The Marquis’ Intimate Diary

MONDAY, 29 NOVEMBER, 1999, PHILADELPHIA
My day job is somewhat peculiar. I work in the lobby of an immense factory/boiler room-type edifice. I am somewhere between a snooty concierge and Julie the Cruise Director. I greet the dead as they arrive at their first station of their new consciousness. I am supposed to pat their backs, let them know everything will be okay, point them to their cabins, and explain the Policies of Death to them. Problem is, I’m working one helluva double shift. It’s been close to 5,ooo years since I’ve had a coffee break or a smoke break. And I tell ya, I’m getting pretty cranky.

I just greeted a middle-aged woman who was shaking and tearful — must have had a particularly harrowing death — and I found that I had depleted my endless reservoire of tolerance and empathy. “Shut up, you!” I barked, “Sorry you’re dead ‘n everything, but I have a job to do. Now listen up…”

I feel bad for the woman, and want to explain to her, look, dying sucks I guess, but I have been standing here greeting people for 5,ooo years and I just don’t care anymore!