The attached painting was based on a person I saw while attending a hotel Thanksgiving buffet last year. Honest to God, this man looked like a character from a Tin Tin cartoon. Maybe there was a Belgian comic convention in town and I didn’t get the invite. But whatever was the case, this man, who trounced around the hotel dining room in a large blue military trench coat, with his bushy jet black eyebrows and a matching untrimmed cookie duster mustache were truly fantastic. His facial hair was counter balanced the shock of white hair that topped his head. If ever there was a character to paint, he was it! As for the background, such a person required a mysterious setting.

Once I finished the image and after a few months of staring at it, I was inspired to create the following short story.

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Faustus Leandro kept his breathing shallow during his morning inspection of the necropolis. Either the fog rolling off the Targus River was acrid and foul, or the crematorium was dispatching a few customers this morning.

The latter was the more likely, since he didn’t get any air quality warnings of it being higher than their usually toxic levels. Then again, over the last decade, the government has been less than consistent with releasing daily reports.

Faustus suspected they were trying to hide the true nature of the dangers in the air. Ever since the end of the US-Chino war they stopped including radiation levels and atmospheric pressures in the reporting. Given how many nukes were released in that war, it was foolish to think the atmosphere lacked residual radiation.

Faustus continued on his walk.

It was quiet and desolate wandering through the mausoleums and above-ground crypts. Other people’s fear of mortality compels them to avoid traipsing around in burial grounds, but Faustus found them to be comforting, solemn reminders that the chaos and pain of life is only a fleeting moment in the infinite.

Within these walls of Cemitério do Alto de São João he found an escape from the mayhem of a collapsing civilization. There were no man-made catastrophes, no food riots, no oil or water wars, no babies crying from hunger.

The only disruptions were the occasional grieving and wailing of mourners.

The quietude of this place was what initially brought Faustus here for walks. For years it was a routine that helped him to deal with the crumbling of the world. This was especially true after he was replaced at his pipe-fitting job by the AIx-37, the latest automaton that quickly took over all manual labor.

But instead of fixating on humanity’s dwindling usefulness, Faustus chose to distract his mind by observing the lost art and architecture of the sepulchers.

This cemitério held the best examples of those in all of Lisbon.

Such as the Viscount of Valmor mausoleum, with its bold angles and ornate cornice befitting the royal bones tucked inside, the mausoleum of Commander João Ferreira dos Santos with its blue marble Roman columns pointing up to the statue topping the dome that is his wife standing with arms open wide in grief at his death; or the Mateo Benito Garcia family mausoleum whose edifice is a combination of Rococo inspired stonework fronted by an Art Deco ironwork entrance. These were just a small sample of the visual delights to be found in this burial place.

Faustus had spent almost ten years meandering and gazing at these memorials. He had traversed this place so often that he’d memorized the locations and names of the inhabitants and thought of them as fond silent friends.

However, for the last three years, these morning walks had become part of his assumed duties as self-appointed caretaker of Cemitério do Alto de São João. The original caretaker, Javier, left after being informed that the city was bankrupt and could no longer pay his stipend.

When Javier relayed the bad news to Faustus, he mentioned that he’d also have to permanently lock the gates of the cemitério since it would become a target of grave robbers. Faustus shuddered at the possibility of losing access to his ruminative utopia. That’s when he asked Javier if he could volunteer to take over as caretaker.

Javier was happy to oblige the wish. After a brief training on the duties involved—sweeping, trash emptying, crematorium cleaning, and the occasional grass cutting—Faustus was given the keys to the gates.

Faustus remembered what Javier said as he walked through the gates for the last time.

“Today, you can leave on your feet, but eventually you’ll return on your back.”

Faustus snorted at the memory and stepped through the smelly fog.

In a way, he was thankful that the city went bankrupt. While this meant that they couldn’t pay him a stipend, more importantly it meant they also couldn’t afford to place one of those damn AIx-37s here to parade the grounds.

This left him to freely walk amongst the crypts, inspecting each one with a careful eye, as if he were a homeowner scrutinizing a prospective new dwelling.

He noted that some of the above-ground crypts were badly in need of repair. Many had broken windows on the doors from old attempted grave robberies. The curtains on the windows were deteriorating. The faded photos of loved ones hung askew in the crypt entrances. Worst of all, the city’s acrid pollution was taking its toll by eating away at the masonry.

