In that tiny hallway, Bob is completely oblivious, not noticing how Jeff shifts his weight from one foot to the other, making it X-ray vision clear that he’s bored and tired of waiting for his father to pick which shoes to wear. Jeff wonders why his old man doesn’t seem to understand that he’s about to die soon and that materialistic stuff is irrelevant. But Jeff doesn’t say that. He simply sighs, knowing that his father’s tinnitus will probably halt his wind-based objection anyway.

“You ready?”

His father looks up at him, nods and gives him a thumbs-up, making Jeff sigh again with a bit more punch, causing his father to ask if he’s eaten something “murky.”

Seconds later, they’re in the car, fiddling with the radio tug-of-war style until Bob, as per automobile tradition, asks:

“Do you know the way?”

And Jeff routinely answers:

“GPS.”

Bob grunts but knows not to initiate a “back in my day” thing, so he keeps his mouth shut.

Bob made the first call before he became too disoriented to keep track of things. Not long after the diagnosis, he made up his mind.

He wouldn’t “go down that path,” he said before unleashing a rant that held no logic or value that Jeff could see. Jeff, in turn, had to remind himself about love and guilt and being granted life as he was the fastest sperm and all that to be able to accept his father’s decision.

He wept once shortly after.

Not sure why.

Like many, Jeff is one of those who claim to love his father but actually means that he used to love him. Such feelings diminish over time as one’s parents become a kid again, and you realize that they aren’t as good at adult stuff as you thought.

As the sickness evolved, Jeff watched movies where people had the same thing as his father, feeling it was so cliché with parents who didn’t recognize their own children.

Still.

One really bad day, he was asked: “Who are you?”

“We’re here!”

“Yeah, I know, Dad. Just…”

“Welcome, Bob!”

In the lobby of the Rendezvous facility, Jeff and Bob are greeted by Cousin Harry. He’s not a cousin at all. He simply works as a Rendezvous Transition Coach. As part of the process, Bob could choose from a wide range of titles and names. All to make the “Transition” as easy, comfortable, and calming as possible—as written in the brochure. He picked “Cousin Harry,” and Jeff had never really heard about a “Harry” or a “cousin.” But he couldn’t be bothered.

Cousin Harry’s teeth are whitened, his skin is white, and he has a white coat.

Bob shakes Harry’s hand and is led down a hallway as Jeff trips behind them. Harry asks if Bob is ready, something that Bob assures Harry that he is. They enter a small office with a desk and a screen behind it showing a slideshow with pictures of zebras and gazelles.

Harry points at it and asks:

“Is this accurate, Bob? I do hope we nailed it?”

Bob nods, does his Goddamn thumbs-up, and, to be even more superfluous, he says: “Perfect.”

By now, Jeff is more confused than ever. Still, if answering questions from a fading father is tedious, it’s equally tiresome to ask them.

They sit down, Harry leaning over the white, metallic-like desk, looking at Bob.

“So, how’s your day? Do we feel clear?”

“Absolutely,” Bob proudly answers, rubbing his bald head, adjusting his glasses that haven’t been cleaned since Bush without a “W” was president. Then he does that flicking thing with his tongue as if he wants to brag, saying, “Hey, look at me! I’m fit as a fiddle and even have total control of my tongue.”

Harry starts typing something on his computer, saying “hm” and “aha.”

The idea is for the three of them to go over Bob’s “Rendezvous,” basically how he wants his “Transition” to be—how he wants to die.

The first time they met, they signed things, had Bob evaluated, and met the physicians at Rendezvous and Bob’s doctors. They went over financial solutions because this whole thing isn’t cheap—it can be, but relatives are rarely stingy. So there are payment plans to apply that you can link to the inheritance (if there is one).

“So, I have your transition proposal here, and I must say, it’s quite interesting. I love when our clients get creative. You know some need a bit of a creative push, but not you, Bob, not you.”

Jeff tries to show some pride but can’t muster it, as he’s too eager to hear what his father has come up with and what it’ll cost.

“Should we go over it then?”

And Harry smiles, Bob smiles, and Jeff smiles, and overall, the situation is morbidly cozy.

“So, looking at these outlines, you want to start with a bath with lavender oil…”

Harry looks up at Bob, who validates this.

“...then you’d like to have dinner, consisting of Swedish lobster...”

“Swedish? Does it have to be Swedish?”

Harry and Bob look at each other and absolutely not at Jeff. They smirk and share a glance that excludes Jeff from all ongoing and further culinary discussions.

