This story explores the concept that even death, as an abstract force, can possess human-like qualities such as weariness, dignity, and emotional responses to historical tragedies, suggesting that the entity of death is not merely a cold, impersonal force but a complex being with its own experiences and perspectives on human suffering.
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From the Archives: Pale Cadillac追加:
[music] >> This is Six Ghosts.
>> [music] >> It's Thursday night and death has just walked in through my motel room door.
He calls himself death, but he looks like a Carlton to me.
His friends probably regulars at a dive bar somewhere.
They'd call him Buck or Tex.
But our death here, he doesn't have any friends.
Well, I guess he wouldn't, would he? I mean, it wouldn't be traditional.
Death slouches all gangly and gloomy in a lounge chair across the room. So thin in his ridiculous western getup that any minute now his hip might poke a hole in the cheap vinyl upholstery.
On his head is a 10-gallon Stetson. It's black like the oily stains that drench his duster from him to waist.
God knows where this man's been. He reeks of stale incense.
I'm thinking all of this when he issues a wake-up cough.
He leans back, bony arms folded across his bony chest as if to say, "I'm waiting on you, buddy."
Right, sorry. Just a second. I'm stuttering.
With trembling hands, I switch on a digital recorder and take my place at a rickety writing desk.
Just uh, you know, start whenever you want.
I say.
Tex wants a cup of coffee first. He helps himself to the pot I brewed this morning and doesn't mind that it's stone cold.
He sits again.
Death in his cowboy hat and takes a drag on a waning cigarette.
I can't help but laugh at the image.
"You know they say these will kill you."
I joke. But death, he doesn't laugh.
He doesn't even exhale.
He just leans back in that tacky lounge chair and stares with his cold gray eyes.
And I'm awash with embarrassment. It's like I've met the president of China and asked him if he eats with chopsticks.
Death is surprisingly dignified for a crazy man.
He has to be crazy, right? I saw him pull up in a dirty white Cadillac.
Death isn't from the underworld, he's from Kansas.
And he's talking now, telling me in a gravel voice about the very first lives he ever took.
This goes back way before Cain and Abel.
He's talking angels and devils I've never heard of.
That's my fault for leaving my door open, I guess.
I had wanted to listen to the rain.
I mean, who knows who he really is or how he guessed I'm a writer, but this man who calls himself death, {comma} angel of, walked in from nowhere wanting an interview.
I didn't have the courage to tell him I've never been published outside the Santa Clarita Signal.
I'm just grateful for my safety that he doesn't shut the door.
Death drones on and on. The great flood, the black plague, little Jimmy playing on the train tracks.
I can tell he's not wholly unaffected by all this taking.
Sometimes he pauses for just a little too long, you know?
Sometimes his voice is unsteady.
He tells me about the screams of the Pompeiians and the laughter of Rasputin.
He tells me he wept at Auschwitz because he knew there would be worse to come.
Salem, Kent State, Anne Boleyn's execution. He was there for all of it, he says.
I ask him about Jack Kennedy, but he won't give me any answers.
He says a good punchline is all in the timing.
And now he's quiet.
Staring at me as if considering something I don't want to think about.
He reaches into his back pocket, pulls out a Swiss Army knife, and absently examines each blade.
Then he closes it, places it back in his pocket.
"I have to go," he tells me, scratching his sandpaper chin. "I got work to do."
He rises from his chair, but before he leaves, he tells me he plans to finish this interview one day.
And in a voice I feel more than I hear, he says, "For the second half, I'm going to interview you."
Death smiles, walks out, and gently closes the door behind him.
I hear him start up his pale Cadillac with its Kansas plates, and he's gone.
Looking down at my recorder, I see pretty much what I expected to see.
Batteries are dead.
All I know is I don't want to watch the news, I don't want to listen to the radio or read the paper.
I don't want to hear the small talk in the motel lobby.
I'm sure it's silly, but I don't even want to use the phrase check out in the morning.
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