Death in an Applebee's

The end is the beginning.

“That’s a pretty lame fortune,” Wayne said, tilting back into his chair to reverently crack his own so-called-cookie.

Beside him, Chris remained transfixed on the dessert-fortune pinched between his fingers. His mind ran over the sacred implications as if it was an ancient holy papyrus.

There has to be more to it, he thought, as he flipped over the strip of paper.

春卷 (chūn juǎn) Egg Roll. 四 (sì) Four.

Not helpful. Also, he’d opted for Crab Rangoon.

The end…

He chewed over the words.

He felt a gnawing, inexplicable sense of foreboding even though he was relatively healthy for a forty-year-old male. His cholesterol was only slightly elevated, and his stomach paunch was assuredly less pronounced than his friend’s. Also, he had no red flags in his family history: things like cancer, heart disease, ALS, and Alzheimer’s, though his Uncle Bob did have a weird thing with public saunas and chicken-noodle soup.

Maybe it meant the end of his job?

But he was a middle-manager at a small branch of a medium sized regional bank in the 16th largest city of the 25th largest state. His job was practically irreplaceable and almost certainly recession-proof.

Could it be the end of a relationship?

He was unmarried, and really, just undeveloped relationally over the last four decades. His parents had long since passed, having had Chris, their little miracle whoopie-daisy, when they were in their early 40’s themselves. The only person he really hung out with was—

“Dude, mine says Chicken tonight…My fortune rocks!”

Chris looked over the Wayne. Even after three courses of greasy Americanized Chinese food, he was almost salivating.

“Sounds like a suggestion more than a prediction. Look, it teaches you the word for dumpling after—”

“No, no, no. Dude. Like always, you’re missing the point.” Wayne gave an assertive backhand slap against Chris’s shoulder. “It means ‘chicks.’ I’m getting chicks tonight. The Chinese dude probably just messed up the translation.”

“Mistranslated from what?” Chris asked, rubbing his shoulder.

Wayne paused for a moment. He eyed a sole Rangoon laying idly on Chris’s plate and momentarily thought of snatching it.

“I don’t know. Some freaking inspiration or something…”

Wayne was attempting to think, which was a rarity, and it got him dangerously close to realizing that there was no mountain-top medium sitting, waiting, receiving, and recording specific fortunes—from Mandarin to English—for a random White American at a bastardized Chinese restaurant outside of Paducah, Kentucky.

Wayne quickly shut off his brain with a tight, jolting shake. It helped him close the rose-colored curtain around life’s dark realities and trite commonalities.

“Chicks, man! We’re going to get some chicks.” Wayne pounded the table to hammer the finality of his interpretation.

“I don’t know…” Chris said, stacking his fork onto his plate. “I’ve got work in the morning.”

“It’s settled, dude. We’re going out.” Wayne reached across Chirs to grab the deep-fried cream-cheese pocket with imitation crab meat. “It’s our destiny.”

And that was how Chris found himself over-dressed, over-cologned, and over-stimulated at an Applebee’s Late Nite Happy Hour, nursing a Dollarita and a plate of Chicken Wonton Tacos.

“Smoking blonde, 9 o’clock,” Wayne said into his third 20oz glass of Bud Light.

“That’s Frank, the bartender. He’s bald,” Chris said. “And Kentucky banned indoor smoking like 10 years—”

Wayne palmed the top of Chris’s head and turned it to 3 o’clock, where a blonde-50 something sat, eyes glazed from exhaustion. Wayne was never good at telling time or reading social cues or respecting personal space.

“Think she’s interested?” Chris asked. “She seems like she wants to be alone.”

The blonde, in for a conference, felt compelled to leave her hotel for a post-breakout Cabernet, though she had to settle for the one chalky red on the menu. She wasn’t looking for companionship. Only the dull, persistent background murmur of society, free from buzzwords and slide-decks and divorced sales reps named Todd.

“There’s only one way to find out,” Wayne said with a drum of the wooden bar top. “Barkeep, your finest Tipsy Shark for the blonde lady at the end.”

