by Simon Rich
It’s around this time that Hitler returns to the table. He looks into my eyes, and I brace myself for some harsh words.
And that’s when he does it.
He smiles.
You’ve seen it on book covers, in newsreels, and in propaganda films for over fifty years—that playful grin, a mix of earnest boyishness and charm. But until you’ve seen it up close—until you’ve beheld it—it’s hard to explain just what it means.
It means: We’re here. Right now. In this moment.
And maybe this moment is about more than how many Instagram followers we have. Maybe our emotions aren’t reducible to algorithms. And maybe, just maybe, life is a little bigger than that phone that keeps vibrating in our pocket.
Adolf Hitler has gone through so much: ups and downs, highs and lows. And now, sitting here across from him, I think I finally know the reason why: he did it for us. We can’t all be Hitler. But maybe, if we try, we can glimpse some of the wisdom he’s learned. Hitler has committed genocide against his insecurities. He’s cremated his doubts and gassed his fears. He’s been down, but he’s not out. Hell, in some ways he’s just getting started.
Hitler lets out a whoop as the waiter comes back to our table.
He’s brought more fries.
Any Person, Living or Dead
If you could have dinner with any person, living or dead, whom would you choose? Aristotle? Catherine the Great? Mahatma Gandhi?
Luckily for you, recent advances in time travel technology have made it possible to turn this age-old fantasy into reality.
Frequently Asked Questions
How does it work?
As soon as your payment clears, our skilled technicians will travel back in time to capture, sedate, and abduct a historical figure of your choosing.
Is sedation necessary?
Unfortunately, yes. Most historical figures are confused by the concept of time travel. When we appear in their homes, they often flee or become physically combative. Once sedated, though, guests usually accept their “invitation” to dinner.
What should I talk about with my guest
at our dinner?
Unfortunately, conversation at your dinner will probably be minimal. Most historical figures do not understand modern English. Also, it is unlikely that your guest will be in the mood to talk. Time travel is extremely physically traumatic. Each trip involves more than six and a half minutes of free fall, 900 g’s of spinal pressure, and temperature swings ranging from 150 degrees Fahrenheit to 30 degrees below freezing. By the time guests arrive at dinner they are almost always unconscious.
Are any historical figures “off-limits”?
We regret to inform you that William Shakespeare is no longer available for dinners.
In the first few years of our operation, Shakespeare was one of our most sought-after guests, appearing at dinners at a rate of three to five times a week. These appearances put a heavy strain on him, both mentally and physically. He began to recognize our technicians, and whenever he spotted them, he would burst into tears and run screaming through the streets of London. Many of our technicians are former Navy SEALs, and they seldom had difficulty capturing the unathletic Shakespeare. But the amount of violence needed to subdue the famous playwright grew to unacceptable levels. After a series of tribunals, the United Nations concluded that we can no longer “invite” William Shakespeare to events.
Can I read any testimonials?
Absolutely. The following reviews come from actual, satisfied customers.
Bob from San Antonio:
“I wanted to meet Da Vinci because I saw that movie about his code and I wanted to know if it was real. The first thing he said was ‘Oh mio Dio,’ which a technician told me means ‘Oh my God.’ Then he started whispering ‘diablos.’ I guess he thought he’d died and was in hell? Anyway, I tried to ask him about his code, but he was pretty strung out from his trip and all the sedation, so I just let it go. It was cool to see his clothes; he had a brown shirt with funny wooden buttons.”
Mike from Fort Wayne:
“It was pretty wild hanging out with John Lennon. The first thing he said when he came through the portal was ‘I need my stomach pumped.’ I think he thought he was having a drug experience.
“He was really fidgety, so a technician decided to put him in a restraint chair. When Lennon saw the straps, he freaked out. The scientists kept warning him to ‘be good,’ but Lennon wouldn’t stop flailing, so one of the technicians had to slap him. When the restraints were finally on, Lennon’s body went limp and he started to cry.
