Christopher Moore - Secondhand Souls

“Really, a spork?”

“Yeah, Kevin, the fucking detail you want to grasp on to is the spork. That was the point of the story. Not that you’ll be a squirrel in tap shoes, fighting a pigeon over a donut? That’s a custard donut, Kevin. Custard is running out of the donut onto the pavement. There are ants on your donut, Kevin.”

“Whoa, ants?”

“Ants are still not the important part, Kevin, you douche waffle.”

“Hey, I don’t even like custard donuts.”

“Jump, Kevin. Over you go.”

“What?”

“Geronimo! Let loose a long trailing scream as you go—warn any boaters or windsurfers to look the fuck out. No sense dragging someone along with your dumb ass.”

“Hey?”

“Take the leap, Kevin. Into the maelstrom of suffering that will open for you.”

“At least it will be different.”

“Yeah, different in that it will be worse. Since when did a two-hundred foot drop into icy waves full of sharks spell hope to you, huh? You think you’re depressed now? You think you’re hopeless now? Wait until you’re reincarnated as a crazed, scurrying little creature, desperate, afraid of everything, wearing stupid outfits. I’ve seen them, Kevin. I’ll show you. You take a look at them, see what you’ll become, and if you still want to jump, I’ll drive you back there and push you off. Deal?”

“You’re lying.”

“I am. I don’t have a car. But I’ll pay your cab fare and say good-bye to you over the phone as you go. Worst-case scenario, you get to see some really creepy little animal people and two hours from now you’re in the same place you are now, and I’m giving you hot phone sex as you’re plummeting into the shark cafeteria.”

“Really?”

“Really. Your phone got a camera?”

“Yeah.”

“Send me a selfie.”

“Right now?”

“Yeah, how am going to know what you look like?”

“Okay. This shirt has a little coffee stain down the front.”

“Got it. Now head for the city side of the bridge. I’ll be there in ten.”

“You don’t have a car.”

“I’m going to borrow my boss’s. Head for the tollgates. I’ll park the car in the visitor center and walk up.”

“Can’t you stay on the line until you get here.”

“Would love to, Kevin, but I can’t tie up the crisis line. Look, I’ll call you from my cell in a second. They make us leave them in the locker room, so give me five minutes. Head for the tollbooths. I’ll call you in a bit.”

“How will I know you?”

“I’m Asian.” She wasn’t Asian, but there would be a metric fuckload of Asian girls on the bridge for him to think were her. “Ten minutes. Don’t jump, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Promise?”

“Promise. But my battery is low.”

“You’d better not jump because your fucking battery ran out, Kevin. Have a little faith, for fuck’s sake.”

“I wish you’d quit swearing.”

“Oh, right, I’m your fairy godmother. Now, allow me to grant your wish. See you in ten.” She hit the disconnect button.

Lily sent Kevin’s photo to the Ranger station on the bridge with a note: Jumper, headed your way. Temporarily paused him. Detain and hold for psych eval. Another save for Darquewillow Elventhing !

“Woooo-hooooo, bitches!” One for the big board! Lily rose from her seat and headed for the big whiteboard at the head of the bullpen. The other three counselors dove for their mute buttons. She snatched up the marker and wrote SAVES THIS MONTH, then wrote her name and drew in a big 5 1/2 next to it with an exclamation point.

“Five-point-five, losers, and it’s only the seventeenth of the month. That’s right, at least two more weeks to try to catch this train of effective fucking crisis intervention!”

“That’s not a thing, Lily,” said Sage, a freckled blond girl about Lily’s age, wearing a huge fisherman’s sweater and cargo pants, who had clearly given up on giving a shit about her hair before she’d even started grad school. That kind of neglect didn’t show overnight. She was working on her master’s thesis in crisis counseling or something.

“It’s not a thing for you ,” said Lily. “Because you are a loooooser. La-la-la-looooozzer.” Although she knew she was too old for it, and it was far beneath her dignity to indulge in such things, she did a subtle booty dance of victory to mark the moment.

“You’re so broken,” said Sage. “How did you ever get a job here?”

“Death is my business, Sage. They came to me because they knew I would dominate! Five and a half—yay-ooooooh!”

One of the other counselors, a tall fortyish guy with a mop of blond hair, looked over his glasses. He had his finger on the mute mic button like he was holding the mouth of a poisonous snake closed. “Lily, any chance you could wrap it up? I have to get an address and find out what pills this girl swallowed before she passes out.”

“Oh,” said Lily. “Sure. Go ahead. You’ll save her, Brian. Want me to mark it on the big board for you?”

“That’s not a thing, Lily.” He lifted his finger and said into the headset, “Yes, Darla, I’m here. Can you tell me the address where you’re staying?”

Sage said, “The board is supposed to be for bulletins, BOLOs, events going on in the city, things we all need to know before we answer a call.”

“You mean like Lily got FIVE AND A HALF!” Lily said, tapping the board next to her number. She thought as she moved: Booty dance. Booty dance. Right up on Sage’s desk with my great big booty—

“Lily, please stop twerking my desk.”

“Fine,” said Lily. “I’m going on break. Try not to kill anyone while I’m gone.”

“You’re so sad,” said Sage.

“ No, you’re sad,” said Lily. She threw a booty bounce of dismissal toward Sage as she walked into the locker room.

She dug her mobile out of her locker and headed outside to smoke as she checked for messages. He’d cried on her voice mail, which had been satisfying at first, but then kind of pathetic. She wasn’t going to be fooled into calling him back just because he’d succumbed to a moment of wuss. He was Death, after all! Or at least Assistant Death. How could you compete with that? They all had something special, Charlie Asher, even little Sophie, had been singled out by the universe as special, while she, Lily Darquewillow Elventhing Severo (the Darquewillow Elventhing was silent) was just a failed restaurateur and part-time suicide hotline counselor. But she did have that. She saved lives. Most of the time. Kind of.

She listened to the message of Minty Fresh weeping after her again, a message which she had no intention of erasing, ever. The next message was from him, too, and hoping there might be begging—she could use some begging—she listened, but as soon as she heard the words “motherfuckin’ forces of darkness and whatnot,” she cut off the message with a punch of the callback button.

Mike Sullivan found himself waking up every morning thinking of the ghost, Concepción, and again, every night before he went to sleep. He made a special effort to wash his coveralls, so they were sparkling white speckled with International Orange, which didn’t come off in the wash, and he polished the scuffs off his hard hat with car wax. As he shaved in the morning, he practiced the expression on his face he would have when he told her the fate of her Russian count, and all day, every day, throughout the day, he tried to be prepared for her appearance. He had spent five days painting the structure under the roadway before she returned.