The Last Sticky Thing

by Sirong Li

A salesman knocks on my apartment door. He says he’d like to sell me my death.

“But it’s Tuesday,” I say. “Nobody wants to die on a Tuesday.”

“People die,” he says. The fern by the doorway rubs against his dark-green linen suit. “Some on Tuesdays, some not.”

“But the sun’s not out yet,” I say. “I really shouldn’t make purchases at night. Never turns out well.”

“You don’t have to decide right away,” he says.

“Okay. Come in then,” I say. “Don’t smudge my couch.”

“I like to be clean,” the salesman says, placing his black briefcase against his thigh on my couch. “You got a promotion last week, right?”

“I did, yes.”

“In that case, it’s best for you to die now.”

“But the sun’s not out yet, really,” I say, sitting down across from him. “My wife tells me that the sun suffers the same way we do – you know, we all have the same desire to excrete. The sun would also burst if it didn’t relieve itself of light.”

“You don’t have a wife.”

“I could,” I say. “If I didn’t have to die so soon.”

He gently pulls his tie to clear his throat. He has thick hands and an Adam’s apple too big for a middle-aged man – for any man. He is that kind of person who, when he sneezes, makes the metal around him resonate. I go into the kitchen to get him a glass of ice water.

“No, thanks. I burp with ice water,” he says.

“I remember I used to have stomach issues as well,” I say. “Got me into the hospital later. How old was I?”

“Four years and six months,” he says. “How do you want to die?”

“I had a near-death experience once,” I say. “One time, I was certain that there was a cut on the back of my hand, but I felt nothing. It made me feel dead. A few days later I realize it’s a piece of dried red pepper. That made me feel worse. Like a fraud.”

“Which hand was it?” he asks.

“Left hand.”

“And you used your other hand to take the pepper off?”

“No,” I say. “I didn’t need to. It just fell off. Like every non-sticky thing.”

“Are you still able to move your hands, then?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Are you able to close your eyes?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Well then,” he says, “if you are able to close your eyes, you are able to die.”

“Sure,” I say. “But why die?”

He touches his nose, glances at the dead orchids on the coffee table, and rests his gaze on the courtyard outside the window. It is only ten-thirty. The college kids living on the top floor have just come down for their night party.

“A good death is good,” he says. “It’s good when you die your death, before death kills you. Timing is crucial.”

“I remember what it’s like to die at the wrong time,” I say. “When people die at the wrong time, they smell like moldy mushrooms. I know at least one person who did that.”

“I’m glad,” the salesman says. “That we agree on the importance of timing. And now is time for you.”

“Now?”

“It’s all done for you now, the pleasure in striving. You’ve hit the end with the promotion,” he says. “No more striving for you. You better get out before things go downhill.”

“I do feel good these days.”

“Of course you do,” he says. “But not about death. Death is bad for your health. Too unexpected. It shocks people. We can help you with that.”

“How?”

“We will help you plan the execution,” he says. “You see, there will be no surprises.”

“So I would be executed?”

“No. Not that. I’m not the Grim Reaper,” he says. “You will execute your death.”

“Right,” I say. “So you want me to kill myself, like a suicide?”

“God no.” He suddenly gets excited. I can hear noises stirring in his stomach. “Suicide brings shame, too much for one to take. We want the best thing for your well-being.”

“Are you thinking of euthanizing me?” I say. “Is it because of the way I feel things? When I was young, I woke up every day feeling like one of those wobble toys that wobbles but never falls. That feeling was replaced by another one when I grew up, that I couldn’t get rid of: now I feel like a bigger wobble toy.”

“No, no, not euthanasia,” the salesman says. “Death doesn’t end suffering. It prevents it.”

“Not suicide,” I say.

“No.”

“Not euthanasia.”

“No. You can call it exiting, if you want,” he says. “You will exit your existence, actively.”

The garbage disposal makes a brief rattling sound. I can smell the stench of rotten apples in the sink. I stand up to open the window in the living room. The college kids in the yard outside have finished eating and started dancing. One of them eyes me. I close the window and sit down.

“So, how do you want to die?” he asks.

“I know that death is bad for you,” I say.

He nods.

