“No way,” he said, shaking his head. “If I knew when I was going to die, I’d become obsessed with changing the outcome in any way I could. And then I’d end up living a miserable life anyway.”
It annoyed me that I agreed with him.
Tabitha looked serenely across the table at Sebastian. “Personally,” she said, toying with her crystal, “I think I’d like to know. It would allow me to prioritize things a little. If you knew exactly how much time you had left, you’d be more likely to use it wisely, right?”
At the head of the table, Phil nodded thoughtfully. “That’s true, Tabitha. But the thing is, we all know we’re going to die—that’s guaranteed. So shouldn’t we be making the most of our lives anyway?”
“Yes,” I said, surprised at myself for speaking up and instantly regretting it as everyone focused on me. “The reason so many people die with regrets is because they live like they’re invincible. They don’t really think about their death until right before it happens.”
What most people don’t consider is that death is often random and cruel. It doesn’t care if you’ve been kind all your life. Or if you’ve eaten healthily, exercised often, and always worn a seat belt or a helmet. It doesn’t care that a loved one left behind might spend the rest of their lives replaying events in their head, tormented by the words “if only.” People tell themselves they’ve got plenty of time, until they’re at the mercy of a careless action—a driver on their cellphone, a neighbor who left a candle burning. And by then, it’s too late.
“It’s kind of like that Brad Pitt movie,” Sebastian interjected. “The one where he’s death in human form and he comes for Anthony Hopkins but then falls in love with the daughter.”
My annoyance at Sebastian deepened knowing that he was well acquainted with another of my favorite movies.
The blond, bearded guy next to Tabitha rolled his eyes. “Bro, I can’t believe you watched that—it’s like four hours long.”
“I grew up with three sisters,” Sebastian said, shrugging. “And it’s actually not that bad. It has a really great soundtrack—Thomas Newman was the composer, I think.”
The blond guy shook his head, even more displeased, and dug his spork into his remaining hunk of fried chicken.
Phil tapped his pen on the table. “And who else has a topic they’d like to discuss?” He was purposely avoiding eye contact with Tabitha, who obviously had more to say and no qualms about dominating the conversation all evening. The discussion moved to more practical matters, like if it should be your decision whether you have a funeral.
The blond guy said he didn’t want one. “Just have a beer—or a joint—in my honor instead,” he proclaimed.
Unsurprisingly, Tabitha had a counter-opinion. “Funerals aren’t for the dead,” she insisted. “They’re for the people left behind to have closure.”
Sebastian nodded emphatically. “Yeah, I think it’s important that people have the chance to say goodbye. And besides, it’s not like you have any control over it—you’re dead.”
I knew it. He’d probably be the type to convince people to buy extra things they didn’t need for the service, like ostentatious floral arrangements and sappy PowerPoint slide shows. I concentrated on holding my tongue until Phil called the meeting to a close and invited everyone to help themselves to the remaining food. As I was about to claim my leftovers, I noticed Sebastian talking to the old man who’d been sitting next to me. He handed the man his business card and patted him on the shoulder—I could barely believe how blatantly he was marking his next target. Appalled, I threw my plate in the trash and hurried out of the building without any leftovers.
Determined not to get caught lingering outside the death café again, I power-walked to the subway. I’d have to get Leo’s ice cream next time. MetroCard in hand, I hurried down the steps, my heart leaping at the sight of the train pulling in as I reached the turnstile. In one motion, I slid my card through the reader and pushed against the revolving bar.
Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep. The green text on the turnstile screen demanded I swipe my card again.
My thigh muscle ached from hitting the bar. Rubbing the magnetic strip of my card on my coat sleeve, I swiped again.
Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep. The screen instructed me to repeat the action.
My hands shook with a mix of frustration and adrenaline as I heard the monotonic announcement echoing from the belly of the 1 train.
“STAND. CLEAR. OF. THE. CLOSING. DOORS. PLEASE.”
I desperately swiped my card a final time and the screen mockingly flashed its final verdict:
Card already used at this turnstile.
I only ever used curse words in my head, and only rarely. Tonight was one of those occasions.
Fuck.
I should’ve slipped under the turnstile and sprinted to the diminishing gap between the doors, but I hesitated too long and watched glumly as the train hissed out of the station. The departures screen compounded my disappointment: nineteen minutes until the next train. An arbitrary New York City transit rule meant I couldn’t swipe my card again for another eighteen minutes since it was registering as just used. I turned to the ticket booth to plead my case, but it was unoccupied—I was at the mercy of an MTA employee’s ill-timed break.
As I considered my options, a disheveled man unzipped his fly and relieved himself on the side of the ticket machine, reinvigorating the scent of urine. A steaming yellow stream arced from between his hands as he tilted his head and sneered at me.
There was no way I was waiting down there.
I power-walked back up the stairs to street level, wondering if I should invest in a fitness tracker to measure all this vigorous exercise. The fluorescent glow of Duane Reade beckoned me in sanctuary. I needed to pick up some vitamins to make up for the recent lack of vegetables in my life, anyway. I set my phone timer for fifteen minutes—exactly enough time to get to the station, with a buffer for any MetroCard mishaps.
A nasal country-music ballad leached from the store’s sound system while I perused the rainbow of multivitamins.
“We meet again!”
I allowed myself to mentally curse again.
Sebastian was standing next to me, hands stuffed in his coat pockets.
“Hi.” I didn’t even attempt friendliness.
“I figured I’d stop by and pick up some allergy medicine,” Sebastian explained. “The pollen count is out of control right now, even though it’s still winter.”
The slight rosy hue surrounding his nostrils seemed to corroborate his alibi, but I didn’t respond.
He tried again. “So, you’re stocking up on vitamins?”
At the thought of enduring any kind of conversation with him, I broke. “Why do you keep following me?” My exasperation made my question louder than I meant it to be. “I don’t want any of whatever it is you’re selling!”
Sebastian clenched his eyebrows, confused. “Selling? What do you mean?”
“Funerals, real estate, life insurance—I don’t know. Whatever you do to swindle people out of their money. I saw you give that guy your business card.”
I jammed the jar of multivitamins back onto the shelf, sending the ones next to it tumbling. We both lunged to catch the cascading jars in a clumsy juggling act.
Sebastian was still shaking his head in confusion as he put the vitamins back on the shelf. “I don’t know what you’re talking about … I mean, I do work at the Federal Reserve, but I’m an economic modeler. That’s not exactly swindling people out of money.”
As I bent down to pick up the remaining jars, I realized that I had indeed allowed my imagination to cultivate a slightly outrageous narrative about Sebastian.
“Well, why do you keep showing up at these death cafés?” I demanded, too proud to admit I might be wrong.
He shrugged, like the answer was obvious. “Like I said, I’ve never really had the chance to talk about death before—emotionally stunted family and all that. I heard about death cafés and thought they might help.”
The burn of embarrassment crept into my cheeks.