Such was the consequence of human malfeasance at the end of the 21st century, which was closing like a coffin lid on mankind. Humanity had pounded in their fate in just under 100 years with nails made from avarice, gluttony, and hatred.

The cult of Trump sped this along and worked like a cancer to poison the United States with pollution, disease, and war until it became a ruined, irradiated hellscape. Unfortunately, like any cancer, it metastasized and spread its malignancy around the globe.

Unlike the United States, which quickly committed national suicide under the misrule of Trump and his followers, Portugal had managed to hold off for fifty years to avoid the hazards facing the countries who fell to corrupt oligarchs and autocrats.

Portugal, having prior experience with the dangers of dictatorship during the 20th century, resisted nationalist and fascist pushes in its politics longer than many of the members of the EU. Yet eventually, they too fell prey to lies of strongmen when the byproducts of man’s disasters arrived mid-century. People’s good sense in leadership took flight when the seas rose enough to constantly flood Lisbon and the southern coast. By 2070, Portugal had become like the rest of the planet: anarchy and disorder.

Faustus was glad that at least when he was a child, his parents had taken him every summer for visits to the beaches of Faro. At least his memories couldn’t be drowned in 10 meters of sea water.

He tried to pull his mind back to more tranquil thoughts while he strolled the cobblestone paths of the cemitério.

As he rounded the corner of a path and headed towards the tomb of Ary dos Santos, through the mist, he thought he saw a figure sitting on the bench next to the tomb.

As he got nearer, he saw that it was indeed a man sitting the bench. This surprised him since it has now become such a rarity to see visitors, especially when he hasn’t opened the front gates!

The man, who was of dark complexion and rail-thin in build, was dressed in Victorian garb from the late 1800s.

A pair of highly polished, pointed-toe shoes led up to high-waisted, black flannel plaid pants. Above that, a dark grey double-breasted vest encased a fine white silk dress shirt topped with a red cravat. Over it all, he wore a black frock coat, and crowning his head of grey tinged, curly hair was a black silk top hat.

If Faustus didn’t know better, he might have thought that a resident from an old crypt decided to take a morning stroll.

The man stood up from the bench as Faustus walked up. This allowed Faustus to more closely scrutinize the man. He looked to be in his mid-thirties but had somber eyes that expressed an experience that seemed far older.

“Hello Faustus.” The man spoke in an English baritone.

Faustus was taken aback by this. “Uh…Bom dia? Do I know you? How’d you get in here? I haven’t opened the gates yet!”

The man spoke again, although directing his comment in a more reflective mutter: “Ahh, small details. Small details. Why is it people never see the obvious?” He turned his gaze back at Faustus.

“Why, dear Faustus, let me put your mind at ease. My name is Mortimer D. Owuo. I’m here to collect you.”

“Collect?”

“Oh come now, surely a man who has spent so much time perusing the domain of the dead must be able to recognize one of its functionaries?”

Faustus stood there somewhat flabbergasted. He began to think that this man was possibly perpetrating ruse to distract him while a criminal associate was robbing one of the tombs.

“I can assure you that I’m no grave robber, nor do I have an accomplice prowling through the dusty remains of a crypt.”

“How’d you know…” Faustus queried in puzzlement.

“…that was what you were thinking? It’s a simple parlor trick. When you’ve been around as long as I have, it comes naturally, or unnaturally, depending on your view.”

Faustus grew slightly pale as he comprehended the situation. Mortimer then rolled his eyes as if bored.

“Yes, yes, I’m here to do that kind of collecting. I’m what you’d call a grim reaper. Your name came up in my little book, and here I am.”

Mortimer produced a tiny notebook from an inside pocket of his coat and waved it around in the air.

“Now, be a good man and come along.”

Faustus finally found his voice.

“BUT I, I, I’M NOT READY, MISTER REAPER! I FEEL FINE! Fit as a fiddle! All my walking! Good for the coração! Mãe de Deus!” He then thought about his duties and responsibilities to the cemetery as if grasping for an excuse. “Who will oversee this place? There’s nobody else to care for it!”

Mortimer considered the protestations emanating from Faustus.

Mortimer replied,“True, it would be a grave injustice to remove someone who respects and takes great care of these memorials to the deceased.”