Wayne gulped the dredges of his beer and brushed off the onion ring crumbs from his bright pink shirt. He slicked back the hair on either side of his bald spot and took a deep breath as if he were a track athlete before a race.

“It’s go time.”

He sauntered off, making a wide loop around the bar, never losing sight of his prey.

Chris watched his friend’s actions, knowing what came next. The move Wayne was attempting was a familiar favorite. He’d wait for the bartender to point toward where Wayne had sat as he placed the drink in front of the blonde. The mark would see an empty seat and a disinterested Chris. Then, Wayne would slide in and take credit for the purchase, even though it was all on Chris’s check.

Chris made middle-management money, after all.

“It’s like a terrible nature documentary,” said a voice nearby.

It was a woman’s voice, and it seemed to be aimed at Chris, which was strange because women never really addressed him outside of work or the doctor’s office.

Chris turned to the woman, who was smiling at him, which, again, was peculiar in that he was usually met with utter indifference.

“He’s like a fat, balding lion stalking a gazelle far out of its league,” she continued.

“You—yeah, what?” Chris could feel the film from his oversweet Dollarita acting like a wall of sorts, plugging saliva and conversational response.

“Your friend. He’s quite the predator.”

“Well, I don’t know if I’d…say…that…” But his unpassionate, automatic defense of Wayne fell short. For one, he knew she wasn’t wrong. And two, he was struck by the woman’s beauty.

Her hair was silky black and past her shoulders. Her skin was youthful and gleaming, the color of ivory. It hugged her cheekbones that were like pink pillars for her eyes, which were the color of jade.

She was—

“Chinese?”

“Kind of a racist. I could be Korean, Japanese, Vietnamese—”

“Yes, yes. Sorry. But you’re Asian…in Kentucky?”

She laughed.

“Apparently I am. Didn’t get a good look in the mirror.”

Chris was flooded with questions, but caution dammed them in his civilized forebrain. A beautiful woman was talking to him…willingly. There was a stream of hopes and suspicions swirling about.

He instinctively glanced over at Wayne, who had attempted to squeeze between a chatting couple and his target, the blonde, who was shrinking away from him.

“Not to be rude,” Chris said, “but why are you talking to me?”

The woman responded with a light-hearted laugh. “Why do you ask?”

“Because you’re gorgeous,” Chris responded automatically, unable to catch his thoughts as they flew from his mouth. If he wasn’t so tense, he might have pissed himself. But the woman laughed once more—not at him, mind you—but with a good-natured mirth that wrapped Chris in a warm embrace.

“Oh, Christopher Ralph Wiggins. You are too innocent for this world.”

There it was. His fearful suspicion confirmed.

“You know my name.” He chuckled, incredulous. “I knew it was too good to be true.”

“Wait, no—”

But Chris was already spiraling. He had no frame of reference for what was happening, so he found himself flung into a far-fetched fantasy.

“You’re a spy sent from China—”

“Again, racist—”

“Trying to get the bank’s secrets. Well—”

“Chris, calm down. You’re—”

Delusional. Ridiculous. Pathetic. All could have worked to describe Chris in that moment.

“I’ve seen enough spy movies. This is a honey pot situation—”

“The expression is honey trap—”

“See!” Chris shouted, though it was more of a squeak.

All the flooding emotions in his brain made him feel like he could collapse. His breathing felt heavy and corrupted. His arms twitched uncomfortably.

“Christopher, sit down.”

“No, I should lea—"

The woman grasped his arm and instantaneously a sort of paralysis coursed through his body.

It wasn’t altogether unpleasant, kind of like the anesthesia for his colonoscopy. But in this case, he wasn’t twilighted into forgetfulness. He was just…calm and present. He also was 97% sure he wasn’t going to have a camera snaked into his butt. And even if he was, in that moment when she touched him, he felt like it’d be okay.

“Who are you?”

The woman smiled. Not like some devious seductress, but like a kind-hearted bus stop lady who offered a stick of gum and unsolicited compliments. Paducah didn’t really have a public transportation infrastructure, let alone bus stops, but Chris had watched enough movies to make that connection.

“I’m your beginning.” The bar lights seemed to twinkle as she spoke.

“That sounds lovely,” Chris responded, googly eyed and with a dripple of drool.