“I was a little nervous to talk to him, because he’s such a big celebrity, but eventually I worked up the nerve. It was during dessert, after Lennon had been quiet for about an hour. Two technicians propped Lennon’s head up, and I said to him, ‘Mr. Lennon, I just want to tell you that I love your music and I cried for hours the day you got assassinated.’ As soon as I said it, I realized I’d made a bad mistake. Mr. Lennon’s eyes got wild, and he started saying, ‘Who’s gonna kill me? When’s it going to happen? You’ve gotta tell me! This is my life! My life!’ He got so angry that he managed to rip off one of his restraints, which is incredible because they’re made of steel. With his free hand he reached for a butter knife, and the technicians had no choice but to shoot him with a tranquilizer dart. It hit him right in the center of his chest. He looked down at the dart for a few seconds in total shock. Then he looked up at me and started to weep, with a look on his face like How could you have done this to me? What have I done to deserve this? I could tell he wasn’t thrilled about the whole situation, but at the end of the day, it’s like Hey, buddy, you’re a celebrity. This is what you signed up for.”
Upward Mobility
As Dylan boarded his boss’s private jet, he reflected on how blessed he was. A year ago, he’d moved from Omaha to Hollywood without any prospects whatsoever. His small Christian college hadn’t offered any film courses, and his only work experience had been at the local air conditioner factory. Somehow, though, against all odds, he’d landed a job with Jack Krieger, the most powerful studio boss in town.
It wasn’t easy being Jack’s personal assistant. Each day, it fell on Dylan to organize Jack’s schedule, answer his phone calls, make his reservations, pick up his dry cleaning, polish his shoes, write memos to his employees, write letters to his shareholders, write birthday cards to his children, bring him cocaine, remind him what day it was, and handle any other task his boss considered “bullshit.” Dylan’s salary was pitiful and his workload gigantic. But the job offered great upward mobility. On his first day of work, Jack swore to Dylan that the harder he toiled, the more he would learn and the brighter his future would be. And it was this happy promise that kept Dylan motivated, all the way up until the moment Jack’s private jet exploded and he died.
Dylan squinted through the hazy, chest-high clouds. He could see his boss ahead of him, looking around with annoyance.
“Dylan?” he called out. “Where the hell are you?”
Dylan hurried over as quickly as he could. At the time of the jet crash, he’d been sitting illegally in the aisle so his boss could use his chair as a footrest. As a result of this positioning, his death had been far more gruesome than his boss’s. There was a long, jagged gash extending from his forehead to his neck and a spiky piece of fuselage protruding from his chest. He was also missing his left leg. Jack had some light char marks on his suit but otherwise looked fine.
“Where the fuck are we?” he demanded.
Dylan’s shoulders tensed. It was his responsibility to keep track of every aspect of Jack’s life, from his Wi-Fi password to his Social Security number. The more confused Jack was, the worse Dylan was doing at his job.
“Don’t worry,” Dylan promised. “I’ll find out what’s going on.”
He hopped through the clouds, struggling for balance on his one remaining leg. Within moments, he was back at Jack’s side, flipping through an informational pamphlet.
“Okay,” he
said, a little out of breath. “Basically, the situation is that we died in a plane crash and now we have to wait in line to see Saint Peter.”
“Do I have to go up there myself?” Jack asked. “Or can you just do it for me, like with the DMV?”
“I think you have to go up there yourself.”
“This is bullshit!” Jack said. “Is there at least some kind of express line? Like a business class type of deal?”
Dylan scanned the pamphlet. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said. “I think there’s just one line for everybody.”
“Fuck!” Jack said.
He eyed the people standing in front of them in line, a large Midwestern family who had apparently died in some kind of horrible roller-coaster crash.
“Christ,” he said. “Can you believe how fat this country’s getting?”
Dylan gave a practiced nod. Several times a week Jack would go on a hateful tirade against fat people, and part of Dylan’s job was to normalize his boss’s viewpoint on the subject.
“They should all be castrated,” Jack said. “They should make a law that if you weigh a certain amount, it’s illegal to have children.”