“...anyways,” Harry continues, “Swedish lobster, and then some homemade vanilla ice cream, a glass of white wine that’s supposed to be, and I quote, ‘expensive as hell and from like Europe or something’, is that correct?”

Once again, Bob confirms.

“...and then, for the actual transition, you’ve requested to be mauled to death by a bear an—”

“Sorry, come again?” Jeff interrupts, which doesn’t seem to sit well with Harry.

“Yes, and you must stop me if I’ve misread this, Bob, but it does say ‘mauled by a bear’, yes?”

Bob supplies them with his ever-so-annoying thumbs-up and a nod, and Jeff has discovered that if he listens closely, he can hear his father’s bones crack under the pressure of his stupid, little head.

“Sorry, Dad, but you want to be mauled by a bear? To death?”

“Yes, that’s what it says, isn’t it?”

“Why?”

“If I may intervene here, we implore next of kin not to question our clients’ last wishes. No matter how peculiar they might appear, they’re often clear as day for the client.”

“He’s losing his mind!”

And as a kid with no manners, Jeff points at his father, and in doing so, he’s flushed with a memory of the two of them on a bus with him at age eight, pointing at an old lady and his father, grabbing his finger. The rest is somewhat hazy.

Bob doesn’t say a thing and is seemingly mesmerized by the slideshow behind the desk.

“We will, of course, do a psychological examination of your father’s current state. We do want to make sure that he’s lucid enough to approve these plans.”

“Okay, well. When’s that?”

“We can do it now if you two find it convenient.”

“Yes, I find it immensely convenient! It’s not like Dad has plans or anything!”

“Great, well then, I’ll send a request, and an orderly will usher your father to the psychologist on call.”

A few silent minutes later, Bob is fetched by a young man with a mullet. As they’re left alone, Jeff asks Harry:

“What’ll a bear cost?”

“It’ll cost. I can’t give an estimate right now, but there are solutions for this.”

“Solutions?”

“Well, believe it or not, we have many clients seeking a more expanded transition. We had one guy who wanted to transition by being beheaded by Abraham Lincoln. That’s not really anything we can provide, so, in those situations, we use a transition agent or a relative.”

“Relative?”

“Yes. In that case, I believe the client’s brother dressed up and aided in the transition.”

“His brother cut his head off?”

“Well, yes, that’s another way of putting it.”

“So you’re suggesting I dress up as a bear and maul my father to death?”

“It may sound unorthodox, but I’ve had relatives who’ve even thanked me for being able to partake in their loved one’s transitions. It’s been described as cathartic. But I’m not here to convince you to swing either way. It’s up to you in the end. However, when you factor in transportation, a bear wrangler, bear chow, security...well, let’s say it’ll cost a tad more than a simple bear costume.”

Jeff opens his mouth, but the words disintegrate before they depart his lips.

“It’s a lot to process, so mull it over and get back to me when you’ve decided.”

Not two weeks later, it’s time. Bob was deemed lucid enough to confirm his last wishes, and the calming smell of lavender now marinates the Transition Pod. The Pod is nothing more than a snazzy apartment painted in a beige hue selected by Bob.

There’s a bathroom with a tub where Bob now resides. In the living room, there’s a sofa where Jeff tries to reconcile with his decision and exhume his inner bear. A week earlier, he had been fitted with a costume—complete with a tail and claws. Harry even allowed him to try it out in the Transition Zone, completely styled with ferns, bushes, trees and a small pond.

Jeff hasn’t summoned the courage to discuss the bill yet, but every blade of grass and every pebble is a dent in his inheritance. He isn’t cheap. He’s economical. His future, hypothetical kids would probably thank him, saying, “Thanks, Dad, if you hadn’t mauled granddad to death, we’d not be able to attend a college of our choice.” Or something like that.

After his bath, Bob munches down on Swedish lobster, a glass of expensive European wine and some homemade vanilla ice cream.

At 2 pm, Cousin Harry pops his head in and asks if “everyone” is ready, winking his eye at Jeff.

The two had agreed on not telling Bob about his son’s involvement in his transition by advice from Harry as some clients had dealt with this fact “poorly.”

“The records are sealed so no one will ever know,” Harry had said, and when Jeff asked about legal issues, Harry shrugged and claimed that “Rendezvous has that covered.”

Bob stands up, smacks his belly, praising the delicious ribs. Jeff’s stamina is beyond depletion, and maybe it doesn’t matter if his father hasn’t the faintest clue whether he’s eaten ribs or lobster as long as he’s content.

They walk down a corridor, Harry up front, showing Bob to his changing room.