“That’s good.” The beautiful lady scratched at the countertop. “That makes this a lot easier.”

There was a tinge of sadness dangling from her voice. Apprehension seemed to hang about her brow. Chris leaned toward her.

“Makes what easier?”

The woman didn’t meet his eyes. She twirled a cocktail napkin around her forefinger. “Shouldn’t you ask my name first?”

Chris comically smacked his hand against his forehead. “Of course. What’s your name?”

The woman smiled at Chris’s silliness.

“In a way, you already know it. It was hidden in your fortune this afternoon.”

“Your name is Egg Roll?”

The woman, not named Egg Roll, sighed. She took a pen and wrote on the napkin.

sǐ

“It’s connected with the fortune on the front and a word on the back.”

Chris shook his head and shrugged.

“Just tell me your name,” he said.

The woman grabbed the napkin and flipped it over. She moved the pen in short, jagged movements of the pen. Then, she switched to long, deliberate strokes.

“My name is…” she murmured as she slid the napkin in front of Chris.

死 Death.

Chris regarded the five-letter word silently.

“I tried to ease you in,” the woman said quietly. “Four is associated with death in Mandarin.”

“There’s no way I would know that.”

“Billions of people know that.”

“Not in Paducah, Kentucky.”

Death shook her head and picked at the bar in frustration. With the totality of human existence in her head, she sometimes got her wires crossed, so to speak. She wanted her reveal to be awe-inspiring, yet playful. In that, she had failed.

Chris could sense Death was brooding over her mistake. He felt bad.

“Hey, hey. You tried.”

Chris reached out a hand to pat Death’s shoulder. But Death was a woman, and he’d never purposefully touched a woman, so he let his hand fall awkwardly, not sure how his touch would be received. The resulting silence was filled by a certain annoyingly catchy Elton John song.

“So, it’s really my time?” he asked at last.

Death nodded somberly. Chris was uncomfortable with her discomfort.

“Well, hey, at least you aren’t bad to look at.”

Death sighed. Chris’s positivity was really, truly, nauseatingly sweet.

“Actually, you chose my appearance.”

“Wha—how?”

“Well,” Death said, standing for a moment and spreading her arms so Chris could regard her outfit. “You had Chinese for lunch, and you apparently watch a lot of anime. So your subconscious concocted this.” She wore a vaguely school-girlish skirt but with an adult enough sweater to keep the fashion-age ambiguous.

Chris’s face felt uncomfortably hot.

“So, wait, are you Chinese or Japanese—”

“Does it matter?” Death said, returning to her seat.

Chris flicked a flake of Wanton Taco off his plate while he was wrestling with what to make of everything. Profound questions were rattling about.

“Does this mean I have a weird fetish or something?”

“No comment.”

Chris drummed his fingertips on the countertop. He was speaking with Death, he apparently had a romantic disposition towards a certain ethnic profile, and he had so many important questions.

“So, what would you look like to someone else?”

“Oh, uh, depends,” Death smoothed out her skirt. “Sometimes I appear human…mostly to the good ones. Gender and ethnicity really depend on the person, in that case.”

Chris nodded.

“So how will you appear to Wayne?”

Death gave a wry smile and a chuckle.

“You really want to know?”

Chris nodded again. A loud smack rippled from across the bar, where Wayne stood stunned. A fresh palm was emblazoned on his cheek, and a dry house-red dripped from his chin. The blonde pushed from her seat and stormed out into the parking lot. Wayne quickly headed to the nearby bathroom.

“A hot tub with faulty wiring from a broken jet,” Death said. “He’ll be shocked when I arrive.”

Chris shuddered. “I hope the manufacturer gets sued.”

“Your friend will have dislodged the jet on his own…” Death tilted her head to convey the salacious implications.

“Because he was trying to stick something in the jet…something that doesn’t belong there.”

Chris stared at Death blankly. Death sighed at Chris’s naivete. She raised her hand and extended her index finger while making a circle with the other hand.

Chris’s eyes widened suddenly.

“Ok, you get it now.”

