bio

K.D. Bryan is a Denver native - one of six left, soon to be bred in captivity for the future enjoyment of zoogoers. He enjoys writing, exploring places, too much caffeine, the resulting insomnia and long walks on the beach. Sadly, there are no beaches of the proper length in Colorado.

primary contact:
kevinbryan@comcast.net

Reservations

You do not know this, but there is a restaurant where you choose how you will die.

The waiting room is vast and filled with elegant black chairs with high backs and soft cushions. The maitre d' is a ruddy-complexioned fellow in a silk Italian suit, robust for a man of his age. He stands with a grandfatherly air behind a short silver podium , taking all comers with the same grace and patience he has displayed since the beginning of time.

You will never wait long before your name is called.

The hostesses are all just this side of plain enough to be called pretty, but none of them are memorable, save for their warmth and the exact same Cheshire Cat twinkle in their eyes that suggests they know some wonderful secret you never will. They lead you to your table with almost soundless steps, feet sinking into plush carpeting that shimmers with shades of blue from a spectrum much darker than you know. While you have yet to be born, you are aware and awake as you will be at the height of your life, in the shape and size you will have attained at your personal zenith.

Once you are seated, your options are endless. Menus are already at your table, each one thicker than an encyclopedia set but somehow still able to be held in the palm of your hand. The script is gold against an off-white paper, listing every conceivable form of death you could imagine.

Your waiters are all efficient to a fault, filling your glasses with a clear liquid that is not quite water, while you slowly sift through your choices. They understand that this is an important concept and not one that should be rushed or picked offhandedly. From time to time, mostly in times of war or famine, they push the specials but never in an obnoxious fashion, and while they are polite, they are never obsequious.

The restaurant is always filled to capacity, some sections more so than others.

The people who choose to die from smoke related causes -- be it inhalation from fires or smoke inhaled greedily from thousands of cigarettes, pipes or cigars -- receive their own section, for the consideration of other patrons are not used to navigating through the dense clouds of hanging white, black and gray. Booming gusts of laughter are often heard echoing from this section and, even muffled by the divider, these roars make those who have chosen other deaths purse their lips and wonder.

There is a section with a buffet table set up for those who choose cancer, leukemia or other prolonged illnesses. Many of them linger, staring through the sneeze guard at their tumor choices, wondering how quickly they wish to bring things to a close as they finger their warm plates with eager thumbs. Radiation is served in small dessert cups, from a machine that resembles a soft serve ice cream vendor, while bile and other fluids simmer in recessed tureens with long plastic ladles. Sexually transmitted diseases of the fatal variety are served on moist beds of crisp lettuce, like fresh tropical fruits, little tongs off to one side.

In the general section, everyone oohs and ahhs at the men and women who are bold enough to choose car crashes, plane crashes and the like. The wrecks are wheeled out on silver trays, so polished they gleam like the morning sun on fresh snow, flames leaping high and crackling with human fat and melted rubber spitting. Everybody loves a dish that's sent out on fire: "How exciting!" they murmur and wonder if they should really stick with dying in the way they had planned.

The men and women who choose to die in their sleep are comfortably seated in luxurious booths, dimly lit by candles, where the plush half-circles surrounding them act as pillows. There are almost uniform looks of serenity with a few notable exceptions of those whose features suggest they can't help but feeling like they're forgetting something they know they want to remember. A somewhat harassed but cheerful fellow of some girth wanders from booth to booth faintly playing the violin, almost waddling. His tips are meager but the warm expression on his face never waivers. When he sees a couple together, his fat lips break apart into a beautiful smile and he plays a song he saves for special occasions. He is a romantic at heart.

Suicides are given special consideration in that, regardless of their death style, they are all allowed to congregate on the patio, seated around relentlessly square-edged glass tables. They are spotless and the weather is a perfectly clear sky that lets the sun make knife edges of reflection. The suicides' reflections gleam up at them without pity or scorn, interrupted only by the movement of their legs and feet beneath the pristine glass. For the most part, the suicides request coffee and make small talk about themselves, some of them nervously puttering with the place settings. They alone seem to have a perverse sense of discomfort with the whole affair, as if embarrassed to be ordering such a simple dish at such an expensive restaurant. Occasionally, quite a few of them get a case of the giggles and it spreads until it stops as suddenly as it starts.

There are a few men and women nearby who have requested to die of exposure, starvation or dehydration but they pay the suicides no mind, lingering under similar tables with large, wide rimmed umbrellas. They sit hunched over their chairs as if grateful for each other's company but, for the most part, unsure what to say. Some of them stroke one another's hands furtively, like lovers on the sly, while others stare out quietly at where the umbrella's shadow ends. Their conversations are brief but pleasant. Starvation victims are the majority and they often stand up out of their chairs to wander to and fro, faintly smiling at one another before returning to their chairs and looking thoughtful.

