I have to pick someone,” he said. “They get one last chance. I get to call one prophet.” Death’s voice became very serious. “You’re the one I selected.”
“Is this because I went to seminary?”
“No, Andrew. That was just part of your path.” He paused. “Actually I picked many. But,” he said as he pointed to the empty Laundromat, “you are the only one to show up.”
Great, I thought. A dying man gets a last phone call and I’m it. Thanks Death. Publishers Clearing House randomly selects Mary Beth Finster from East Albatross, Kansas to win a million dollars and what do I get? Death and the promise of unemployment.
“I never get picked for anything.”
“No, Andrew. You never get picked for what you think you should have. That is different.”
“But I’m not a prophet,” I said. ”I mean, I really don’t think I have the proper training.”
I’d been called many things in my life, some of which I would rather not see in print so I will let you ascribe your own colorful and descriptive adjectives and nouns. Prophet had never been thrown out in any kind of verbal exchange. There are no more prophets, I thought, but even on the remote chance that there were, I was certain I was not one.
“Anyone can be a prophet,” Death replied.