“Absolutely,” Dylan said. “Good idea, sir.”
“You know we had to make the damn seats bigger?” Jack said. “All over Wisconsin and Michigan, we had to rip out thirty rows in every movie theater so the fatsos could fit their bodies into the goddamn seats. And we had to double the size of the drink holder. Can you imagine? We had to double it!”
“I’m sorry,” Dylan said.
“If these people get any goddamn fatter, pretty soon every theater’s gonna be just one big seat, and it’ll also be a toilet, so the fatso doesn’t ever have to get up. He can just sit there watching Ironman while shitting out his nachos like an animal. Have you ever seen one of them eat nachos? They don’t stop to breathe! It’s nacho, nacho, nacho, nacho—”
Dylan politely cleared his throat.
“What?” Jack snapped. He wasn’t used to being interrupted.
Dylan gestured subtly with his head.
“Oh,” Jack said. “Right.”
They had come to the front of the line. Saint Peter was glaring down at them from his lectern. Dylan couldn’t help but notice that he happened to be overweight.
“Welcome to your judgment,” said the saint.
“How long’s this gonna take?” Jack asked.
“Excuse me?”
Dylan forced a laugh. “Sorry!” he said to the saint. “He’s just been through some trauma.”
He quickly hopped forward so that he was standing in between his boss and Saint Peter. Despite the circumstances, his confidence was high. If there’s one thing he’d mastered in his three years as Jack’s assistant, it was getting Jack into exclusive establishments. Just last week he’d gotten him a table at Trois Mec, without a reservation. How hard could heaven be?
“I’m Mr. Krieger’s assistant,” he explained. “I think you’ll find that my boss more than qualifies for heaven.”
“I don’t see how,” said the saint as he flipped through Jack’s file. “I mean, his Good Deeds page is blank. I’ve never seen that before, not even with babies.”
“Holy shit,” Jack murmured to his assistant. “This fatso’s got it in for me. What are we going to do?”
“Don’t worry,” Dylan whispered reassuringly. “I’ve got an idea.” He smiled at Saint Peter. “Sir, if it’s not too much trouble, I’d love for you to look into my boss’s Charitable Contributions.”
Saint Peter begrudgingly flipped to the back of Jack’s file. His eyes widened with shock.
“As you can see,” Dylan said, “Mr. Krieger recently gave more than one million dollars to charity. That makes him one of the most generous people on the planet.”
It was technically true. Dylan remembered the day Jack had made the donation. He’d just found out that he owed five million dollars in back taxes. “Get me my Jews!” he’d screamed. Within minutes, Dylan had called up Jack’s accountants, and together they had figured out a way for Jack to dodge most of the taxes by making a series of “strategically timed charitable donations.”
“I suppose it’s something,” muttered Saint Peter. He was clearly upset by the loophole Dylan had found.
“Can I go in now?” Jack asked.
“No,” said Saint Peter. “Good Deeds are just one category. We also take into account your Life’s Work.”
Dylan felt his stomach rumble. This wouldn’t be easy.
“According to your file,” Saint Peter said to Jack, “you’ve released over a hundred films into the world.” He put on his spectacles and squinted at the list. “Why do so many have the same name?”
“Those are sequels,” Jack explained.
“What’s Bad Doctor?”
“That was a starring vehicle for Zac Efron,” Jack said. “It’s about a stoner who cheats his way into medical school so he can get access to the drugs. And he bangs all the hot nurses.”
“What about Bad Cops?”
“Dave Franco and Zac Efron. They cheat their way into a police academy so they can get access to the drugs. Then they bang all the hot evidence girls.”
“What are ‘evidence girls’?”
“It’s something we had to make up,” Jack admitted. “You know, so they had girls to bang.”
“These movies sound like filth,” said Saint Peter.
Dylan cleared his throat.
“What about The Rising of Our Lord?” he said.
Saint Peter folded his arms. “Excuse me?”
