The Coffin Maker: Part 2

Gerry sanded the top of the coffin, now for the newly dead short man. He’d have to make another of the same size, he thought to himself. The gaps between the tallest coffins and his shortest ones were noticeable, and by his own opinion embarrassing. He couldn’t always keep up with the duels in the town of Oxhorn. Oxhorn had developed a reputation of having a careless and drunk sheriff in addition to duels and shootouts almost every day. And it was true; Gerry liked the sheriff but he allowed the town to kill each other because it meant less for him to take care of legally. The sheriff let people duel and whoever won would be in prison for a night. “If you win, I lock you up. If you lose, Gerry locks you up,” he’d say. And this made Gerry a bad omen. People didn’t befriend him or speak to him. He was the keeper of death in Oxhorn.

The door to Gerry’s shop opened. A black loafer with lace tied in a bow on the top took a step inside. A second foot entered and long black pants climbed up to a black leather belt with a chrome buckle. With another step in, above the pants was a short poncho, only about chest high, that was black with a single white diamond pattern woven on to the left breast of the man wearing it all. He had a thick impressive mustache that was jet-black, and underneath the mustache as wide smile, like that of a man who knows a secret. His cheek bones were pale and pointed like the corners of a business desk, and his sunken cheeks made his appearance gaunt. His eyes were green like a fermented jar of old food. His hair was combed back and parted on his right side with a single curl hanging over his forehead. The mysterious man dressed in black entered Gerry’s coffin shop.

“Welcome,” Gerry spoke. “I don’t think I’ve seen you before.”

The man raised his eyebrows and squint his eyes. He admired the wall of coffins. “Are these all occupied?” he asked in an oily voice.

“Not yet, but as you probably know Oxhorn will need these soon enough.” Gerry pointed to the coffin on the table he was sanding. “This one’s taken, though.”

The man walked to the coffins and found the tallest one. He was tall, and the coffin on the end would fit him, certainly. He took his forefinger and gently rubbed it against the finished wood of a red-stained coffin. “My friend, how tall are you?”

Gerry hesitated to speak. There was no reason to give him this information as it wouldn’t matter, he thought. “Why?”

The man smiled menacingly. “I wonder if you’ve prepared your own coffin.” Gerry watched the man walk towards him from the other side of the room. “As the artist you are, taking great pride in your craft, I’d imagine you have a special coffin picked out for yourself. When that day comes.”

Gerry did have a coffin for himself. He designed a beautiful coffin with a coat of auburn stain that had been sanded and sanded until it was as smooth as glass; and carefully carved into the center near the top were the letters G-E-R-R-Y, and underneath were the letters G-A-L-L-O-W-A-Y. It was his greatest coffin, with velvet padding inside. The coffin was measured to his exact measurements: five-foot-nine-and-three-quarters inches and for his weight of one-hundred-and-eighty-eight pounds. Yes, he had a coffin for when he died. “It’s at my home. I don’t keep it here because I don’t want a customer to think it’s for sale.” The man nodded politely and walked past Gerry to the workbench. He picked up a handful of long nails and tossed them gently in his bony hand.

“Is there something you need?” Gerry asked as he was starting to be bothered by the man.

The man kept looking down at the nails. “Yes. A coffin.”

“When do you need it?”

“I don’t know.” The man caught the nails in his hand.

“What do you mean you don’t know?” Gerry almost laughed. “Who’s it for?”

“Me.” The man set down the pile of nails and looked deep into the eyes of Gerry. His gaze was soulless and lacked fear. “I believe in a few days I will be killed.”

Gerry stared at the man in disbelief. “Are you in trouble, sir?”

“No,” the man said peacefully. “But I see the signs.”

“What signs?” Gerry was starting to wish this man would leave.

“Spiritual.” The man looked across the room at the red-stained coffin once more and pointed proudly at it. “I like that one. It’s refined. You know—what is your name?”

“Gerry.” He immediately regretted telling him.

“Gerry,” the man bowed slightly. “Gerry, you know you and I have a luxury most men will never acquire. We both know in what we will be laid to rest.” The man bent forward a little and reached under his poncho, taking out a slender pouch. He removed a healthy stack of cash and kindly held it all in front of Gerry. “I’d like that coffin for when I die.”

“Okay then. Let me add up your change—” Gerry pointed to his right towards the desk when the man interrupted him.

“What for? I won’t need it,” he said with pity in his eyes.

Gerry conspicuously folded the stack of cash in half and placed it on his desk, as if he had just robbed the man.

“Tell me, Gerry, what do you do with the corpses? Once a man has died, do you handle them?”

Gerry wanted to kick him out but he had no reason not to answer his simple question. “I measure the body first and see if they fit in one I’ve already made. If they do, I put them in.”

“And if they don’t?”

“I make one that fits.”

“What do you do with the body in the meantime?” the man asked eagerly.

“There’s a room off to the side where it stays in a bag until I’m finished.”

“How long does that take?”

“Usually a full day.”

“And, where do you bury the fallen of Oxhorn?”

“I take them to a field about a quarter of a mile west of here.”

The man smiled contently. "My friend, your gifts are worth the price you've listed on these coffins. They're quite remarkable. It's a shame all over your customers will never endorse your shop; once a customer of Gerry's, never a customer again, hmm?" Gerry didn't find the joke amusing. It reminded him of his omen. "My friend, aside from your excellent craftsmanship," the man changed his tone, "How is business here in Oxhorn?"

"Fine," Gerry answered quickly, hoping his curt response would discourage the man further.

"Folks here do well?" the man continued.

"I guess."

"Despite all the deaths and crime, there is... profit?"

Gerry tried to understand where the man was going, but he decided it was time the man left. "Listen, folks here make a living - I have work to do, if you wouldn't mind," Gerry gestures towards the door.

The man stared at Gerry for what felt like several minutes. Suddenly, he inhaled sharply, as if waking up from a deep sleep. “I’m expecting a caravan tomorrow. Is there an inn that I may stay?” the man inquired.

“Yes. Showfield’s, next to the saloon on the left.”

The man gestured a bow and waved his right hand. “Adieu.” He turned around and exited the shop.

Gerry pressed his knuckles on the desk and looked at the stack of cash. He felt an ominous presence from the man, and he felt something terrible was about to happen. It wasn’t too much later he realized he didn’t even know the man’s name.