“I know of a person,” I say, “the one who smelled like moldy mushrooms. He was destroyed by death. Herbicide, it was. He was killed over the course of seven days and changed his mind by day two. I visited him on the fourth day, when his lung was half fibrosed. Incredible tear glands, you should’ve seen, generating tears twenty-four hours, kept going for another hour after he’s dead. He told me he could never be happy again. That’s how I know death is bad.”

The salesman neatens his wrinkle-free suit. He would never be like me, with bits of salt from dinner always stuck under the fingernails.

“So, you dislike tears?” he asks.

“Nothing to like about tears.”

“And you are not going to cry.”

“I’m not going to cry,” I say.

“At your death.”

“At my death.”

“Have you ever seen anyone cry?” he asks.

“I’ve seen people die from crying,” I say. “The person I just mentioned.”

“Have you ever cried yourself?”

“Perhaps,” I say. “But never on a Tuesday.”

“And not when you die.”

“Not when I die.”

He takes out a document from the black briefcase and writes something down. Its front page has my name on it.

“You see, I don’t cry from pain,” I say. “The most painful thing in my life is that I always itch in my clothes. Any kind of clothes, wool or nylon, it just itches, it itches all over my body. It’s the same kind of feeling when your eyes are bloodshot. Because of this, I can’t move around most of the time with my clothes on. It’s an inescapable pain, because it’s all over the body, and you only touch more clothing if you move. But I don’t cry at this.”

He puts the document back.

“That’s because life is sticky,” he says. “It sticks to you, sticks to your inside, sticks to your surface, so when your clothes touch it, the clothes become sticky and itchy.”

“Sounds about right,” I say.

“Of course it’s right.”

“It became sticky unconsciously,” I say. “Life, that is.”

“Life, it is,” he says.

Half of the college students have left. I turn on the lamp on the side table next to me. The light wets the space around my body and does not flow to him. I have all of it and he has none.

“You thirsty?” I ask. “Would you like some whiskey?”

“Neat. Thank you.”

I get us the drink. We clink glasses. The steamy shadow under his armpit jitters. He wants to return to my preferred way to die.

“I’ve been dreaming,” I say. “Dreaming of falling. First there was a storage room, and then I fell out of it into an identical storage room.”

“Is that how you want to die?” He puts down the glass. “By falling.”

“Maybe.”

“You’ve thought about it,” he says. “Tell me.”

“Once,” I say. “I only thought about my own death once.”

“Once you know about death, you can’t unknow it,” he says. “What was the thought?”

“The most disturbing thing about dying,” I say, “is becoming a corpse.”

“Where did you get that idea from?”

“Nowhere.”

“Then how do you know it’s disturbing?” he says. “I’m curious.”

“The man I just mentioned,” I say. “You should’ve seen what death did to him. He was getting more and more stiff from day one to day seven, and eventually got turned into a corpse, left with a livid face like from chronically bad digestion. He seemed like he could never have that kind of sweet and slow-rising feeling, ever again. I mean, how could he ever feel anything again, with all the stiffness?”

“Is this because of the stiff leather chair you got in your office last year?” he asks.

“What about it?”

“It’s stiff.”

“Yeah. It is quite uncomfortable,” I say.

“I see.”

The salesman writes something down again. He takes a look at his watch.

“A very important thing,” he says. “You need to take tomorrow off. When you die tomorrow, you won’t be able to go to work.”

“I don’t know how to ask for a leave at this hour,” I say. “The front desk must be closed now.”

He takes out a business card from the briefcase and hands it to me. It has the name of the company I work for and an emergency number.

“Just leave a voicemail,” the salesman says.

The salesman walks outside and makes a call. I dial the number and leave the voicemail. He comes inside when I’m done.

“You’re in good hands.” He sits down. “Why don’t you show me around your place.”

“I thought you already knew its layout.”

“Every detail of it,” he says. “But I’d still like to see it in person.”

We go through the kitchen and then the bedroom, and back to the living room. I turn off the lamp. A sparrow chirps in the empty courtyard. The salesman turns around. The tail of dawn sweeps by his eyelid.

“It’s time,” he says.

“I also prefer daytime to nighttime.”

“I almost forgot,” the salesman says. “Would you advertise for us? This could count as your payment. We want to put your case up on billboards.”

“Does that mean I need to change?” I ask.

“No,” he says. “We’ll go up.”

