They always say the same thing when their time comes.

"It's not fair."

They're not wrong. Kind of the catch-22 of existence, I guess. It's a thing that has to end. 

"But why?"

That's usually the second question. To which I answer, "I don't know. I just drive the boat."

******

Serina Miles. Child star, everyone's sweetheart, every teenage boy's first crush. Didn't want to be defined by her sweet, innocent persona when she turned 18. Made herself into an action star, got ridiculously fit. Had some minor roles in some movies that did moderately well, but she found herself pigeonholed again, this time as the buff, tough woman that didn't need no man. No judgment on my part, honest. I thought she was pretty good, and it's not like she didn't try to expand her repertoire.

The famous ones usually look at me funny when I pull up in my Civic. Serina looks confused, but not completely put off. Thank goodness; sometimes the famous ones are still quite insistent on their luxuries, even when they're about to take the last ride.

I roll down the window and bend down to look up at her. Small cars…

"Serina Miles?" I say. It isn't a question, but Serina isn't sure if I really don't recognize her. It has to be an odd feeling for her.

"That's…me. Who are you?" She asks. There's fear in her eyes, but it's fading. She's starting to realize where she is.

"I'm Karen. Pleasure to meet you," I say, as pleasantly as I can. She won't be happy when she understands everything.

******

"You're…the ferryman?" She asks. We've gone through "it's not fair" and "but why." She's unsatisfied with the answers, but that's OK. At least, OK as it can be.

"I tried going by ferrywoman, but people always assumed I was talking about the wrong type of ferry," I joked. She laughed a little.

The Civic jolted a little as I shifted into third. Serina gave me a disapproving glare, and I sighed. Los Angeles: city of movie stars, beautiful ocean vistas, and - once you left Sunset Boulevard - overused streets filled with potholes. 

It was strange to me that this was the place she wanted to see in her final hours. I know the childhood home is significant to everyone, but this was a place she had been desperate to escape. Not without good reason: I had taken many a passenger from this neighborhood on their last ride. Drugs, gangs, racial violence, brutal police…this place was a case study in the negative aspects of urban living. I rarely brought anyone back to this place.

But the heart doesn't lie. If Serina didn't want to be here, we wouldn't be here.

"Still can't believe I'm dead," Serina said.

"Well…technically not dead yet," I replied.

"Fine, almost dead. I'm a split-second away from scrambled egg brain. I can't come back from this, can I?" She already knew that she couldn't; this was her angrily making a point.

"So yeah. I'm dead, basically. I'm riding into the afterlife in a crappy Honda Civic."

It wasn't the first time someone had insulted my car. I get it; when people think about how they cross from life into death, they're usually expecting a scruffy old sailor in a gondola, not a middle-aged redhead in a coupe. Still…I like this car.

Serina sighed and leaned back into the seat. She opened her mouth to speak several times, but seemed to forget what she was going to say as we passed familiar places. Sadly, most of the places didn't carry the pleasant kind of familiarity.

"I wonder if Jones still deals from this corner," She said, following a faded construction sign with her eyes as we passed it. We saw the place as she remembered it. I felt her thrill as the handsome 19-year old boy slipped the small bag of white powder into her hand, winking and leaving her hand on hers for a little too long. She had forgotten just what sleazy pickup line the boy had used, having heard so many over the years that the words automatically went into the junk folder.

That first time had been an incomparable jet rush, as they always were. The cold electric shock straight to the heart had spread through the whole of her in seconds. Her limbs, always sore from endless, punishing exercise, suddenly felt like they could lift a planet. Her mind felt just as invincible as her body; the weariness of the day-in, day-out ladder climb had fallen away, replaced by the notion that not only could she do anything, but the sudden drive to do everything.

"Looks like a good time," I said. She gave me a sour look, like I had walked in on her while she was on the toilet.

"It…" She said, grunting as she tried to figure out a way to finish the sentence without looking like a coke addict.

"I don't judge," I said as I downshifted through a turn.

"Everyone says they don't judge. They're lying. They've been judging my whole life."

"Far as I'm concerned, there's nothing to judge. I don't believe in sin, and even if I did, you've already given everything you have in payment."

She looked at me like I had said something insane. That was fair; I was having a bit of a flashback to ancient Greece. Always thought those coins on the eyes were silly.

Serina rolled her eyes as she reclined into the seat. She wasn't relaxing, so much as she was trying to draw water from a stone.

******

"So how long is this…carpool to Hell?" Serina asked. She was trying to sleep, but the road's age-induced character flaws were making that difficult.

"Pretty sure it's not to Hell," I said, not trying to comfort, but to offer what I felt was a fact, "And…it kinda depends. In my experience, it ends when you're ready."

"So if I wanted to go around the world before…yeah, we could do that?"

