“The name of the game is Discys,” she began, stressing that the rules were rather simple. You go to a cemetery and find someone with the same birth month and day. The year doesn’t have to be the same. In fact, it shouldn’t be because that’s where the heart of the game resides. Try to find the oldest you can. That’s part one. Part two involves the same, but you want the year to be later.
“Why?”
“Because you want the longest possible Gap. That’s how you win. Everyone disperses, finds their dates, and then reconvenes. The one with the longest Gap wins.”
“The point is just to have the longest gap?”
“Somewhat. It’s equal parts sport and rudimentary actuary. The Gap is, according to myth, the amount of years you’re going to live.” Here she quoted the air sardonically.
“So, if you’re 28 at the time and gathered a Gap of 124, then you’re in the black with 96 to go?”
“Right. Of course, the reverse is also true, so if you’re 28 but the Gap is 16, then you’re on borrowed time and could go at any moment.”
“Isn’t that kind of Death’s thing, though? A thief in the night?”
“You may be misremembering scripture. Anyway, the go-at-any-moment thing isn’t exactly the problem. It’s that those years you borrowed are going to have to be paid back somehow.”
“Is this where hell comes in?”
“That’s up to you. Remember how I told you sometimes the game causes more torment than fun?”
Miguel shadowed Agustina as she searched for names and years. The plot she had chosen was outlined on three sides by crepe myrtles no doubt closer to the century than the beginning. The smooth branches sagged impatiently toward two young pecans that closed off the section. Thick lavender petals scattered the grass, mixing in with flakes of bark and odd turned leaf falling from the pecans. The green husks hung heavy in the breeze, rattling to the voice of the wind. The longest branches stretched as far as they could, yet a streak of light struck through perfectly between them.
Miguel nearly rolled his ankle more than a couple times on little green ovals plucked by whatever squirrel and crackle had discovered mischief. She found her first name on a simple granite block. Langdon Fischer, born 1845: Father. Brother. Son. He watched her crouch to write everything down. It was a quick flick of the wrist, precision against the pad. A matter of course.
Finding her second name took slightly longer. At times she would scrutinize every headstone, getting close to them, her feet planted firmly in the batters box. She said it was only bad luck if you danced. He hadn’t considered how difficult it was for the eye to search for the second date alone. They were always pulled to the first. It also hadn’t occurred to him how varied Death was in choosing days. Nearly an hour after the first name and what felt like a mile away from where they’d begun, she found her second. Clara dV. Prieto, died 1978: Si el cuento del infierno fuera pura mentira…
“Well, at least she was funny.”
“I’m convinced that’s as much as my epitaph will deserve.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re not funny.”
“I’d be more upset if I didn’t feel myself float you that one. Truth be told, I’d respect you less if you hadn’t gone yard on it.”
“You respect me?”
“Well, less now.”
“And she gets him looking. Okay, now what?”
“Now we do some simple math, and we get a Gap of 133 years.”
“But you’re already 33.”
“Which means I’m 100 to the good. How neat. It’s rare that you get a nice, clean number like that. Wow. A whole century. What will I do with that much time?”
“I don’t know, but if you don’t manage to get rich in a century, then what’s even the point?”
“Many have died thinking the same. Okay, think you know what you’re doing?”
“I’ve got it, coach. Put me in. I’m ready to run and gun.”
Agustina turned toward the pecans and led them both to the other side. Waxy remnants of crepe myrtles wandered in at the edges, but stopped just short of crossing the pecans shadows. Besides the pecans, there wasn’t much to delineate the territory much less for shade. The odd clutch of ash provided some hope of a grove, but that wouldn’t be for decades at least. Yellow patches where the suns gaze bore itself into the ground splotched the walkway were the reality of the moment. Miguel wondered if the soon-to-be-buried took that into consideration. Would the mourners mind? Son of a bitch couldn’t choose a spot with some shade? I hope he’s burning like me. Fucker. He could feel the beads begin to rise on the back of his neck. By the time he got back to Agustina, the shirt was sticking to him. She feigned nausea and suggested they retreat to the pecans for a breath before heading back to the car.
“You know, the fact that someone dies every day makes its management a logistical nightmare. Heaven, Hell, the underworld, et al. make a lot more sense think of them as bureaucratic centers.” He stretched his legs out in front of him.
“And what does your actuary audit render?”
He had to take off his glasses to wipe away the surfing the bridge of his nose. He squinted and blinked once, twice. “Well that can’t be right.”
“What?” She took the notebook from him and let a gurgle of laughter bloom.
His life poles were 1913 and 1949, the names generic for their time, and only one of the epitaphs of any real poetic value: El sol se a sentado en la cima del cielo.
“What the fuck, I only have six years left? Fucking six? This is absolute horseshit.”
“Hey, them’s the breaks, kid. Look at it this way: at least you got to see the world’s greatest wars. You got to see the Beatles of war.”
“Without getting to see the actual Beatles. Doesn’t quite seem a fair trade does it?”
“Scousers are overrated.”