by Penni Jones
“How did you know I wanted words?” I ask.
“Everyone wants words.” He points to another dentist chair and says, “Sit there.”
I nod and stretch out on the chair.
“What else can I purchase in this place? Can I get new clothes?”
“Sure can,” he says.
“I’ve been in this outfit for ten years.”
“Geez, dude. Sounds like you need a new Tom Waits T-shirt.”
“Will this hurt?” I had one tattoo when I was alive. A tiny peace sign on my left ankle. Hurt like a son-of-a-bitch. It’s still there now that I’m dead. I’d rather that it had disappeared.
“Nah. It will feel tingly sometimes when you’re in your new body. But no pain and the ink won’t be there no more.” He pulls a tattoo gun from somewhere. He doesn’t put on gloves. I guess he doesn’t need to do that here. “What do you want?”
“Two words: ‘find Naomi.’”
“Black okay?” he asks.
“Can we do blue?”
“Nope.”
Rod steps on a pedal I hadn’t noticed before and says, “You want a rack on it?”
“What?”
“The last guy who got ‘find Naomi’ wanted a pair of boobs on it. I thought maybe it was a thing.”
Rod starts running the needle across my skin. It creates a faint vibration, but no pain.
“Was this guy named…”
“Johnny?” He pulls away and sits up straight. “No, Jimmy.”
“Greg?”
“Yeah. That’s it. Greg.” He nods and leans over my arm again. “Know him?”
“Sort of.”
Rod starts the gun buzzing again. “Who’s Naomi?”
“Just this girl I met during grief watch.”
“And Greg?”
“They were connected while they were alive.”
“Sounds like we have ourselves an old-fashioned love triangle.” He looks up says, “Some things never change.”
“I guess.”
“We’re done.” He sits up and points to my arm.
The words “find Naomi” are right there. I don’t know if it will help, but I hope so. But if it helps me, it will help Greg as well.
Rod stands up and walks toward the counter. He grabs a clipboard and says, “Sign here.”
I sign away ten places in line with no hesitation or fanfare. It’s easy.
* * *
Naomi
My boobs are finally in hiding. I mean, they’re still visible but only the outline. No more cleavage for me.
“Should I choose a model, a reality star, or a pop star?” Doris has three folders spread out on the desk. Each one has a photograph attached to the cover. All three are men. Young, extremely attractive men.
“You don’t want to be a woman anymore?”
“Absolutely not. I want power and respect. If I’m a famous white man I can do whatever I want.” Doris does the creepy grin and sits back in her chair. “It’s going to be spectacular.”
“Wow, Doris. That’s a serious life change.”
“I’m up for the challenge.”
I wonder if I should become a man, too. But I really enjoy being a woman.
“Do you think you’ll be gay?” I ask.
Doris shrugs and says, “Probably not. That might interfere with my plans.” She tilts her head and adds, “But I guess we’ll have to wait and see. I’m not going to deny myself something if I want it. Not now that I know what’s on the other side.”
“But you won’t know once you get there, right? You won’t remember.”
Doris smiles. A real smile this time, not the creeptastic grin. She pulls three binders from somewhere and tosses them on the desk.
“Doris, you clever bitch. You found a loophole, didn’t you?”
“I did.” She taps one of the binders and says, “It’s in this one.”
“No way.” I grab the binder and open the cover.
“Patience, Naomi. You can’t take your eyes off Louisa yet. The likelihood of her completion is at the low end of the scale.”
“There’s a scale?” There’s so much I don’t know. I’m not at all prepared for this job.
“Yes. And my dear, you were at the top.” Doris stands and says, “Let’s get you that mentor to feed to the Shadow. That should buy Louisa enough time to finish her grief watch. His name is Tony. He’s my former husband.”
I stand and say, “Let’s do this.” Perhaps I’m more prepared to feed this guy to the Shadow then I should be. But hey, I might be a sociopath.
Wait, did she say “former husband?”
Chapter 22
Luke
I’m not sure what’s fashionable now so I go into what looks like a Dillard’s and ask for help from a girl with a name tag that reads “Sasha.” She looks about eighteen.
“How long have you been wearing that?” she asks.
“Ten years.”
“Well, that will not do! Let’s get you fixed up.” Sasha puts her hand on my arm and steers me toward the men’s department. Her warmth on my arm is a momentary thrill. “You’re about 6′2″, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Sasha takes her hand away and looks through a pile of jeans. “You died when men who weren’t from fashion-forward areas were still wearing baggy jeans.” She taps her finger to her temple and says, “With your height and slim build, I think you should go for a basic straight leg. You can totally get away with skinny jeans, but I have a feeling those aren’t your thing.”
“Are those the jeans that girls wore in the 80s?”
“Yes. But boys wear them now, too.”
I shake my head from side to side, relieved that I didn’t have to witness that trend. Hopefully it will be over when I get back.
“How do you know what’s going on in fashion?” I ask.
“There was this fashion editor here. I think it was like a month ago.” For a second it looks like Sasha is chewing gum, but I know that’s not possible. “She updated the entire store for me while she was waiting for her new body.”