Mortimer paused as he looked around. “Hmm. Perhaps there’s a solution I can offer you. Oh, and please call me Mort. It’s less dreadful sounding than all that formal “Mr. Reaper,” “Messier Death,” or “La Santa Muerte” stuff. It gets so tiresome.”

“These last two centuries, I’ve grown weary from my time as a reaper. Man’s capacity to efficiently kill in ever greater numbers has made my job…um…far too…diff…uh…EASY. I could really use a change of careers, like maybe being a cemetery caretaker, for example.”

Faustus realized the bargain the reaper was hinting at. He considered his options: accept the infinite unknown of death or accept a job as a grim reaper. At least with the latter, he could come back here now and then to look in on how the cemitério is being maintained.

Mortimer added, “Don’t worry, I’d take excellent care of this place.”

“Tell me more…uh, Mort, about being a reaper. It seems like a job that may be too large to handle.”

“Oh, not at all! You merely look at the names that appear in your little book, then make sure those people get on their way. There are perks too! Free travel! You get to see the world and meet all kinds of people. Oh sure, they’re either dead or in the process of dying, but still, it’s a great job for those who enjoy helping others.”

“Free travel?” Faustus thought. He was puzzled by that. He wondered if this involved an unlimited Eurail pass. He always wanted to see more of Europe.

“Yes. Free. And no, it doesn’t involve trains, buses, or rideshares.”

Mort’s ability to read minds was starting to annoy Faustus.

“If you want to see how you’ll be getting around, take a look over at the in-ground graves.” Mort then pointed to the field of graves that were behind the tombs on the path.

Faustus could see a large, pale, somewhat bony, white horse wearing a black saddle. It was grazing on the grass growing in that area.

“That’s your ride. Her name is “Despair.” She’s a lovely ride but can have a bit of an attitude if she doesn’t get her fill of graveyard grass.”

“De, de…Despair?” Faustus sputtered. The thought of riding a horse gave him second thoughts about this offer. He’d never ridden a horse in his life and was nervous at the prospect of trotting the globe on this gaunt trotter.

“Pip, Pip, you’ll be fine. I wasn’t much of an equestrian when I first accepted the position either.”

“Wait. You aren’t the original Death?”

“Ha! No, no, no. There’s never been one Death for all humanity. Being a reaper is more like a freelance temp job, except the temp position can last centuries. Also, there’s not just one person handling all of the earth; there are dozens of us. Additionally, some are assigned to handle only certain religions. Trust me, you never want to take a position in the Jehovah’s Witness division, unless you like answering endless inane questions from dead, joyless sad sacks.”

“I once considered moving over to the Hindu or Tibetan divisions since I heard that they don’t do much of anything. But then I saw how much paperwork is involved in processing endless reincarnations! Eeesh. No thanks! I’ll stick with the standard Reaper division. Lots of travel and you get to make your own hours, that is, once you get a handle on meta-multidimensional temporal distortions.”

“Meta-multi what?”

“Don’t be pigeon-livered, Faustus! You’ll do fine! After all, would you prefer to keep living and have an interesting change of careers, or would you rather I cast you off into being just another lump of dust in the wind?”

Despite his misgivings, Faustus preferred the former option.

“Ah! That’s a good fellow!”

More mind reading to annoy Faustus, who tried to speak quicker than he could think in order to stymie Mortimer’s parlor tricks.

“Alright, I accept!” he blurted out. “What do I need to do? Do I need to sign any paperwork in blood?”

“No. There’s none of that. I only need to hand you a couple of items and introduce you to the lovely Despair.”

They started walking over to the mare. Faustus tried to impress upon Mortimer the various duties required to upkeep the cemitério.

“And don’t forget to wash the edifice fronts. Especially after the acid rain. There’s also trimming of ivy. And…”

Mortimer put his arm around Faustus’s shoulder as a way to put him at ease.

“Tut, tut, dear boy, I’ll take great care of this place. Nothing to worry about. I’ve got centuries of experience in the old graveyard biz.”

As they got nearer to the horse, who was happily munching away on the grass of the dead, Mortimer pulled a few items from his pockets.

“Faustus, here are the items that will make you officially a grim reaper. First, we have your book of names.” He handed Faustus the small pocket notebook. “You’ll check this every morning. It will list your itinerary of names and addresses of who you’ll be collecting.”

