“It's time, Harmon. Just relax and let go. I've got you.”
The elderly gentleman in the bed, like so many of my clients, looks frightened and confused.
“Who are you?” he asks in a voice that scarcely stirs the air in the hospital room. It's past midnight and we're alone, save for gray-haired, middle-aged woman who is snoring softly in a bedside chair.
“I'm the guy who's going to help you cross over.”
Harmon Wilkes squints into the darkness. “So, you're an angel?”
“Do you see any wings?” I reply.
“A demon, then,” Harmon persists. “I'm going to hell. Fuck me.”
I've got no more time for questions. I'm a project manager on the other side and I've got places to go and shit to do. Also, if I spend too much time in the land of the living it hits me in the feels. I have too many regrets to linger.
I take Harmon's hand and ride the breeze into the realm of the deceased. The woman in the chair jerks in her sleep, but doesn't waken.
My name is Micah Turpin. I'll admit it's an unusual name. My mother gave it to me because of its biblical significance. I just like it because it's the name of the marshal in one of my favorite television westerns from my childhood. I'd still be watching it, but we don't get DIRECTV or any of the retro channels here.
“Where the hell am I?” Harmon Wilkes is awake and speaking in the robust voice of a man a third his age. It's a phenomena that disappears in a few hours. I have no idea why. This isn't Star Trek and I'm not privy to what goes on upstairs in the C-suite.
Wilkes looks like he's going to be trouble. I'm not surprised. His case file paints a picture of a life-long bully and all-around asshole. I'm well acquainted with his type from my living years.
“This is our call center,” I explain. “As astral planes go, this is entry level. Some of our residents refer to it as hell. Judging from your record on the other side, you'll probably be here for a while.”
I watch his face flush with anger and wait for the punch that I've seen coming for the past five minutes. His fist passes through me and the next thing Harmon knows he's flying across the room. I haul him into a chair and turn on a screen.
“Get to work Harmon. You just bought yourself some additional time in this little corner of paradise. I'll check on you in a year or two.”
I return to my office to find a stack of new case folders on my desk. They can wait; it's late in the day and I'm tired. Maybe I need a change. I've been doing this job for three years now and I'm good at it. Two project managers with less seniority than me have already been promoted. It's not right.
Sure, I could send a query up the chain of command, but I'm afraid it would reach the top. I watched the Wizard of Oz as a child and have no desire to find out who or what is behind the cosmic curtain. Based on my life and death experience, I suspect we're talking about some form of technology that is beyond human understanding, something that would make the most powerful computer on earth resemble an Etch-A-Sketch, and artificial intelligence seem like prehistoric cave drawings.
It's not as crazy as you may think; consider the Egyptian pyramids, the architectural and engineering marvels of ancient Rome and Greece, the advanced technology of the Mayan civilization, Stonehenge, and the list goes on. It would also answer the epistemological question of why human misery is met with a cosmological indifference that offers neither respite nor a solution.
“The fuck are you doing, Turpin? Get back to work. Now!”
The words hit me like a thundering train, and not for the first time. I should know better.
I grab the case folder on top of the pile and open it. Jerry Cates...holy shit, I went to school with that little prick. This should be fun. The next breeze is on the way and I can hardly wait to catch a ride.
* * *
Something's wrong. This isn't my usual exit point. The large medical office building and expansive parking lot look vaguely familiar.
“Oh my God. Oh my...”
The stench of sour vomit explodes from my mouth before I can stop it. I bend over, hands on my knees, and stare into a puddle of clear rain water. A ten-year-old boy stares back.
“Jesus!” I jerk back and trip over my feet.
The unmistakable high-pitched laughter of Jerry Cates is ringing in my ears. I look across the parking lot, except the parking lot and the medical building are gone. It's 1959, and I'm looking at my elderly elementary school that should have been torn down five years ago. I know that the adult Jerry Cates will die a painful death, probably due to asbestos exposure, although a lifetime of beer, cigarettes, and french fries certainly helped seal the deal. In any event, this is an opportunity to set things right and maybe change the future for some other victims of Cates' bullying.
“Look at Turpentine,” Jerry crows. “Can't even stand up, can you Turpentine.”
I pick myself up and cross the school playground. The smile on my face is so wide it hurts, but I can't help it. A group of children watch as I approach Jerry. I recognize all of them, although some of the names have receded from my memory.
Jerry's smirk has disappeared. This is something new, something dangerous. The new and improved Micah Turpin is in the house.
His hands are on his hips.
“What do you want, Turp...?”
I launch a glancing blow just below Jerry's chin and watch as he grabs his throat and drops to a knee. He's back up sooner than I expect, so I fail to block the haymaker to the side of my head. I laugh as his punch whistles through empty space. Even though I'm on this side of the curtain I lack a corporeal presence.
Cates eyes are huge. I get up in his face.
“Boo!”
Jerry stumbles and drops to the ground. I watch as he curls into a fetal position and starts whimpering like an unweaned puppy. I'm on him faster than a wolverine on fresh carrion.
By the time I'm finished young Mr. Cates is unrecognizable and my audience is fleeing toward the school.
“You're welcome,” I yell at my ungrateful classmates.
“Screw them,” I mutter. “I've done the world a favor, right Jerry? Come on, let's go. I think you'll like our call center. I've saved you a seat next to Harmon Wilkes. He's an asshole, too.”
We ride the breeze to the other side and I drop Cates in the chair next to Harmon. Even though he's dead, the smirk is back on Jerry's face. I knock it off with a fast backhand and head for my office. It's been a good day's work, but there's no rest for the weary.
A strange noise stops me in my tracks. The next breeze isn't due for another hour, and this sounds like something dark and threatening, a roaring monster akin to the Santa Ana winds on the other side pushing death and destruction.
A Category 5 downdraft yanks me off the ground before I can react. I look up in time to see my office disappear from view. I close my eyes and wait for my life, or maybe my death, to end.
I jerk awake when I slam head first into a hard dirt floor. The downdraft swirls upward like chimney smoke and vanishes faster than a hooker at sunrise.
It's dark. I wait for my eyes to adjust, but that doesn't happen. I don't understand. This has to be a computer glitch. I just need to be patient. The technical support people will get it fixed.
I try without success to find a more comfortable spot to wait. The silence is absolute. I don't mind for now, but I'm afraid the sensory deprivation may prove harmful if the tech team can't fix the problem soon. I know the stack of case files on my desk is growing. That thought does nothing to ease my anxiety.
Thought you were doing a good deed, didn't you, Micah? Maybe even setting yourself up for that overdue promotion. Think again, genius. You murdered a ten-year-old boy. Took his life without a second thought. Maybe you're right where you belong.
My mouth is dry and it's hard to swallow. In the distance I hear the sound of deranged laughter. Underground people leaving work for the day. Busy, busy, busy.
I try for a chuckle, but it comes out of my mouth as the piercing howl of a grieving wolf.
It's possible I have made a serious miscalculation. My theory about the super computer behind the curtain suddenly seems shaky.
The laughter is louder now. I thought the call center was hell, but I was dead wrong about that.
My body aches like the pain of a living person who has experienced trauma, but deeper. It's a strange sensation, something I've never experienced on this side. There's just one thing left for me to do.
I get to my feet and feel my way through the darkness. I'm ready to go to work, anxious to meet my new friends, eager to embrace their insane laughter. I think I'll like it here.
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