She puts a pair of jeans in my hands. “Here.” We walk to a row of button-down shirts. “I think with your coloring you should go for a deep blue.” She holds up a shirt and says, “This color is called Blue Nile. It will make your eyes pop.”
“Okay,” I say. I haven’t worn a button-down shirt since Trevor’s funeral. But it wasn’t as nice as the one Sasha’s holding. It was an ugly cream-colored shirt that was handed down from one of my older cousins. I think it had been white at one time.
Wait. Why did I wear a button-down shirt before?
Shit. It’s happening again. Fucking memory purge.
Sasha points to a dressing room and says, “You can try it on in there.”
I walk through the curtain and the clothes are no longer in my hands. They’re on my body. I don’t know where my old stuff is. I turn and walk out.
“What do you think, Sasha? Do I look okay?”
She smiles proudly like I’m her creation. “You look fantastic!”
“Do you know where I can find a notebook?”
“Two stores down on the right. It’s different from what you’re used to, though,” she says.
“Everything is different than what I’m used to.” I look down, admiring my new duds. Blue Nile is a good color.
“True.” Sasha thrusts a small clipboard at me and says, “You owe five spaces.”
I sign the receipt and pat my jeans for the letter. It’s in my pocket again. Thank God or whoever for pockets.
“This isn’t right. I’m 223 now. I shouldn’t be any higher than 219.” I show it to Sasha.
She takes it from my hands and says, “Yeah. That happens sometimes when you start monetizing your place number.” She shrugs and says, “You’ll be fine unless you get past 300.”
“What happens after 300?” Why didn’t Rod warn me about this? But why would I expect him to?
Sasha shrugs and says, “Honestly, I don’t kno
w. I’ve just always heard that it’s bad.”
“What number are you?”
Her mouth drops open and she takes a step back. “I’m not a suicide soul.”
“I’m sorry,” I say because her expression indicates that I should. “Why are you here then?”
“The afterlife doesn’t just belong to the suicide souls, you know.” There is no trace of the proud smile.
“No. I don’t know. No one here tells me anything. That’s one reason I’ve been dead for so damn long.” If I was alive, this is where I would blush and apologize for being a dick. But I’m not alive. And I don’t want to apologize again.
Sasha’s face softens and she says, “This is the afterlife. Not everyone here is a suicide soul. I died in a car accident. I was in school for fashion design, so they gave me this job.”
“Oh. That’s how it works?”
She nods and says, “Yeah. If you die in an accident. There are different rules for different deaths.” She points to a young man standing in the women’s department across the aisle from us. He is chatting with a middle-aged woman who is dressed in flannel pajama pants and a misshapen T-shirt. “He was a manager at Gap. GAP!” Sasha crosses her arms over her chest and says, “He skied straight into a tree and now he constantly gets in my way and tells me how to do my shit. I WAS A FASHION MAJOR!”
“WE KNOW, TRICK!” the man turns to her and says before turning back to his customer with a fresh smile.
“We don’t have to do grief watch. I’ve heard it’s horrible.” She grins and narrows her eyes. “What was yours like?”
“Thanks for your help,” I say.
Sasha’s shoulders drop.
“You’re welcome. Good luck! Try to pick a body with broad shoulders. The fashion editor said that muscular shoulders are forecasted to be all the rage.”
“Cool,” I say and turn toward the exit. I want to get the notebook and start writing down my important memories. I want to remember everything at least while I’m here.
“You need to find Ernesto,” Sasha says to my back.
I stop and turn to face her. “Who?”
“Ernesto. He can help you with the lost spaces.”
“Where do I find him?”
“Just ask around,” she says and starts folding jeans.
I pull the letter from my pocket. I’m number 225 in queue.
* * *
Naomi
Tony doesn’t match Doris. He’s short and broad like a football player. I can tell even though he’s sitting down. He has reddish hair and a square jaw. I would figure her for the tall, pasty, but handsome type. Like Paul Bettany or Ed Begley Jr.
“How did he end up being a mentor?” We’re observing Tony in the non-café. He’s speaking with a charge. He looks both animated and bored. It’s mesmerizing.
“He killed his wife before he killed himself. The powers-that-be really frown on that type of thing.” Doris doesn’t look up from her vapid body headshots. There are physical stats on the back of each picture. I don’t know if this is how everyone chooses their body. “It was quite the process for him to get here. Mentoring is a privilege for his type.”
“Sounds like you dodged a bullet there,” I say.
“Not a bullet. Cyanide.”
“I didn’t mean, never mind. How’s the vapid body selection?”
“It’s surprisingly difficult,” she says.
“Why ‘surprisingly?’” I ask. “It seems like a terribly daunting task.”
“I’ve had decades to prepare. I’ve at least narrowed it down. But vapid bodies aren’t known for their career longevity. Once they get a soul most of them turn things around. You know when a celebrity is seen all over the place drunk and partying and then suddenly they’re working their tails off and doing charity work?”
I nod, too busy trying to think of celebrities who probably got souls during my time on Earth. Drew Barrymore, Rob Lowe, I know there are more, but Doris is opening her mouth to talk again.
