Clancy's Place
A chance encounter with death.
Clancy's Place was George's favorite restaurant; he ate there as often as he could, so perhaps it was right that he met Death there.
A culinary review would have called the place pretentious or a "diamond in a cow field", but there weren't any culinary reviews in Portales, New Mexico, and George loved the establishment.
It was built in a turn of the last century bank, with its extremely high ceilings and Georgian architecture. A hundred painting of various sizes and frame style decorated the walls which had been restored with antique wall paper suitable to the style.
The furniture was dark stained cherry with the most stark white table clothes George had ever seen.
He always felt good when he came here, even though it was a place out of place amongst the western steakhouses and backstreet Mexican kitchens. There was an elegance to the place that was right.
A polite college student dressed in black with a white apron asked if she could get him something to drink before his meal.
George was normally an ice tea person, but when he came to Clancy's he had the merlot and a glass of seltzer with lemon, then no matter what he ordered he knew the drinks would complement the meal.
Today he decided to have the grilled quail with wild rice and asparagus, he had it before and it was one of his favorite dishes. With the meal ordered he relaxed into the leather upholstered armchair and took comfort in listening to the leather creaking like joints popping during a stretch.
While he sipped his merlot his eyes wandered to the soapstone fireplace, it's surface swirled with whites and browns like cream in coffee and there above it was the mirror with its gilded frame.
He loved looking at the mirror because it let him watch the other patrons without obviously staring, but tonight what he saw made his blood freeze like ice.
At the booth just behind George a figure sat, sprawled in a unseemly manner. It was covered in layers of gauze like material which looked to be so heavily stained that it was almost black. The cloth was torn and rotted in a thousand places until it hung in tatters. The material that covered the figures head had been torn away until it looked like some sort of cowl or hood and from that hood, peered a skull of dingy gray.
George would have screamed and run away had it not been for the ludicrous way the specter was picking its teeth with its scythe. Seeing George stare at it in the mirror, it self-consciously snatched the scythe away and sat up straight.
George would have laughed but he was fairly certain he had just caught Death or some other dark spirit in a fopah and the two concepts did nothing to eliminate each other.
If the figure had not noticed George looking perhaps he could have stood and left pretending he had not seen the awful animated skeletal figure with its trademark harvesting device. Perhaps he should run as fast as he could and never come back to Clancy's. The latter seemed best except that his legs were riveted in place.
George fought hard to control his other bodily functions which threatened to relax and soil his clothing. He slowly turned his head to look behind him and confront his doom face to grinning skull, but there in the booth was a rather obese man who fluttered in fingers in a rather embarrassed wave at George.
George relaxed appropriate muscles and tightened others and smiled at the portly man, he could feel his pulse thundering in his ears but his breaths came more easily.
I must not have seen what I thought I saw. George comforted himself and let his eyes wander back to the mirror, where Death was rocking and scooting itself in an attempt to free itself from the leather covered booth.
Georges breath hissed out in a gurgled rasp as he watched the shrouded figure move to his table. His head snapped around to look behind him and there was the portly man smiling jovially.
Why would my mind snap, I've had a boring life, a normal life.
George looked with suspicion at the French wine, he had read somewhere that ergot could grow on cork or the surface of ill kept wine. No one had ever taught George what well kept wine was supposed to taste like let alone ill kept wine.
The large man who resembled no one so much as Oliver Hardy was sitting down. George kept expecting him to shyly wave his thin tie in some sort of Vaudevillian greeting.
Looking over the fat mans shoulder George could clearly see the specter of Death in the mirror. Hardy's motions were exactly the same as the Grim Reapers.
No sooner had Hardy/Death sat down then the waitress came back carrying Georges appetizer of stuffed mushrooms. Hardy looked at her with a smile that dimpled his chubby cheeks. "I'll be having my dinner here, Miss." She smiled and nodded her head, then left, a few minutes later she was back with a tray of oysters that she put down in front of Hardy/Death. George was frozen in his chair.
George managed to stammer, "You're. . . Da. . . .Da. . . .Da."
Hardy/Death reached across the table and shaped Georges mouth and in a passable imitation of Georges voice said, "Death."
"Yep, that's me. Been doing this job for longer than I can remember."
George went cold and felt sweat tickling down his back. "I'm healthy, the doctor says I'm in great shape."
Hardy/Death looked George up and down and said, "Yes, you look in wonderful shape."
"I don't have any enemies, I'm a great guy, everybody likes me."
"Yes, I've heard that about you. Hey your mushrooms are getting cold."
George unconsciously picked up his fork and stabbed one of the bacon stuffed mushrooms and lifted it to his mouth. Hardy/Death licked his lips and smiled disarmingly. A thought flitted across Georges mind and he lowered the fork. He stared at Hardy/Death through squinted eyes and put the mushroom back on the plate.
