by Penni Jones
I shrug and say, “Both, I guess.”
“I was still in college but worked part-time selling shoes. Met lots of chicks that way. Then I crashed my Corolla into a McDonald’s.”
“Bummer,” I say and immediately feel like a big fat idiot.
“Yeah, bummer.” He smirks to let me know that I am indeed a big fat idiot.
I leave the shoe store in search of the escalator. I finally find it after I pass a jewelry store, the big and tall menswear shop, and what looks like a home goods store even though that doesn’t really make sense. Maybe dead people need furniture, too. Now that I think about it, the sex toy shop makes less sense.
The escalator moves very slowly. Slower than the ones I remember from my life. Where was I on escalators when I was alive? I don’t remember ever being on one before now.
Oh shit. It’s happening again. I take out my notebook and write the words “when did I take escalators,” but I don’t know if that will help me. I mark it out. It’s best to write down things I remember, not questions I’ll have to struggle with.
I go to the right though there is an arcade on the left. That arcade would be awesome right now. But I have to find Ernesto.
The bookstore is immaculate. There must not be any dust in the afterlife. There are rows and rows of books. Shelves that climb high, higher than I can see. It’s like there is no end to the store. I search and search for another person. Excuse me, another soul. It takes a while, but obviously I don’t know how long. Ernesto finally appears in front of me.
I know it’s him somehow. He is tall and imposing the way Doris is. He has darker skin than I do. He looks like he might be from Mexico. But I don’t ask him.
“Can I help you, young man?” He asks while raising his eyebrows above his glasses. They make him look official and smart.
“You’re Ernesto, right?”
“Yes, I am. Are you looking for a book?” He’s holding a copy of the Odyssey in his left hand. I read the Odyssey in school, but no details come to mind. Is it because of all the weed or because my memories are leaking from my brain?
“My name is Luke. I’m a suicide soul. My place in line keeps slipping.” I pulled the letter from my pocket and notice that I’m number 228.
“Let me see that, please.” He holds out his right hand and I give him the letter. He puts his book on a nearby shelf without looking. Somehow, it’s in just the right spot, organized perfectly by author’s name.
He holds the letter in both hands and says, “My, my. This will not do.” He reaches up with his right hand to stroke his chin. “You are losing places as we speak.”
“Where am I now?” Panic swells in my chest. For some reason that feeling has translated well into the afterlife.
“Now you’re 231.” He looks up from the letter and says, “Come with me, Luke.”
I follow him to a small office on the left. He sits down at his desk and I sit across from him.
Ernesto places the letter on his desk and says, “Have you angered someone powerful since you’ve been here?”
“I don’t think so.”
He steeples his fingers together and puts them under his chin while leaning forward with his elbows on the desk. For a second it feels like we are still alive. Maybe I am on a job interview or in a professor’s office discussing my crappy grades.
“As with any system, the vapid body program is not foolproof. There can be occasional errors. But I’ve never seen it quite like this. Sometimes people lose one, two, maybe even five spaces. But not like this. You have leveled off at 232 since we’ve been in this room. But we need to figure out what’s going on before you get to 300.”
“What happens at 300?” I hate asking questions that I don’t want the answer to.
“One of two things will happen. If the Oblivion ratio is off-balance, you will go to the Death Shadow. If the system is balanced when you hit 300 you will be sent to a rejected vapid body.” He smiles at me in the way doctors smile when they deliver bad news.
“A rejected vapid body?”
“Yeah. Occasionally there will be a vapid body that we cannot seem to get any suicide soul to take. The problem is usually based on physical attributes, but can be attributed to intelligence or living situation.”
“Can you give me an example, please?” The panic is growing like a rapidly mutating tumor.
“Vapid people do not usually possess the passion for committing crimes. At least not major crimes. But we had one vapid body on death row for murdering twenty children. No one wanted that one.”
“I can see why.” I don’t know what would be worse: Oblivion or death row for the most heinous crimes imaginable.
“Fortunately, that body is gone. It was destroyed in an electric chair.”
“Well, I suppose that’s good.”
Ernesto pulls a binder from a shelf and flips through it. It doesn’t look like he’s actually reading a word.
“Luke, chances are you’ve angered someone high up. We have to figure out who that is and make this stop right now.”
“How do we do that?”
“Let’s speak with your mentor. Find out about your grief watch, who you might have interacted with. All that.” He closes the binder and puts it back on the shelf.
“My mentor is gone.” I lean forward with my elbows on my knees. I would bang my head against the wall right now if I could feel it.
“Gone?” he asks.
“Death Shadow.” I sit up straight as the scene replays in my mind. “It was terrifying.”
“That complicates things.” He strokes his chin again. I wonder if it actually gives him comfort or if it’s just a response leftover from his living days.
“Of course, it does,” I say, then immediately worry that I sound like a smartass. I don’t want to be rude to the most helpful person I’ve met in this place.
“Who did you speak with after he was taken?” He narrows his eyes at me like I’m about to reveal an important truth.
Taken is such a better word than eaten. The Shadow just took him somewhere. It didn’t consume him as he screamed.