"Theoretically, I guess?"

"Has anyone ever done it before?"

"Better question: is that what you want to do before you die?"

I could see in her eyes that the answer was no. She'd done that already. She had bumped elbows and smiled big and fake for the cameras in all the style capitals of every nation with a Hollywood of their own. The only thing those memories held for her were pocketless dresses that showed too much skin, A-listers who lived in their own glittery world, and an entire life set to a script she thought she despised, yet still tried to act out line by line.

No, she wanted to be here. She wanted to feel that first time again: the thrill of putting her hands on something forbidden, the burning in her nostrils, the ice in her veins…the first time in years that she could remember being excited about her life.

"It wasn't what I thought it would be," Serina said. She was talking about it all: her childhood, the stardom, and the cocaine.

"Seems like it wasn't all bad surprises, at least," I replied.

"Oh, definitely, just…"

I let her trail off. She needed a minute to think. 

"I didn't…I didn't hate that life. I know that's how it must have looked. I definitely wasn't trying to waste it. Um…"

Besides driving, listening and letting people reflect on their lives comprised most of my job. This moment was all about them.

"The others always said it grows dull. You get to the top, people know your name, and it just…I dunno. They  needed some kind of escape, I guess. Other actors, I mean."

The light in her eyes returned.

"Not me, though. That's never why I did it. The drugs, I mean. I never wanted to be the kind of person who complained about this life. I didn't want to go buying everything, giving my kid weird names with numbers or crap like that. I wanted to enjoy my life. I wanted to keep trying to do more, keep learning, keep…expanding, I guess? Less Johnny Depp, more Dwayne Johnson, you know?"

It wasn't a good comparison, but I got the meaning. She didn't want the life of a star to change her into something too detached from reality.

She sighed.

"But…being yourself is hard, too. I just got tired, you know? I wanted more; I just didn't have time to do it, between the shoots, all the time at the gym…"

I could see her losing the plot, realizing that she was doing so, and growing frustrated with herself. The coke gave her the energy to do what she wanted, but it came with its own troubles.

"It was never an end; always the means. It let me do more. But…it made me want more, too. Not…not more cocaine, but…bigger roles. Heavier lifts. Faster cars. Again, never for the things themselves; it was always the experience."

She spared a brief thought that she hadn't expected her last car ride to be in a crappy Civic doing 35 down a street lined with the tents of homeless people.

"Can I turn on the radio?" Serina asked.

"Sure, sure," I said.

She reached for the power button and pressed it. Metallica's "For Whom the Bell Tolls" sounded its signature, creepy opening rings. Serina could not contain her wide, feral grin.

"Loved this song since I was 12!" She shouted over the opening riff, "Had to listen to it on the bus, though. Agent didn't want it getting out that sweetheart princess was a metalhead."

Perks of Radio Limbo. Exactly the songs you want, no commercials.

The bitter thoughts of the strictly controlled years of child stardom only surfaced for a moment. She had hated it, but she had made her peace with it years ago. There had been others who had no restraints, and…well let's just say some of them have taken their rides in my Civic, too. The life she lived as a child had opened the doors to the opportunities she had as an adult.

Plus, it was hard to hold on to any thoughts when she was headbanging to her favorite song. 

The music wasn't really my jam, but seeing her have that much fun with it was…nice. I'd had plenty of passengers who weren't so positive; she was a genuine joy.

******

Impromptu radio karaoke doesn't happen often in my car, but when it does, the end of the ride is usually imminent. A good song can be cathartic enough to let people place themselves in Death's hands.

"Makes me think of my dad," Serina said, sighing, "He loved that old metal. Dio, Sabbath, Maiden, JP; the neighbors hated us, but he was…he was real."

There was a tear and a smile as she thought of her dad. The numerous shiny piercings, cannabis aroma, and thunderous music from his garage ensured that the man could not be ignored. The crooked yellow-toothed grin - seen from half a meter below, at Serina's angle - told the tale of a man in bliss. Sunny day, loud music, and the little girl he loved more than life itself.

That was the happiness she had wanted. Not necessarily in the form of a child, but…something bigger than her. A joy she couldn't not feel.

"Tell me…did he mention me? When he died?" Serina asked.

"You were all he talked about," I replied.

She had hoped I would say that, but it didn't bring her the…relief? Contentedness?

The unrestrained, pure, simple panacea of a parent's love.

It didn't bring back that feeling.

"He hoped I wouldn't get hooked on dope. Said it was the worst decision he ever made, didn't want that for me."

She stared at her hands. They didn't shake anymore, now that she was almost dead. No more having to hide the evidence of her habit.

"He was so…" She was fighting back sobs now, "I saw the anger in his eyes, when I told him. It was…he didn't say anything."

