I’ve been seeing the Grim Reaper around town, in glances so tiny they border on subliminal.  At the gym a fallowed face bobbed up from the bank of stairmasters.  In a black Suburban I spotted a cloaked passenger in the back row watching a DVD, something in black and white - with subtitles.  And a customer at Starbucks hid behind his New York Times, showing nothing of himself to the world but the boney fingers that clutched the Theater page. 

The lanky bastard is ubiquitous.  He always has been, I guess, but I’m just starting to notice and it’s wigging me out.  He's the brooding bartender who only perks up to announce “last call.”  What’s the point of one more round if the fun is shutting down?   

Dude, don’t take me out of the game just yet.  I know I haven’t gotten any hits – hardly made contact, in fact – and I know I booted most every slow roller that came my way, but I need a shot at redemption.  I don’t need a grand slam, necessarily; I just want to get off of the schnied.

The Reaper shows up and I start thinking about regrets, about every bad decision I ever made.  As if I need reminding – those blunders follow me around like the mob in those Verizon commercials.

But I came up with a way to stop dwelling on my missteps.  I’m chronicling all of the mistakes that I didn’t make.  I'll focus on those.  I am, after all, a human being with free will.  I've been around a long time.  I could have made every one of these boners but I didn’t and that must mean something.  Surely The Reaper has bigger fish to fry than somebody who never:

1.  Pulled a fire alarm.
2.  Spit in somebody’s food.
3.  Worn a t-shirt that said “free mustache rides.”
4.  Keyed a car.
5.  Toilet papered a house. 
6.  Married the wrong person.
7.  Lit a fart.
8.  Mooned a nun.
9.  Spoke pig latin.
10.  Steamed open an envelope.
11.  Left an “upper decker."

I was hoping to come up with a longer list, actually, given the billions of blunders that man is heir to.  The above seems a little thin.  Downright wispy. 

But maybe I've got the reaper all wrong.  Maybe he doesn't care how many successes you've had, he just tallies the mistakes and when you hit a certain number - bang!  Three million strikes and you're out.  That's why he's lurking.  I'm thinking now that if I put on a "mustache ride" t-shirt a Cessna will fall on my head.  T

Epiphany - There's no payoff in trying to get inside the Grim Reaper's head.  He's got work to do, a steady gig, no small thing in today's economy.  His job description and where he sees himself in five years are no concern of mine. Since I can't predict the day my name hits his "to do" list, I'll keep on doing what I do best, tackling life's philosophical cold cases, unraveling the mysteries that others gave up on and enjoying jerky along the way.