“I was with another soul named Naomi. She was helping me with my grief watch.” I sigh in the way souls do and continue, “After that we met a woman named Doris.”
Ernesto’s eyebrows jump up and he says, “Oh.”
“Oh?”
“Doris wields a lot of power. And she’s known for being rather unpleasant.”
“I got that impression,” I say.
“You’ll have to speak with Doris. I’ll go with you. Odds are she’s the one who is causing this.”
“But why?”
“That’s what we’ll have to find out.” Ernesto stands, so I do, too.
“Thanks for helping me, Ernesto. I’m glad I don’t have to face her alone.” I grab my letter from the desk. I’m at number 249. I put it in my pocket before the number can change before my eyes again.
“No problem, young man. Just doing my job.” He motions for me to walk toward the door.
* * *
Naomi
I have been a natural at several things in my life. I was a natural at walking into a bar and leaving without paying for a single drink. I was a natural at selecting the right shoes for any outfit. I was a natural at selling advertisements to local retailers. But now this. Natural. A natural at choosing souls to curse to Oblivion.
I wonder how that would look on my resume.
I can’t stop to think about where Tony is now. The thought pops in my brain for just a second but I push it away quickly. He’s not my problem. He’s not my problem. He’s not my problem. I saved Louisa and Luke and Nolan.
Doris has me sitting behind her desk to get a feel for things. The temperature is strange in her space. One second I’m freezing and the next second I feel like I would sweat if I could.
“There is an actor available. He’s not as handsome as the other three but he probably has more long-term career potential.” Doris looks up from her photographs a
nd waits for me to respond.
It takes a second for the appropriate words to gather in my mind. Between pushing Tony away and trying to congratulate myself for saving lives, there isn’t much room for other thoughts right now.
“How handsome is not as handsome as the others? Does he look the type who’ll age well? That’s one thing to consider with men. Many of them become more attractive with age.”
Doris looks back to the photograph and says, “That’s a very good point, Naomi.” She holds the photograph up toward me and says, “He’s on the good side of average looking. I believe a few wrinkles and a little gray hair would do him some good. What do you think?”
I take my time regarding the photograph. It’s a good distraction.
Doris obviously has higher standards than I do. Though the young man is not as attractive as the model she had been considering, he is very handsome. He has large brown eyes and dark hair that will undoubtedly look dapper with age.
“This is your man, Doris. Or I guess I should say, this is you.” It makes sense to me now. Why getting this job actually is a positive thing. If I can just live with what I’ve done and what I will continue to do. But I guess I’m not living at all so maybe I just need to reframe my thinking.
Doris smiles in a way I’ve never seen her do it before. It’s not snarky or cynical. It’s just a normal smile. “You know what? I do believe you’re right.”
“What’s his name?”
“Dylan with a Y like Bob Dylan. Dylan Pine.”
“When are you going to go?” It’s something I hadn’t really considered. That Doris would be leaving me soon. That I will be in charge of this shit show.
Doris places the photograph on the desk and clasps her hands together. “I can take my time since I’m in this position. No one can take the body that I want, or even one I am considering.” She picks the photograph up again and without turning away from it she says, “But I will probably go soon. You have lots of resources here. Lots of books. A lot of this will be on-the-job training that you will figure out as you go.”
“Is there anyone here who will be able to help me if I have questions?”
Doris nods and says, “You won’t be alone. It will often feel like you are, but you won’t be.”
“Louisa is still mine, correct?”
“Yes. She should be checking in with you any time now. I’ve been getting reports that she is doing better than expected. I’m sure that is a testament to your skills as a mentor.”
It’s most likely due to her brush with the Shadow, but I’ll take it.
“Where do the reports come from?” I ask. As with everything here, I don’t feel like I am getting all of the information I need.
“The reports will come to you after I’m gone. Things have a way of working themselves out.” Doris looks back to the desk. Only Dylan’s headshot remains. The others have disappeared to take their place in the vapid body program. “You won’t do the job the same way I have done it. You’ll have to follow your own instincts.”
I’m tempted to fall into sentimentality. Doris is suddenly a mother figure, a longtime boss, a bitchy but wise aunt. I remain silent so I don’t say something she can use against me later if the mood strikes her.
Chapter 24
Luke
As we leave the bookstore, we see a young man running toward us. I recognize the Black Crowes T-shirt before I recognize the face. Greg.
“Are you Ernesto?” he asks and for some reason I hear his words like he is out of breath from running even though that can’t be the case.
“Yes.”
“I was told you could help me.” Greg pulls the letter from his back pocket and unfolds it. He points to his number line and says, “I don’t know why this is happening.”
“Did it start as soon as you got the tattoo?” I ask.
Greg looks down to his forearm, to the tattoo that reads Naomi and has two circles and a dot in the middle of each one just beneath it. Rod draws boobs like a grade-schooler.
“But that’s all I bought, and my space keeps slipping.”
“Mine, too.” I see the desperation in his face and feel bad for him. Bad for us both.
“Do you know if you’ve angered someone since you’ve been dead?” Ernesto asks.
“I don’t think so.”
