into the guard rail, killing them both. I’m not the clap in Jane’s ear as she pointed the gun at her head, and squeezed the trigger. And don’t you dare blame me for the nagging doubt in the back of Josh’s head a split second before his humvee hit that roadside bomb.
That was you. You all. You humans killed them, not me. That’s not how I work.
That’s not the sound of someone dying. That’s the sound of someone being killed.
There’s a difference. Trust me.
You want to know what it sounds like? What I sound like? Ask Jim.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
5:43 PM. The phone rings. Jim clicks off the television set and picks up the receiver.
“Hey dad, did you see the game?”
“Yeah. Pretty wild, eh? I almost feel sorry for the Colts.”
“I wouldn’t go that far. Polamalu’s pick was legit. The Colts just blew too many chances.”
“…So…Three weeks, huh?”
“Yep.”
“I hope you’ve got something special planned.”
“Of course, dad. Three quarters of a century on the planet calls for a celebration.”
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
9:54 PM. Jim takes off his dentures and climbs into bed.
“I still think we need a bigger TV.”
“Go to sleep, honey. I’m sure you’ll get a shiny new TV in three weeks.”
“I sure hope so. Remember what Timmy got me last year? A damn Penn State sweatshirt. If I had wanted damn a sweatshirt, I would have gone to Wal-Mart.”
“Go to sleep, Jim.”
Jim’s wife reaches over and turns off the light.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
10:07 PM. Jim falls asleep.
Silence.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
12:59 PM. The wind howls, rattling the frame of the house. Deer traverse Jim’s lawn, nibbling on shrubs. Outside, the world continues ‘round, but inside Jim’s bedroom there is only
Silence.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
2:16 AM. And this is what it sounds like when a man dies.
Silence.
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