“Something like that can be done, but it’s a lot of work to step in to. I’m trying to ascertain which person has the best chance of turning his current job into a long-term, lucrative career without an immediate visit to rehab.” She does her best to sigh and continues, “I thought I would have figured it out by now. But the choices change all the time.”
Tony’s charge disappears and he stands from the table. He walks toward us, still looking bored.
“Doris. To what to I owe the pleasure?” He’s wearing Levi’s and a plaid shirt.
Doris had a blue-collar man. I can’t get over it.
She looks up from the headshots and says, “Edgar went to the Shadow.”
“Does that mean I won?” he asks.
“No. Dana won.”
“Shit.”
“Shit, indeed. We’re one soul short.” She does her creepy grin and raises one eyebrow.
“No way, Doris.” He’s shaking his head and his eyes grow cartoonishly wide.
“Tony, darling. It’s not me you need to appeal to. This is my protégé, Naomi.” She motions to me.
I set my face to stone cold bitch and try my best to appear imposing.
“No. You can’t do this to me.” His eyes dart from Doris to me and back to Doris again. “You know I was married to her, right? She’s still angry with me for leaving her and it’s been decades.”
I remind myself of why I must do this. Why I have to end his afterlife. It’s not my fault. He’s the one who played the game with Edgar. He was the one who was reckless with other souls. And I won’t throw Louisa to the Shadow to save him.
“Tony,” I say with my best Doris voice, “how long have you been dead?”
He shrugs and says, “I think around thirty years.”
“Thirty-four,” Doris says.
“I’m not doing this. I’m one of the best mentors you have, and you know it.” He points his finger toward Doris’ chest. “I’ve done everything you’ve asked me to the entire time I’ve been here.”
“Everything, Tony? That’s an exaggeration. But you always did have a flair for hyperbole.”
I have a different skill set than Doris. Time to use it.
“Aren’t you tired?” I step closer and put my hand on his arm, willing the warmth to spread as far as possible. I remind myself that this man left his wife for a younger woman and then murdered the younger woman. He’s not a good man. “Wouldn’t it be great to just let go?” I make a mental note to change into a lower neckline. Then it occurs to me that I can just do that right now.
Tony looks at my cleavage and his eyes grow wide. He has temporarily forgotten the peril he’s in.
One of my more sexist friends used to say that women were snakes with tits.
I finally know what he meant.
The Shadow is behind him. I don’t know if we brought him here by sheer will, or if it was something more concrete. Yet another unknown to add to the pile.
I put my hand on his face and say, “Goodnight, Tony,” and Doris and I are whisked away. I don’t remember the last time I was so thankful to teleport or whatever.
“We don’t have to watch the nasty part of the business. You’ve already seen it once. That’s all that’s required.” She’s behind her desk with the headshots in front of her. I’m standing before her, desperately trying to pretend that I’m not shaken.
If what we just did to her former husband bothers her, she certainly doesn’t let on.
“Well, that’s a relief,” I say.
Doris looks up and says, “You did a good job, Naomi. You’re a natural.”
That is exactly what I was afraid of.
Chapter 23
Luke
It’s a notebook and pencil, but it’s not like I remember. The cover looks like leather, but it feels lighter than a tissue. The pencil writes on the paper, but I can’t feel the lead applying pressure onto the page.
I can’t figure out what I should write first. Which of my memories are worth preserving? My life wa
sn’t particularly full of merriment.
Eben. I write his name down. Followed by the words my son. Daisy’s son. Daisy. My former lover. But I mark through lover because I hate that word. Girlfriend is better. It doesn’t sound so formal, like she only served one purpose.
Daisy. My former girlfriend. Now Alex’s girlfriend.
Eben. My son.
I stand from the mall bench and begin my search for Ernesto.
I want to remember my Matchbox cars. I had three Stingrays, a DeLorean, a Lotus Esprit, and dozens of other great cars that I could never own a full-size version of.
Just ask around. Sasha’s instructions were not great.
My first stop is a store that looks like a Journey’s shoe store, though none of the stores have names here.
“Converse?” the salesman asks me. “Maybe Vans?”
I look down at my feet. I’m still in the navy Airwalks.
“Yeah, sure. Whatever you think,” I say before remembering that new shoes will cost me. “You know what? Never mind. I’m really attached to this pair.”
“Okay,” he says on a pretend-sigh like I’ve wasted his time. I can’t imagine what else he might need to do right now. “Then what do you want?”
“I’m looking for Ernesto.”
“Oh.” He nods his head in gives a half-smile. “Losing places?”
“Yeah.” I pull out the letter. “I’m 226 now. I’m slipping for no reason.”
“Shit, dude.” The salesman shakes his head back and forth. His name tag reads Brian.
“Brian. What should I do?”
“You’re on the right track. You have to find Ernesto. Last I heard he was at the bookstore. Go down the escalator to the right. If you make it to the sex toy shop you’ve gone too far.” Brian points his arms in all directions as he speaks. The way he points doesn’t match his words. And why the hell is there a sex toy shop here?
“Thanks, dude.” I turn to the door and then turn back to ask, “Why are you here?”
“Do you mean why’d I die or why am I in a postmortem shoe store?”