Back inside, near the foyer where the reservations are endlessly chauffeured from chairs to tables, a long bar is set up for those who choose to die of liver failure or alcohol related deaths. The people seated at these stiff, black stools seem impatient but jovial, as if waiting for a guest of honor they know is always late. The bartenders are broad-shouldered men in crisp white shirts, who regard their customers with kind eyes and a poorly hidden smirk of amusement. The liver failures often wander between the long-term illness buffet and back, balancing hot plates and bowls with an acrobat's grace.

Near the end of the bar, a coffee stand is set up with a frizzy-haired and slightly disheveled looking barista, whose wan smile flickers on when the waitstaff arrive for a poison, pollution or gas. She alone works the massive bronze contraption that gurgles merrily like a coffee machine should, putting her products into smooth black cups with red piping on the handles. It is not the easiest job, keeping track of so many different drink combinations, but it is one she has grown accustomed to over time.

Victims of wars are seated at the center of the restaurant, often starting boisterous arguments or sing-alongs, chairs flipped around for their legs to rest upon or feet up on tables. The war victims often gesticulate with their hands to make their points, waving their menus as if conducting an orchestra, voices rumbling outward like thunder. Other deaths of violence, such as murders, wrecks and accidents of various sorts, sit around them in concentric circles. The murder victims are amused by the loud talk and enthusiastic ways of the war victims, some more so than others. Whatever their feelings, all the murder victims seem to possess a begrudging sense of good humor, like the victims of an elegantly crafted April Fool's Day prank who can't help but admire the precision and timing of the gag. A few of the murder victims even try to join in on the war victims' conversations, to varying degrees of success.

Natural disaster victims and victims of animal attacks are seated in front of a sizzling grill with a small conveyor belt before them. They watch as the animals they have picked to kill them are plucked out of thin air by a stern faced but nimble handed man in chef's whites, agitated and non-plussed expertly by his probing fingers, then put on small plates he shoves out onto the belt. Natural disasters rumble and simmer on the hot metal shelf in front of the chef, his tools to stir and work the hurricanes, tsunamis and tornadoes of the world on his left, red bottles and streamlined cleavers for the volcanoes and earthquakes on his right. Other even more exotic tools hang unobtrusively on the wall behind his back. Many times, the other diners can be caught craning their heads at the loud booms and roars that emanate from this table, trying to catch a glimpse of the master chef at work. The chef is secretly quite proud behind his taciturn expression.

In a room off to the side of the smoking section, there is a place for the children. Furnished with small, brightly colored plastic tables and tiny benches, supplied with crayons and video games, the room is filled to capacity with kids, who scramble and chatter like eager birds in a field of bread crumbs. Infants are kept in a corner and bussed in and out as quickly as customers at a fast food restaurant, though never indecorously. These young ones are the people who take the shortest amount of time to order and the most enjoyment from their meals. "Choking!" some cry with a merry glee. "Hit and run!" says another, wide-eyed. "Allergic reaction," comes the chorus of some, the pride at being able to say such big words evident in their voices. A scattered group of "Murdered"s here, a "Terminal illness" yelled there, and they all run off to play while their orders are being placed and served. The waitstaff, while fond of all their patrons, take special delight in serving them, laugh lines crinkling their faces as they nimbly step over misplaced toys and dodge their happily screeching knee-high customers.

While the choices of deaths are infinite, the classics never go out of style. Old age victims have their own room, a cavernous banquet hall towards the back with heavy black drapes and lustrous oil portraits on the walls. Their atmosphere is almost like that of a family reunion, and there are stories constantly being swapped, shared, argued over and revised on the fly. Seat arrangements are fluid even as nobody seems to much feel like getting up from their chairs. Food is passed up and down by hand, and nobody much seems to mind the waiters' lack of attentiveness, as it gives them more chances to recount their tales and hear a life story they've never heard before. An air of smugness and privilege fills this room, as if they were all born into a wealthy family and have never once known the touch of poverty.

At the end of the meal, you may pass by a simple but elegant display case, the sort you would see at a diner that would showcase pies and desserts to take home. Within the case, beneath polished glass, you would see various forms of death by childbirth, with little placards in front of them, covered in small cheery script. A small but vocal line of beaming women stand in front of the counter, placing their orders to a matronly looking woman who throws out "hons" and "sweeties" as easily as some people say "hello," heavy arms and thick hands making sure that each of her customers has a cup of fresh, black coffee and an after dinner mint to go with their orders.

As you leave, a fresh-faced doorman bids you good-bye with a nod and a smile. He knows you will never remember him but treats you with respect anyway. Sometimes, if you're very lucky, he favors you with a wink and thanks you for visiting, as if you came there by choice. Tipping him results in a sage word of advice, but nobody ever remembers what he says.

And then you begin.