"It's poison!"
"Really! It looks like a morel to me. Are you sure it's poison?"
George's eyes took on a crazed and hunted look, "I'll choke on it!"
"Well if you're not going to eat them may I."
George slid the small plate across the table to Hardy/Death, who ate them with great relish. "Wow these are great! I see why you get them all the time."
George busied himself checking that he wasn't beneath a chandelier and that his chair was in good repair.
"I don't smoke, or drink to excess."
Hardy/Death nodded as he chewed the mushrooms with their savory stuffing.
The waitress appeared with the quail and a steak with lobster for Hardy/Death. She set a glass of something that looked like a cocktail down in front of Hardy/Death and refilled Georges merlot.
"It's gone bad hasn't it?"
"What's gone 'bad'?"
"The quail. It's going to give me food poisoning isn't it?" George asked.
"It smells wonderful."
Hardy/Death loudly chewed his steak and dismembered the lobster without ceremony and stared across the table at George.
George's appetite was gone. His brain was fevered with thousands of possibilities of how it was going to happen. He only watched as the apparition reached across the table and slid the plate over in front of him. George made it a point not to look into the mirror as Death ate the quail.
Desert came and George didn't bother, he slid the rich cheesecake and black coffee across the table to Hardy/Death.
"I'm not going to help you" George said.
"Help me do what?"
"Kill me."
"Oh, I don't do that, you guys do that all by yourselves. I just point souls is the correct direction. I used to have a boat, back when the Greeks were in charge, and then when the Romans took over they thought that was a good idea too so I got to keep the boat, but when the Christians took over, I got a horse and this scythe. I keep hoping that Detroit will become the new seat of power and then I'll get a sports car and a pistol with some bling. But no such luck yet."
George knew it was a farce, some sort of distraction to allow some tragedy to sweep him up. As Hardy/Death stood up to leave, George expected to be cut down with the scythe at any moment. In Hardy's hands it looked like a simple cane, but in the mirror the instruments edge glinted between brown stains.
Hardy/Death walked out of the front door of the restaurant, grabbing a handful of peppermints as he walked past the register and pointed to George.
It took a moment for realization to dawn on George but when he looked down at the two checks which totaled more than two hundred dollars it came to him like a thunderbolt, it wasn't choking, or poison or anything else. Death had stiffed him with the check!
A culinary review would have called the place pretentious or a "diamond in a cow field", but there weren't any culinary reviews in Portales, New Mexico, and George loved the establishment.
It was built in a turn of the last century bank, with its extremely high ceilings and Georgian architecture. A hundred painting of various sizes and frame style decorated the walls which had been restored with antique wall paper suitable to the style.
The furniture was dark stained cherry with the most stark white table clothes George had ever seen.
He always felt good when he came here, even though it was a place out of place amongst the western steakhouses and backstreet Mexican kitchens. There was an elegance to the place that was right.
A polite college student dressed in black with a white apron asked if she could get him something to drink before his meal.
George was normally an ice tea person, but when he came to Clancy's he had the merlot and a glass of seltzer with lemon, then no matter what he ordered he knew the drinks would complement the meal.
Today he decided to have the grilled quail with wild rice and asparagus, he had it before and it was one of his favorite dishes. With the meal ordered he relaxed into the leather upholstered armchair and took comfort in listening to the leather creaking like joints popping during a stretch.
While he sipped his merlot his eyes wandered to the soapstone fireplace, it's surface swirled with whites and browns like cream in coffee and there above it was the mirror with its gilded frame.
He loved looking at the mirror because it let him watch the other patrons without obviously staring, but tonight what he saw made his blood freeze like ice.
At the booth just behind George a figure sat, sprawled in a unseemly manner. It was covered in layers of gauze like material which looked to be so heavily stained that it was almost black. The cloth was torn and rotted in a thousand places until it hung in tatters. The material that covered the figures head had been torn away until it looked like some sort of cowl or hood and from that hood, peered a skull of dingy gray.
George would have screamed and run away had it not been for the ludicrous way the specter was picking its teeth with its scythe. Seeing George stare at it in the mirror, it self-consciously snatched the scythe away and sat up straight.
George would have laughed but he was fairly certain he had just caught Death or some other dark spirit in a fopah and the two concepts did nothing to eliminate each other.
If the figure had not noticed George looking perhaps he could have stood and left pretending he had not seen the awful animated skeletal figure with its trademark harvesting device. Perhaps he should run as fast as he could and never come back to Clancy's. The latter seemed best except that his legs were riveted in place.