“This tiny book will hold all the names?” Faustus held it up in curiosity.

“It self-updates. Wondrous bit of magic, heh? Who needs a smartphone when you have a magic notebook! Next, here’s a pencil to check off the names.”

“Is it magic? Does it self-sharpen?”

“No. It’s just a pencil. Don’t overthink it, pal. Also, you also get this: a pocket scythe.”

“Pocket?”

“Ever try riding on a horse while carrying a large scythe? It’s a cumbersome pain in the ass! After a century of complaining, some of the other reapers and I convinced the head office to downsize for better portability. Now when you come to collect a person, you only need to unfold this handy little unit, wave it over their head, and—poof!—their soul travels off to eternity! Easy peasy.”

Faustus was visibly impressed.

“And lastly, it’s time for you to get to know Despair. Dessy old girl, say hello to Faustus. He’ll be your new associate.”

Despair stared down at Faustus. Her eyes gleamed with starlight. She shot small flames from her nose and huffed at him standing there.

“Now, Dessy. Be good. Faustus here just wants to be friends with you.” Mortimer then produced a small burlap bag from his coat pocket.

“I almost forgot to give you these. They’re treats for Dessy. They’ll ensure that she takes an immediate liking to you.”

He handed the bag to Faustus, then gave Dessy a pat on her muzzle.

“Don’t worry, Dessy, my friend. I’ll see you when you visit. I’ll be here.” Mortimer then turned back to Faustus. “If you have any questions, be sure to ask Dessy; she’s a font of knowledge. Au revoir!”

Upon saying that, Mortimer Owuo faded into the mist. Faustus stood there with the mare, who nudged his arm holding the burlap bag.

“I guess we better get more acquainted, heh?” He opened the burlap bag and looked inside.

He grimaced as he pulled forth a rotten human finger and held it in front of the horse. Dessy greedily snatched it from his hand and chomped it down. Afterwards, she trotted in a small circle, made a strong whinny, and turned back to Faustus. She then made a guttural rumble as she cleared her throat.

“Why are you just standing there? Hop up on the saddle. And don’t be stingy with the fingers!”

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I hope you enjoyed that. I welcome any readers to create their own stories to go with my painting. Those that are fabulous, I’ll append to this post!

Cheers,
Ed

Which may explain why the Republi…

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My next-door neighbor has a daughter, who I’ll call “Penny” for this story.

Penny is a short, unremarkable-looking woman in her 50s. However, what does make her exceptional is her extraordinary love for a good bargain.

P…

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First, it was the July 4th getaway. After that, I spent my time renovating our home’s bathroom. If any of you have read or listened about my previous experiences working on my house, you’d know construction on it is a combination of archaeological dig and troublesome ex…

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It was the fall of 2009. My beloved, Debra, and I had now been living in Portland, Oregon for a little over a year after relocating from Montclair, New Jersey, a fairly upscale town about 10 miles west of New York City.

As part of making Portland our new home and to get a feel of its vibe, we decided to hit up the various nightclubs around town. This also gave us a way to meet people and possibly make some new friends here in the Rose city.

While attending a “Goth” night held at one of the larger clubs, my ever-convivial partner Debra, struck up a conversation with a woman who was complimenting her for the fabulous latex dress she was wearing.

Apparently Latex clothing was something of a rare commodity here in the Pacific Northwest. and was possibly a sign of refinement and daring personality to the average club attendee.

Deb and this woman, whose name I can’t remember, but I’ll call her “Eva” for this story, chatted for a bit and then they exchange numbers. The woman, a short, rather curvy burlesque dancer in her late twenties, expressed that she’d love to invite us out to other events around town.

Over the next few weeks, the two of them chatted back and forth via text until eventually Eva invited us to a house party at her boyfriend’s house.

When Deb told me about the invite I said, “How quaint, a house party. At least there isn’t a cover charge.”

Deb said I should can my apprehensions and go with the flow. “Who knows” she said, “Maybe we’ll meet some really cool people!”

“You mean cool like that weirdo Viking we met at the Norse Hall last May?” I countered.

Deb laughed. “Oh gosh, I hope not! Come on, what do we have to lose?”

Despite my general distrust of strangers, I eventually acquiesced to her demands that we attend the house party.

