(Part 2)

A Brush with Wickersham

     “The nature of my job is not so conveniently regular.” I tried not to make eye contact, or in any way encourage his one-way conversation. I stared out the window as I contemplated his identity and the true nature of his business. It was like he read my mind, “I’m Wickersham. I work for RTD.” I continued to look out not acknowledging, but I was curious to know and he obliged, “It’s the department charged with ‘Registering the Deceased’.

     I simply couldn’t corral my reply, “Deceased? Who died?” By this time, there were a few more passengers on board and my loud retort got their attention. Wickersham explained that only I could see or hear him, so it appeared to the others that I was a ranting lunatic. He nodded toward me and explained that it was his duty to meet with the ones whose destiny was upon them; apparently, I had less than 72 hours remaining. The blood rushed from my head, I felt pale as a ghost. To his credit, he allowed me a moment to contemplate. I wondered in whisper, “Do you visit everyone like this?”

     “Only the ones I’m assigned to.”

     I wondered how would I go, but then reconsidered, I really didn’t want to know. I was shaking. I needed to confide in someone, and this man in black seemed the only candidate, “This is a life altering scary moment for me, Wickersham.”

     He patted my arm, “I’ll just get the information I need, we’ll shake hands and you’ll forget you ever met me.” How could I forget him, or my pending doom? He explained that it was his handshake that would turn off my memory. We sat quietly for some time, but as we neared my get-off spot he restarted the process, “Can I get your affairs in order now?” Into my head came another question, “If I’m not going to remember this, why do I need to do it?” He responded as though he heard my thought, “This is not for you, it’s for the RTD. Do you have any idea, the number of customers who pass through our doors every minute of every day? We couldn’t handle the traffic without this pre-registration.”

     I’ve often wondered about the existence of heaven and hell; on this day the question was paramount, which was my eternal destiny? He laughed, “Don’t worry, if you cooperate here, I promise you’ll end up in a better place.” I felt no comfort. He continued, 

​(Part 3)

A Brush with Wickersham

     “The ‘Big Guy’ (strangely, this was his term for Him) streamlined our guidelines a while back, so now only those guilty of obstruction or impersonation are denied the blessed passage.” I had no idea what that meant so I began probing, “You mean all those commandments He laid out . . .” Wickersham’s responses were instantaneous “. . . we ignore your earthy details . . .” He had a tendency to pause between thoughts. “. . . honestly, it’s more about our process now. If you don’t mess with me, I’ll pass you through to that better place.” And these pauses were telling, exposing his ultimate motivation.

     I shook my head, “He changed the process? Streamlined it? This doesn’t seem right. He’s all knowing, improving that is impossible.” Wickersham’s responses now seemed more a justification, “Well, He’s all about forgiveness now. . .” and his pause alerted me again that something was amiss, “. . . frankly I don’t have time to . . .” another pause, “. . . look, we’re almost to your stop, can I proceed?” I nodded reluctantly and he began, “Don’t talk to me, these people will think you’re crazy. Just nod.”

     I tried to follow his directions, but his first question, “Do you agree that you’re a gambling man who cheated on his wife?” caused me to speak, “Gambling man?”

     “Shhh . . . don’t talk, just nod.”

     “But I’m not marri . . .”

     “Please, just nod so I can finish up here.” Now I was nodding against my better judgment. “You lied to get out of the army, right?” Not true but I nodded anyway. As he fed me the questions, I wondered why he needed this information, if not to resolve my destiny. Finally, he brought closure, “That’s it, sign here Dandridge, we’ll shake and I’ll be on my way.”

     Finally it occurred, the moment wasn’t about me. I quickly set the record straight, “Dandridge? I’m not Dandridge!” but he just laughed, “Of course you are. I’ve followed you for days . . . weeks actually. You get on this same bus at the same time every day. You sit in the same seat. I know this because I’ve tracked you for almost a month.”

     “No, Dandridge must have missed the bus today, it was a tad early. I’m sitting here because his seat was available.”
​

(Part 1)

A Brush with Wickersham

     I had a brush with Wickersham once and now it’s only on my worst of days that I long for his return. I was in the wrong place at the right time and coincidentally at that same time Dandridge was inexplicitly missing. You probably knew Dandridge, everyone seemed to. He always got on the bus two stops before me, and managed to occupy the same prime seat, located right behind the driver just beyond the handicapped area. I envied him, all the passengers greeting him by name as they boarded. On this day he was not where he was supposed to be however, so I jumped at the chance to ride in his place.

     I remember that morning, waiting at the stop. There were grumblings of a storm lurking somewhere in the distance and not a soul could be seen in any direction. The bus was a minute or so early, and that was the underlying reason for our unfortunate encounter. I boarded and tipped my hat to the driver just before taking Dandridge’s seat. I don’t know where from, but Wickersham snuck in behind me and proceeded to seal my fate with the unwelcome, “Do you mind if I sit here?”

     Of course I did. Understand that regular bus riders don’t like their routine disturbed and Wickersham had definitely stepped inside my comfort zone. In general, I make it a habit not to converse with the other passengers; a clear distinction between me and Dandridge. Being that all the other seats were filled with emptiness, I wondered why me, and why was he so adamant about sitting in this particular spot? Still, I sat with an accepting nod, and he sat too, in such a way that his knees prevented my escape.

     I was trapped in limbo; on my left was the bright window to life and on my right was Wickersham’s suffocating demeanor of darkness. The tension he brought was quiet at first, except for the constant tap, tap, tapping of his impatient fingers on the clipboard resting in his lap. It seemed an eternity but eventually he was compelled to speak, “You’re lucky”, he said, “having a routine like this, same place every day at the same time.” I turned away, but he continued,