George fought hard to control his other bodily functions which threatened to relax and soil his clothing. He slowly turned his head to look behind him and confront his doom face to grinning skull, but there in the booth was a rather obese man who fluttered in fingers in a rather embarrassed wave at George.
George relaxed appropriate muscles and tightened others and smiled at the portly man, he could feel his pulse thundering in his ears but his breaths came more easily.
I must not have seen what I thought I saw. George comforted himself and let his eyes wander back to the mirror, where Death was rocking and scooting itself in an attempt to free itself from the leather covered booth.
Georges breath hissed out in a gurgled rasp as he watched the shrouded figure move to his table. His head snapped around to look behind him and there was the portly man smiling jovially.
Why would my mind snap, I've had a boring life, a normal life.
George looked with suspicion at the French wine, he had read somewhere that ergot could grow on cork or the surface of ill kept wine. No one had ever taught George what well kept wine was supposed to taste like let alone ill kept wine.
The large man who resembled no one so much as Oliver Hardy was sitting down. George kept expecting him to shyly wave his thin tie in some sort of Vaudevillian greeting.
Looking over the fat mans shoulder George could clearly see the specter of Death in the mirror. Hardy's motions were exactly the same as the Grim Reapers.
No sooner had Hardy/Death sat down then the waitress came back carrying Georges appetizer of stuffed mushrooms. Hardy looked at her with a smile that dimpled his chubby cheeks. "I'll be having my dinner here, Miss." She smiled and nodded her head, then left, a few minutes later she was back with a tray of oysters that she put down in front of Hardy/Death. George was frozen in his chair.
George managed to stammer, "You're. . . Da. . . .Da. . . .Da."
Hardy/Death reached across the table and shaped Georges mouth and in a passable imitation of Georges voice said, "Death."
"Yep, that's me. Been doing this job for longer than I can remember."
George went cold and felt sweat tickling down his back. "I'm healthy, the doctor says I'm in great shape."
Hardy/Death looked George up and down and said, "Yes, you look in wonderful shape."
"I don't have any enemies, I'm a great guy, everybody likes me."
"Yes, I've heard that about you. Hey your mushrooms are getting cold."
George unconsciously picked up his fork and stabbed one of the bacon stuffed mushrooms and lifted it to his mouth. Hardy/Death licked his lips and smiled disarmingly. A thought flitted across Georges mind and he lowered the fork. He stared at Hardy/Death through squinted eyes and put the mushroom back on the plate.
"It's poison!"
"Really! It looks like a morel to me. Are you sure it's poison?"
George's eyes took on a crazed and hunted look, "I'll choke on it!"
"Well if you're not going to eat them may I."
George slid the small plate across the table to Hardy/Death, who ate them with great relish. "Wow these are great! I see why you get them all the time."
George busied himself checking that he wasn't beneath a chandelier and that his chair was in good repair.
"I don't smoke, or drink to excess."
Hardy/Death nodded as he chewed the mushrooms with their savory stuffing.
The waitress appeared with the quail and a steak with lobster for Hardy/Death. She set a glass of something that looked like a cocktail down in front of Hardy/Death and refilled Georges merlot.
"It's gone bad hasn't it?"
"What's gone 'bad'?"
"The quail. It's going to give me food poisoning isn't it?" George asked.
"It smells wonderful."
Hardy/Death loudly chewed his steak and dismembered the lobster without ceremony and stared across the table at George.
George's appetite was gone. His brain was fevered with thousands of possibilities of how it was going to happen. He only watched as the apparition reached across the table and slid the plate over in front of him. George made it a point not to look into the mirror as Death ate the quail.
Desert came and George didn't bother, he slid the rich cheesecake and black coffee across the table to Hardy/Death.
"I'm not going to help you" George said.
"Help me do what?"
"Kill me."
"Oh, I don't do that, you guys do that all by yourselves. I just point souls is the correct direction. I used to have a boat, back when the Greeks were in charge, and then when the Romans took over they thought that was a good idea too so I got to keep the boat, but when the Christians took over, I got a horse and this scythe. I keep hoping that Detroit will become the new seat of power and then I'll get a sports car and a pistol with some bling. But no such luck yet."
George knew it was a farce, some sort of distraction to allow some tragedy to sweep him up. As Hardy/Death stood up to leave, George expected to be cut down with the scythe at any moment. In Hardy's hands it looked like a simple cane, but in the mirror the instruments edge glinted between brown stains.
Hardy/Death walked out of the front door of the restaurant, grabbing a handful of peppermints as he walked past the register and pointed to George.
It took a moment for realization to dawn on George but when he looked down at the two checks which totaled more than two hundred dollars it came to him like a thunderbolt, it wasn't choking, or poison or anything else. Death had stiffed him with the check!
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