We go out and get in the elevator. The apartment building has ten stories. We stop at the top floor. A young man with a camera is waiting for us on the roof. Downstairs, there is a bony old man standing in the courtyard, looking up at me. All three men are wearing the same dark-green suit.

“Don’t worry,” the young man says to me. “Our company never goes wrong when it comes to planning the best decision for one’s future.”

He seems to be talking to me, but I think what he is really doing, as he has been his entire life, is trying to figure out exactly when he made the decision to never trim his nose hair again.

“We will provide you with the best service.” The old man downstairs waves and yells at me. He is so thin that he is only vaguely present. “Plus, this afternoon we’ll throw in a free funeral for you,” he adds.

Next to the old man is a big black metal box, with a brass crank on the side.

“That is an incinerator.” The young man leans over. “You will jump down from here, and you’ll jump directly into it.”

The incinerator distorts the air upon it. The salesman comes to stand beside me.

“It’s too early,” I say. “Whenever I wake up too early in the morning, my mouth tastes bitter.”

“There are things in your life that will go away,” he says, “at some point.”

“But it’s too early.”

“It’s not,” he says. “People don’t realize that most of their problems come from living for too long. Be smart and secure your happiness.”

“But is it really necessary?” I ask.

“Are all the days truly necessary?” he says. “You are a lucky man.”

“I sure don’t feel very lucky right now,” I say, looking at the incinerator. “Is that clean?”

“Don’t worry,” the young man says. “No one’s ever spit into it.”

“I never liked diving that much,” I say.

“It’s dry,” he says. “It dries things up once it’s done. So there will be no tears, no liquid.”

“But I’m concerned about the heat,” I say. “Mold and maggots…”

“Lucky for you, you won’t be a corpse,” the salesman says. “You will instantly become ashes when you land.”

“The sticky stuff inside you will come out. But it will be gone instantly,” the young man says. “So no messiness. It’s like you are jumping directly into your urn.”

The old man downstairs begins turning the brass crank slowly. The box starts to make huffing sounds.

“I still don’t feel very lucky.”

“Don’t you see yet,” the salesman says, quickly pulling his tie. “When people die, their life is simply interrupted by death at an arbitrary point. But you, you get to conclude your life when it’s at its fullest, like a story ending after reaching its climax. You get to consummate your life, while most people’s lives are formless.”

“But it’s too cold this early in the morning,” I say. “I might catch a cold shooting through the chill air.”

“It’s worth it,” he says. “And you’ll feel like a bird.”

The incinerator sits there. Its left corner seems to bear the residue of a kind of transparent fluid. I look down – it is a cleaning gel of sorts.

“I remember when I was born, my eyes felt like gobs of glue, I couldn’t see anything,” I say. “And then there’s the clothes thing, and now this gel.”

“It’s just glossy,” the salesman says, facing the incinerator.

“But still, is it going to touch my eyes?” I ask.

“Just face the other way.”

“What if it touches my spine?”

“You won’t feel a thing.” He checks his watch. “It’s about time.”

The young man holds up his camera, gesturing for me to go closer to the edge of the roof.

“This is for the billboard,” he says. “Smile big, for the last time!”

I put one of my legs up on the brick ledge and face the sky. As soon as he clicks the shutter, the sun stings my eyes.

“Why are you crying?” the young man asks.

“It’s the sun,” I say. “Corrodes my eyes like salt.”

“Alright, now, give me a smile. A big one.”

“I can’t,” I say, “the tears are making me really uncomfortable. It’s all over my face. My goodness, now snot, and my neck. God it’s uncomfortable, makes me want to cry.”

“Should we take a break?” the young man says, turning to the salesman, who shakes his head.

“Just take another one,” he says.

“But I kind of want to pee as well,” I tell him.

“There’s no need anymore, since you’ll die in a second.” He hands a napkin to me. “It’s going to be okay. Just one picture, then you won’t ever need to deal with any more goddamn stickiness.”

I wipe off my face and turn away from the sun.

“Does the light ever feel loud to you?” I ask.

“Alright, now, give me some teeth. It’s all in the teeth,” the young man says, holding up the camera again.

This is how things are done on Wednesday mornings – I try to think about a dry surface and put on the biggest smile of my life.

BIO

Sirong Li studied creative writing and philosophy at UC Berkeley. Her work has been published in The Macksey Journal. Her two short stories were double finalists for the 2022 Tobias Wolff Award.