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
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 wasn’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?”
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.