“It’s one of Mr. Krieger’s films,” Dylan explained. He leaned across the lectern, flipped through Jack’s file, and pointed out the title.
“There!” he said. “In 2004. A dramatic portrayal of Jesus Christ’s heroic Crucifixion.”
Again, Dylan’s point was technically true. Jack had a very vocal policy of green-lighting one “Jesus movie” a year so the studio could “buttfuck the Christians out of all their money.” Rising alone had grossed more than 300 million dollars.
“It’s a very moral movie,” Dylan told the saint. “A gripping tribute to our Lord. Have you seen it?”
“No,” the saint said coldly.
“Well, would you mind asking around among your colleagues?” Dylan inquired. “I bet some of them are familiar with it.”
Saint Peter’s eye twitched. “Very well.”
He slipped through the gate and returned moments later. His jaw was tightly clenched, and the blood seemed to have drained from his face.
“Something wrong?” Jack asked.
Saint Peter took a long, slow breath. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft and clipped. “If it’s not too much trouble,” he said, “God would like you to sign his DVD.”
Dylan smiled proudly and handed his boss a pen.
“Anything else?” Jack asked as he scribbled down his autograph.
“No,” Saint Peter muttered. “God has recommended that you receive entrance to heaven.”
“Booyah!” Jack said. “Wait, wait, hold on, though.” He leaned across the lectern. “There’s cocaine in there, right?”
Saint Peter nodded sadly. “There’s cocaine.”
Jack pumped his fist.
“The system is broken,” Saint Peter mumbled to himself. “The system does not work.”
Dylan felt guilty for demoralizing Saint Peter, but he couldn’t help but feel a surge of pride. He’d managed to help his boss through a major, unprecedented crisis. It was his greatest feat as an assistant yet. Who knew what it would lead to?
His mood deflated, though, at the sight of something happening in the distance. A pair of rosy-cheeked cherubs were hanging a sign on the gates.
HEAVEN CLOSED FOR 100,000 YEARS.
“What’s that mean?” Dylan asked nervously.
“Just what it says,” said the saint. “We can’t let anyone in for the next one hundred millennia.”
Dylan’s mouth went dry. “Why not?”
“Unfortunately, heaven is very, very small. We only have room to let in a very select, privileged few.”
“Like business class!” Jack pointed out.
“Yes,” the saint said bitterly. “Like business class.” He turned to Dylan and bowed his head with genuine remorse. “I’m sorry we didn’t get to you. You seemed like a good person.”
“So what happens to me?” Dylan asked in a small, frightened voice. “Where do I go?”
Saint Peter shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“I mean, I have some idea.”
“Is it hell?” Dylan asked. “Am I going to hell?”
Saint Peter threw up his hands with frustration. “What do you want me to say?”
“I want you to tell me the truth.”
“Then, yeah,” Saint Peter said. “You’re going to hell.”
“Like, full hell?”
“Yes,” said the saint. “Full hell. With the fire and the screaming. The whole thing.”
Dylan’s eyes filled with tears. “Oh no,” he said. “No.”
Jack laughed. “Oh man,” he said. “Sucks to be you!” He turned back to Saint Peter. “So…what’s next for me? I assume I gotta sign some bullshit or whatever?”
Saint Peter nodded dutifully. “Yes,” he said. “Right here, in the back of God’s book. Just fill out your name…”
Jack wrote down his name.
“And your birthday…”
Jack wrote down his birthday.
“And your Social Security number.”
Jack looked over his shoulder at his weeping assistant.
“Hey, what’s my Social?”
Dylan instinctively started to recite it. But a few digits in, his mind began to turn. He thought of the Christmas he’d spent on the phone to Time Warner, arguing a three-dollar charge on Jack’s behalf. He thought of the thousands of emails he had printed out on his home computer because Jack didn’t like to “read shit on a screen.” He thought of how he’d spent his final moments on the planet, contorting his body to create more space for his boss’s feet. When he spoke, his voice had an uncharacteristic edge to it.