Angered someone. He had angered me by appearing in my space. By appearing when I was close to Naomi. But I’m not responsible for this.
Ernesto looks from Greg to me and back to Greg again. “Do you two have anything in common other than being suicide souls?”
I unbutton my sleeve and push it up to my elbow revealing my tattoo that reads Naomi.
Ernesto reaches up to stroke his chin. “Oh.”
“She wouldn’t be doing this though. She wouldn’t even know how.” I pull my sleeve back down on and button it at my wrist.
“Greg, is it?” Ernesto asked.
“Yes.”
“Well Greg, Luke and I are going on a quest. We are going to figure out who is doing this to you two. Would you care to join us? I think it would be in your best interest.” Ernesto’s tone is soothing, comforting.
“Yeah. Thanks.” Greg’s eyes are wide and he’s nodding, perhaps trying to wrap his mind around the situation. I don’t have the heart to tell him that there’s no use trying to figure it out.
“Well then, boys. Our first stop is the third floor. There is an administrative office there where we can look up current information.”
We fall in behind Ernesto as he leads the way toward the escalator.
“Are we going to look at microfiche or something?” I ask.
“Microfiche wouldn’t carry current information. I’d like to think that the afterlife is more developed than microfiche,” Greg says with a chuckle. I can’t tell if he’s being a dick or not.
“It’s kind of like a computer. Or what living people consider a computer. I need to cross-reference your cases to figure out what you have in common other than this woman Naomi. Or what Naomi has to do with all of this.” Ernesto taking the time to lay out the plan is comforting. It’s like he’s the only one here who isn’t trying to keep a secret.
As we walk past storefronts and hop onto the escalator, all of the store employees know Ernesto’s name and go out of their way to pop out and say hi. Ernesto is an afterlife rock star. The females flutter their eyelashes and would blush if that were an option. The males call out to him like he’s the coolest guy in school. He takes it all in stride like he doesn’t notice the attention. He’s a man on task. He’s on a mission to save us from Oblivion.
Maybe that’s why everyone finds him so attractive. The unassuming savior from the bookstore.
“How long have you been here?” I ask.
“We can ask that? I thought we weren’t supposed to ask someone how long they’ve been here or why they’re here.” Greg looks at me with his head tilted sideways.
“It’s not prison, Greg. Everyone ends up in the afterlife sooner or later,” I say.
“I died during the Nixon administration,” Ernesto says looking fondly into the distance. “Heart attack. I was really stressed out when I was alive.”
“Do you like it here?” I’m not sure if that question is actually rude.
“I have a job I love and in my down time I get to read any book I want. I couldn’t ask for a better gig.” Ernesto smiles softly. The smile makes him look younger.
“Thanks for helping us out, man.” Greg puts his hand on Ernesto’s shoulder, one of those man claps that was foreign to me in real life.
“Honestly, it’s my pleasure. I’m always up to a good challenge,” Ernesto says.
A challenge? This isn’t going to be easy? What if he can’t fix this for us?
We hop off the escalator on the third floor. Greg and I match strides without trying. Both tall and lanky, though he lived long enough to outgrow some of the awkwardness my body still carried. I wonder if either of us would have become those crazy weightlifting t
ypes. There are so many things I will never know about myself.
“Why did you change clothes?” Greg asks while eyeing me up and down.
“Because I had been in those others for over ten years.”
“Oh. I don’t blame you. That was a cool Tom Waits shirt though.”
For a second, I miss my T-shirt. I take out my notebook and write down Tom Waits T-shirt. The pause to write down the words has put me slightly behind the others. I pick up the pace to catch up and realize how much more quickly I can move now that I’m dead. Maybe it’s because I’m not carrying around a pair of lungs that are riddled with nicotine and pot smoke.
Greg turns his head sideways to look at me and asks, “You a musician?”
“I play guitar a little. You?”
“Yeah, guitar.” Greg looks at my face intensely and says, “Are you going to tell me why my girl’s name is on your arm?”
“We spent a lot of time together. She helped me get out of grief watch. She was the only person I knew for a while. I want to find her again.” The truth comes out easily. There is no hesitation in my honesty.
Greg nods and says, “So is this some kind of triangle or something?”
“I don’t know. It’s probably not that simple considering our circumstances.”
“Forgive me for being insensitive,” Ernesto says, “but you two have a lot more important issues right now than a girl.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Greg says.
I try to see it Ernesto’s way. To decide that Naomi is not important. But it just isn’t working. I have to talk to her again even if it’s only once.
“This is it.” Ernesto motions to a door that looks like it’s made from thick steel. It seems imposing. Clinical.
I turn to Greg and say, “Just so you know. I hope we both get this fixed.”
Greg nods and says, “Yeah. Me too.” But he looks at me with vitriol in his gaze.
“Follow me, boys.” Ernesto opens the door and we walk into a room that looks like every office building I’ve ever been. Not that I’ve been in many.
There is a woman behind the desk. She’s middle-aged, maybe around fifty. She has cropped brown hair and a smile on her face that appears stuck-on, like she’s had it since before she died. She looks up from her computer screen and says, “Ernesto! Long time no see. What brings you by?”