Then Jeff to his.

“It’ll just be about ten minutes now,” Harry says before he shuts the door.

There’s a green light above another door, and when that gets lit, it’ll open so that Jeff can enter the Transition Zone, where his father will be waiting.

He’s trying to understand.

“Cathartic,” Harry had said.

Did Jeff at this point yearn to slay his father? To rip his face off, pulpifying his stomach and clawing away until he can see his deteriorating organs.

When you put it like that, it sounded rough.

It’s “normal,” everything is “normal,” he had been told during this process. It’s “normal” to feel awkward and “normal” to hesitate.

Two minutes later, the light turns green, and the doors open with a buzzing sound. Looking out, seeing the pond and stones, grass and ferns, it’s almost as if Jeff can see a price tag dangling from each object.

Over the intercom, he hears: “Are you ready, bear?” and Jeff manages to set free a muffled “yes.”

He heads out, immediately seeing his dad, standing there, pleased in some grim way.

“Hiya bear!”

“Chirpy git,” Jeff whispers in the heat-inducing costume, feeling how a bead of sweat is going long-distance running across his back.

He begins to close in. Somewhat dizzy and somewhat unable to focus.

Didn’t his dad buy him a teddy bear as a kid when they went on that trip to the Canary Islands? Is that why? Have they gone full circle now?

“I’m ready beary, beary, bear!”

Jeff falters as he aims to reach his memory-deficient father, hoping that he’s strong enough to be done after only one middle-class, mediocre-ish blow so he’s not forced to stand there, hunched over, unleashing punch after punch.

“Is the bear not hungry?!” Bob screams up towards the ceiling as if Cousin Harry were hovering above them, and Jeff hisses something ever so quiet regarding the fact that bears don’t even eat humans.

Better to be done with it.

Jeff gets his bearings straight and rushes toward his father. Raising his right arm and tightening his core as he’s seen on YouTube that you’re supposed to do, he takes a deep breath and then begins crying in a way he’s–possibly–never been able to cry before. His father just stands there. Baffled and not sure if this is his mind toying with him again. Jeff sits down on a boulder which must’ve set him back plenty, as it’s an excellent boulder when you think about it.

Without Jeff noticing, his father picks up a branch and starts poking him with it, screaming toward the ceiling yet again:

“What type of cheap business are you running here? This isn’t prime, top-notch bear. This is some kind of wimpy bear!”

Jeff takes off his costume head and howls with a throat clogged by over 40 years’ worth of experience being a son:

“Shut up, Dad, just…just shut up!”

“Jeff?”

“Yes, it’s me, Dad! I’m the wimpy bear! Sorry to disappoint you!”

“Son…are you angry?”

“Yes, I’m fucking angry!”

The tears make everything blurry and wet, and Jeff can’t seem to fight the fear of Cousin Harry maybe watching or even recording this whole failure of a slaughter.

“But why are you angry?”

“Because you’re not!”

His dad sits down next to him, forcing Jeff to scooch over, which, in turn, hurts his cheek a bit.

They sit there for a while.

The pond with its serene flow of water.

The faux wind that they paid extra for.

Soundbites of singing birds.

And Jeff. Sobbing. There. At that moment.

Bob, the father, embracing Jeff, the son.

And all becomes still.

“I’m sorry, Dad.”

“I know you are.”

“Aren’t you afraid?”

“In a weird way, no. Not now and here. I’m more afraid of forgetting things. Last month at the grocery store, I could barely find my way home, and yesterday, a man came up to me, and we talked for almost fifteen minutes, and I still don’t have any clue who he was.”

The sobbing begins to peter out.

“Yeah. But I don’t want to forget either.”

“Perhaps that’s what we do? We gather things throughout a lifetime, and we hope to remember everything in the end, but by then, we know it’s impossible, so maybe we have to forget?”

“Maybe.”

So they smile at each other. Then they give each other a few more minutes.

“Do you want me to dim the lights?” Cousin Harry breaks in, ruining everything. Still, things feel somehow unable to be ruined at that point.

“Naw, it’s fine,” says Jeff, giving his father a last hug, asking, with his mouth near his father’s hair-clad ear: “do you still wanna do this?” and he gets a “yes” in return.

As Jeff leaves the Transition Zone, he’s awaited by Harry.

“Should we go with Plan B?”

“What’s that?”

“We get one of our transition agents to help out. All you have to do is get out of that costume.”

So Jeff worms himself free, and standing there in his underwear, he gives Harry a nod. And a thumbs-up.