Chris’s eyes turned to his drink as he processed everything. Death felt bad for telling him about Wayne. Maybe it was too much for his pure little heart. After a moment, Chris wiped away a bit of condensation from his glass, turned to her, and smirked.

“Well, if it’s not with an actual woman, I suppose that’s the way he would want to go out.”

There he was. Christopher Ralph Wiggins. In all his stupid, optimistic brilliance. Death couldn’t help but feel the bittersweetness of her task at hand.

Chris picked up his Dollarita with the intention of taking a sip, but he didn’t have a thirst for it anymore. Whether it was still sugary or had become watered down, a Mango Mucho would have been a better choice for a last drink, anyways.

“So…how does this work?”

Death stood up and extended her hand in response.

“Simple. I escort you out.”

Chris grabbed her hand without second thought. It seemed impolite to leave it hanging there. He let her guide him from the bar and out toward the side door. As a force of habit, he looked back at his seat for his wallet, and his heart kicked in his chest.

His body was still there, sitting in the barstool.

His scraggly brown hair lay in a tangle on top of his head. His eyes were glued to the bathroom door, waiting for Wayne’s reappearance. His overly chewed fingernails dully thudded in rippled thumps on the wooden bar

“Do you want to watch it happen?”

“No,” Chris said, wishing he wore something other than his faded gray polo shirt, a gift from Wayne that he suspected was a mere regifting rather than an act of generosity. “Just, tell me…how do I…go?” He motioned at himself with a wave of his hand.

“Aneurysm,” Death replied, pushing open the exit doors. “Blood vessel pops in your brain and you die pretty much instantly.”

Chris nodded. Not bad, he thought to himself. A clean and quick break from the world. Except…

“Wait,” he said. Death turned from the door due to his sudden urgency. “What about work? They’ll be devastated.”

“Oh, uh, they’ll manage.”

Death’s assurance was both comforting and a tad vexing to the proud middle-manager.

“But who will replace me?”

After all, he was an intermediary between four employees and upper-management.

“The bitch.”

“Janice?!”

Death held up her hands to swat away miscommunication.

“No, no. Corporate will bring in a therapy dog. People won’t know why she’s there or who they’re grieving, but they will ask for her to stay in the building…indefinitely.”

“Oh.”

Chris didn’t know what to do with that information, but his thoughts were interrupted by “Rocket Man.” Someone must have paid the digital jukebox to play an endless stream of Elton John songs.

It was probably Wayne with the ten dollars Chris had lent him.

Chris found himself even more okay with leaving.

“Shall we?” Death opened the door and motioned for Chris to step outside.

He nodded and walked out into the evening.

It was a perfect night. The stars sparkled in the darkness. Trees swayed in the distant shadows. And the air was a perfect temperature. Chris couldn’t even feel his own skin.

“Your chariot awaits.”

Death pointed to a black supped-up Honda Civic that glowed purple underneath. Neon orange flames streaked along the sides.

“Is this because of my imagination again? Since you’re Chine—” Chris stopped himself. “Asian?”

Death nodded.

“Racist?” Chris asked.

“A little.”

The car doors opened with a depressurized hiss. Death stepped down and stood between the front and back doors.

“Your choice. Passenger seat or back seat.”

Chris leaned over to glance into the car. Various lights danced on the ceiling in multi-colored bursts. The seats were jet black, almost invisible. There was no driver.

“I get car sick,” he explained, stepping down toward the front seat. Abruptly he stopped and turned to regard Applebee’s once more. He wished he could say goodbye to Wayne.

But then, he realized, Wayne probably wouldn’t care if he did or not.

With a deep breath and no further thought, Chris lowered himself into the car as Death ushered him in.

While he instinctually looked for a seatbelt, Death stooped over and gave him a kiss on his forehead. It was indescribably warm as it radiated into the depths of his brain before emanating down his spine and pooling around his heart.

“Have a good trip, Chris,” she said as she touched the door, which slowly closed on its lone passenger. Chris’s beautiful, Paducah-Kentucky version of an Asian woman blurred in his vision. The muffled drone of happy hour faded beyond her.

“And remember—"

The doors clicked shut as Death finished her sentence.

“The end is the beginning.”