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Portland, Oregon 2010

My pal Jay wanted to go like gangbusters with cameras rolling into the restaurant, as if he was Geraldo Rivera charging into Al Capone’s vault.

Or would it have been more like Maury Povich, storming the stage with a paternity test?

It’s hard to tell sometimes with Jay, the loose cannon of hilarity.

Either way, being that I was the one who was trained in documentary film making, I had to remind him of the legal implications of filming at locations without signed permissions or releases.

Jay acquiesced in his request for filmed chaos, and instead we walked through the doors of the Hung Far Low Chinese restaurant on 82nd Ave. like regular customers at dinnertime.

We where there to attend a meet up of Portland Witches and Pagans.

As we entered I asked Jay, “How are we gonna know the group we’re looking for in this joint?”

Jay smiled and responded, “You see how empty the place is? Just look for the pointy hats.”

He was right. The restaurant was empty except for a four people sitting at a round table near the back of the dining room.

As we walked towards the table, I made mental notes about Hung Far Low. The exterior of the building had all the charm of a check cashing business, with a dash of dive bar that screamed “Video Poker Played Here.”

However the interior of the restaurant gave mighty effort to hide its gritty saloon facade under a decor of Chinese ornamentation and very dim lighting.

Some people see such lighting as romantic.

But whenever I see dim lighting in a restaurant, it always make me question the validity of any Department of Health inspections.

The darker the lighting, the bigger the cockroaches under your table.

That’s a rule of dining I learned while living in New York City, a place where there were far too many bad dining experiences in near total darkness.

Jay walked up to the table first.

“Is this the meetup of Portland Witches and Pagans?”

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My girlfriend (now wife) Deb and I moved from the New York City area to Portland, Oregon around the end of October in 2008.

As part of our move, we spent the next year getting to know our new home by attending various cultural festivals.

We got a chance to see what kind of ethnicities made up this town from these events.

Polish Fest, Greek fest, Scottish Fest all proved to be great fun. We enjoyed the food, tried the specialty drinks and desserts, and watched all the cultural performances.

When we read about the Syttende Mai Celebration at the Norse Hall in Portland, we were excited to see a Nordic ethnic celebration. Such a thing we never encountered back in New York City.

Which explains why, although some of Deb’s ancestors came from Denmark, she really didn’t know much about the traditions or culture.

However she wouldn’t learn much at the Syttende Mai Celebration since it’s actually a celebration of Norway’s Constitution Day.

But we still decided to go and figured it was close enough to some kind of Danish heritage.

Just never say that to anyone who’s Danish or Norwegian if you know what’s good for you!

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A person knows they’re officially working in the ad business when they conclude the world would be better off without advertising; also that the agency where they’re employed is possibly controlled by a pack of dangerous escapees from a local mental hospital.

Such was the case at the first real ad agency job that I landed in 1990.

After spending a year hanging out and working in Buffalo, NY after graduating college in 1987, I finally decide to make the move to the “Big City.”

Which in my case was Port Jefferson in Long Island, NY, where I could crash at my sister’s apartment for a few months. From there I had a plan to get a big New York City ad agency gig which could then afford me a swanky Manhattan apartment.

Unfortunately reality had different plans for me.

Much to my dismay, I learned that Port Jefferson was far away from NYC. It was about two plus hours from Manhattan. Being flat broke as I was, affording the commute every day wasn’t feasible. These setbacks made me painfully aware that I was a hopeless rube.

However I did know how to create newspaper ads, so I spent the next two years bouncing around between various local Penny Saver paste-up and layout jobs. Thanks to my pluck, and luck, I eventually transitioned to the up-and-coming world of desktop computer enabled design and layout jobs.

That’s what helped me land a gig at my first “real” ad agency which was called “Step Shelton.”

Their main clients were Tri-State area car dealerships located in the New York City region.

Even though it was a job laying out ads for car sales in an agency of only about twenty people that was located in Farmingdale, it was one whole county and one hour closer to NYC. I considered this a step up into big leagues.

After a month I discovered is was more of a step sideways into the minor leagues.

This was due mostly to witnessing the antics of the guys who ran the joint.

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This is the first post for a future book project I’m tentatively calling “Strange Ducks.”

It’s a collection of drawings and short stories about the various interesting people I’ve met along the road of life.

These stories will …

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