“I’ve done something else since reaching New York,” the man went on. “I’ve visited churches. Lots of churches. I never knew one city, no matter how big, could boast so many churches. But see, friends, here’s the sad thing. No matter how many people were thronging the streets outside, I found every one of these churches empty. They’re starving. They’re perishing from neglect. Even St. Patrick’s Cathedral—as beautiful a Christian place as I’ve ever seen in my born days—had only a sprinkling of worshipers. Tourists? Yes, indeed, by the hundreds. But of the devout? Less than the fingers on my two hands.
“And this, my friends, is the saddest thing of all. To think that—in a place of so much culture, so much learning and sophistication—there can be such a terrible spiritual emptiness. I feel it all around me like a desert, drying the very marrow of my bones. I didn’t want to believe what I read in the papers, the awful stories that brought me here to this place almost against my will. But it’s true, my brothers and sisters. Every last word of it. New York is a city devoted to Mammon, not God. Look at him,” and he pointed to a well-dressed twenty-something passing by in a pinstripe suit, yakking into a phone. “When do you suppose was the last time he thought about his mortality? Or her?” He pointed to a woman with bags from Henri Bendel and Tiffany’s, climbing out of a cab. “Or them?” His accusing finger aimed at a pair of college students, walking hand in hand down the street. “Or you?” His finger now swiveled across the crowd. “How long since you thought about your own mortality? It may be a week away, ten years, or fifty—but it’s coming. As sure as my name is Wayne P. Buck, it’s coming. Are you ready?”
Harriman shivered involuntarily. This guy was good.
“I don’t care if you’re an investment banker on Wall Street or a migrant worker in Amarillo, death has no prejudice. Big or small, rich or poor, death will come for us all. People in the Middle Ages knew that. Even our own forebears knew that. Look at old gravestones and what do you see? The image of winged death. And like as not the words memento mori: ‘remember, you will die.’ Do you think that young fellow ever stops to think about that? Amazing: all these centuries of progress, and yet we’ve lost sight of that one fundamental truth that was always, always the first thought of our ancestors. An old poet, Robert Herrick, put it like this:
“ Our life is short, and our days run
As fast away as does the sun;
And, as a vapour or a drop of rain
Once lost, can ne’er be found again.”
Harriman swallowed. His luck was holding. This guy Buck was a personal gift to him. The crowd was swelling rapidly, and people were shushing their neighbors so they could hear the man’s quiet, persuasive voice. He didn’t need a Bible—Christ, he probably had the whole thing in his head. And not only the Bible—he was quoting metaphysical poets as well.
He carefully reached over to his shirt pocket and pressed the record button on his microcassette recorder. He didn’t want to miss a word. Pat Robertson with his Pan-Cake makeup couldn’t hold a candle to this guy.
“That young man isn’t stopping to think that every day he spends out of touch with God is a day that can never, ever be reclaimed. Those two young lovers aren’t stopping to think of how their deeds will be held accountable in the afterlife. That woman loaded with shopping bags most likely never gave a thought to the real value of life. Most likely none of them even believe in an afterlife. They’re like the Romans who stood blindly aside while our Lord was crucified. If they ever do stop to think about the afterlife, they probably just tell themselves that they’ll die and be put in a coffin and buried, and that’s it.
“Except, my brothers and sisters, that is not it. I’ve held a lot of jobs in my life, and one of them was a mortuary assistant. So I speak to you with confidence. When you die, that is not the end. It is just the beginning. I’ve seen what happens to the dead with my own eyes.”
Harriman noticed that the crowd, though growing all the time, had fallen utterly silent. Nobody seemed to move. Harriman realized he, too, was almost holding his breath, waiting to hear what the man would say next.
“Perhaps our important young man with the cell phone will be lucky enough to be buried in the middle of winter. That tends to slow things down a piece. But sooner or later—usually sooner—the dinner guests arrive. First come the blowflies, Phormia regina, to lay their eggs. In a fresh corpse, there’s a population explosion of sorts. That kind of population growth—we’re talking half a dozen generations here—adds up to tens of thousands of maggots, always moving, always hungry. The larvae themselves generate so much heat that those at the center must crawl out to the edges to cool before burrowing back in again to the task at hand. In time-lapse photography, it all becomes a boiling, churning storm. And, of course, the maggots are only the first arrivals. In time, the fragrance of decomposition brings a host of others. But I see no reason to trouble you with all the details.
“So much, my friends, for resting in peace.