She didn't want to look at a stranger when she had tears streaming down her face. She would have said that she wanted her dad here, but…yeah.

"I think…he was more mad at himself. Thought I did it because…" I offered her a packet of tissues from my door compartment. Bawling and blowing her nose loudly in front of a stranger. The years of coaching on maintaining a public image were screaming that every passing second was only compounding this disaster.

"Pretty sure most parents want to take on their kids' mistakes. It's hardwired," I said. She nodded, wiping another tear with a fresh tissue.

"You wanna know…what the…" Serina blew her nose again, "What the strangest thing was?"

I knew what she was about to say, but it was important for her to say it.

“We talked…way more, after I told him about the coke. Pretty sure he got cleaner, so that he could make sure I was OK,” She laughed, with only a hint of bitterness, “He…he called me every day. Sometimes more than once. Never asked for money, just…wanted to make sure I was still alive.”

There was more bitterness in the next laugh.

“I was…I was just about to take a bump, the last time he called. Before…” Her face twisted into despairing agony, the kind you feel when you step on an emotional landmine in your soul, “Before…bef-”

The memory was too much. She put her head in her hands and sobbed. Several minutes of tears, sniffles and stalled attempts to speak passed before she was able to continue.

"I never even tried. Told myself I deserved it, that there was nothing wrong with it, that it did good for me. Never tried to put it down, not before, not after."

She was avoiding saying "after a drunk driver t-boned him in an intersection, rendering all of his attempts at living a longer life and being a better father through sobriety pointless, in a cruel and ironic way." She wasn’t wrong. For all the fuss everyone made about living clean, their lives usually weren’t better for it. Percentage wise, I had had just as many miserable clean passengers as miserable high passengers.

Again, not that I judged anyone for wanting to feel good.

She was expecting me to say "he wouldn't want you feeling guilty about what happened to him," or "it wasn't your fault," which meant that if I said those things, she would clutch at her guilt and shame with more force. She had spent years convincing herself as such; I wasn't about to change her mind in the space between final heartbeats. It's a cute idea, that the end of someone's life brings this grand realization of every good thing you've ever had and every wrong you've dealt, and somehow blends them into a karmic smoothie, flavored as sweet or as bitter as the life you lived. Truth was, the only things you had at the end were the things you happened to be carrying at the time.

Maybe it would be comforting enough if I just listened a little more.

"So," Serina said, wiping her tears and sitting up straight, "What now? Where do I get dropped off?"

"Any particular place you want me to drop you off?" I asked.

"Um…I don't know. Didn't know that I had a choice."

"Lots of potential stops on the riverbanks."

"...what?"

"Sorry. Afterlife joke."

Serina rolled her eyes. Truth be told, I didn't want to answer this question, because…I didn't know. They were only my passengers for a moment, and I didn't really 'drop them off.' Besides my ability to read minds, the only other overtly supernatural part of all this was that my passengers always just faded away. Neither the passenger nor myself recognized it when they left. They just disappeared, seemingly into thin air when I wasn't looking, and then it was on to my next ride.

"So, you don't know?" It wasn't really a question. She was smart, and she always had been. I shifted into fourth, then fifth as I merged onto the highway. As the traffic passed us, she looked into the smoggy skyline with a weary smile. 

"Can you at least tell me what death is like?"

I shrugged. This one was even more difficult to answer, not because I didn't know, but because there was no answer. Death felt like nothing.

"Nice lady. Quiet. Warm hands, oddly enough," I said.

"Death is a woman too, then?" That got another laugh out of her, "Guess that makes sense. Warm hands, though…"

There was so much she still wanted to do, to learn, to discover. But she was becoming more tired…and warmer, now that she was thinking about it.

This wasn't OK. It couldn't be OK; it never was, for any of them. The soul was a fragile thing that could easily break beyond repair, but it was an immortally tenacious thing, even if it was doomed to never achieve the real thing.

******

They all leave their mark on me. I do my best to give them the best last hurrah they can have…as much as is possible from the seat of an aged compact. But there's only so much that one woman can do, and as kind as Death can be, she rarely allows for delays.

Serina Miles, age 27. Died from cocaine overdose. Her untimely passing smoothed the rough edges of her later years' reputation. Media reporters pulled in lots of advertising dollars with pieces on her 'troubled, star-studded young life.' Co-stars and fans took to Twitter, and she trended for a day; trolling was kept to a relative minimum, surprisingly enough. Eventually, when the headlines disappeared, the lingering question about Serina Miles was how such a promising young life could be thrown away. "She had it all," They said, "It made no sense that she needed more."

But they knew how someone could succumb to that kind of hunger, because they felt it, too.

Maybe one day, they’ll let themselves admit it.