People should never die on Fridays. There are many other moments and better days to kick the bucket. But Friday was off limits. One of those deities should vote pro-life and make this a no-death date. Then the angel of date would stay at home, throw his legs on the couch, and watch the Pink Panther make life impossible for the Inspector.

Saturday was the kids and youth baseball day, and there were always tons of people just sitting around begging for something to pop up. Maybe a fire, crackling without smoke, that would carefully eliminate the neighbor and his green, lush farm. Even a hailstorm is highly welcome, but it can really get boring on Saturdays.

Sunday was the crown of all moments. Most people are battling a hangover, while others are dying to get out of a long, tiring sermon and put it into practice. Maybe help bury the neighbor.

They paid me on Friday, around noon, the sun was already making me sweat, and my skin itched. It wasn’t enough. Grandpa was dead, he was in the morgue, and no one else came. I made a thousand phone calls, but just like Grandpa had stepped on everyone’s toes, they all had things to do.

This is where you either beg, borrow, or steal. I couldn’t stoop that low, and I knew that my carpenter friend was still watching from above. So, I went to see Big Mack and laid it all out on him. He only said, ‘I am stiff broke’.

Big Mack looked me over, head to toe, touching my stomach, then declared, ’If I didn’t know better, I would say that you were twins with Benji.’

I just feigned a smile and walked away. Yet, it was true, everyone said that.

Read the rest of the My Lot short story.