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In with a  fake edit: gently caress it, double whammy (flash).
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Apr 8, 2020 05:23
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| # ¿ Jan 17, 2025 02:25 |
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The Happily Hereafter Word Count: 1788 Death is a queue. It’s exactly like the DMV, right down to the beige and lime green checkered linoleum floor. Except this queue lasts for an eternity, and not the mind-numbing kind of eternity of watching the red hand of a clock tick away the seconds, but the kind of eternity that sees mountains crumble into dust. I know you might think that with all of time on our hands we’d spend most of it gabbing amongst ourselves, catching up on the latest news from the freshly dead, or watching with wonder at the brilliance of the ever evolving universe, but we’re still human. So we mostly piss away our eternity wrapped up in our own personal bullshit. It’s like the ever coiling sense of dread of walking into a room filled with all your family, friends, ex-lovers, and parents as they describe every single gently caress up, foible, and dirty little secret you thought you had but everyone knew about anyway. On repeat. Forever. -I don’t think he even remembers my face. -He’d steal money from my purse, just a few dollars at a time, I guess he thought I’d never notice. But I always did. -I know I’m a no good drunk, and my house is a shithole, but I had gotten out the train set he used to love so much, fixed it all up, even got the steam car working so it’d puff out smoke. But he wanted nothing to do with it, or me. Do you know how awful that feels? To try your best and still not be good enough? -He’d always tell people this tragic story of the death of his eldest brother. But he was only two at the time. He was really just relating his other brothers' experiences, hoping for sympathy I guess. -He was the sweetest boy, and with a heart so big, I just don’t know what happened. -The hardest thing I ever had to do was tell him no. I couldn’t sit by and watch my son destroy himself. It doesn’t matter what you have to say in response, how sorry you are, how you tried to do better from then on, because it's all said and done. Besides, they aren’t even there to begin with, just their shadows and you in an ocean of strangers. As while humanity has only existed for the cosmic blink of an eye, we’ve managed to spawn over a hundred billion of us. Trying to find people you actually know out of a haystack that big is pretty tough. So instead you’re surrounded by people in togas, sheath dresses, kilts, various military uniforms - such as every single Nazi who all keep getting punted back to the end of the line - and a gaggle of old people who brought with them their disapproving expressions. This might sound like I’m describing hell, but I’ve heard that Dis is a rather pleasant city. Apparently you can go see Shakespeare’s latest there, but good luck getting in, their list is very exclusive. No, what I’m describing is limbo, a place where the waiting lines for whatever awaits after the hereafter stretches out to that point where parallel lines converge. So you pick a line, like I did, and wait for an eternity. All the while hoping there will be somebody at the end of the line to tell you that you’ve been redeemed, or not. Unless, of course, you happen to meet jolly ole’ St. Nick. --- Poor fat Santa. He sat on the floor of what I am certain was not the DMV to him, but rather a mall, with his once belly full of jelly splayed open, pink squiggly intestines dangling out of his new orifice like worms from the ground after heavy spring showers. Crying, incessantly crying, while he tried to stuff his festivities back into his body. He wasn’t in any pain, being disembodied means you are literally beyond pain, or any sensation for that matter. He just didn’t know or couldn’t accept that he now belonged to the past tense. “Oh god, oh god, oh god,” he chanted. “Somebody please help me, I need the paramedics.” There were maybe a handful of people who stood a chance of understanding him nearby, but they all ignored him. I have to admit I was tempted to do the same, but the only thing worse than being dead is being dead and annoyed. “It’s okay, Santa, you don’t need the paramedics.” “What do ya mean? Look at me!” He held his entrails up. “I know, it looks bad, but you don’t feel anything do ya?” “I-” Kringle looked puzzled. “I must be in shock.” “Come on, how long do you think you’ve been here? An hour? A day? A year?” “It… It’s been an awful long time,” he admitted. “I don’t really know.” “Time is wonky here.” “The ambulance must be stuck in traffic.” “Come on, look around you, this ain’t Macy's. You’ve got a nun, a cowboy, and I think that guy is literally a caveman, and no bar for them all to walk into.” “It’s a costume!” the Caveman said. “Okay, so he was at a costume party,” I said with a shrug. “But how many of them are going on during the holidays?” Mr. Claus furrowed up his brow. “What are you saying?” “Chris-” “Paul.” “Paul, God rest ye merry gentlemen… in pieces.” “I’m dead?” “Don’t worry, you’ll like it after awhile.” “Yeah, that’s what they said about life,” the Caveman interjected. I shot him a dirty look, but it didn’t matter, Paul the mall Santa wasn’t taking the news well with or without the snide commentary. “No, no, nononono.” Paul began to cry again. “I don’t even know why this happened, I was just getting ready and opened a box of cookies left for me. I can’t be dead. I can’t.” “Come on,” I reached down, took him by the arm and lifted him off the floor. “Let’s go find somebody and they can tell us what happened to you, okay? Maybe it was all a big mistake?” --- It was supposed to be a lie, the kind of lie you tell a child when their goldfish dies, something to say to get him to stop crying and come along with me. Which he did, and after a while we found a counter with one of the Working Stiffs behind it to help us out. “To shreds you say?” She said, on the phone. “Hold on, Genia.” She looked up at us over her horn-rimmed glasses. “Can I help you?” I read her name tag. “Lubertha, my friend Paul here is a little confused as to why he’s here, I was hoping you might be able to set him straight.” Lubertha mm-hmmed. “Full name?” “Paul Thomas Giffords.” “Paul Giffords from where and when, honey?” “Toronto, Canada, and it's 1994, ain’t it?” “It ain’t anything,” I said. “I died in 2002, yet from my perspective you just got here.” “‘67 for me,” Lubertha said. “But I don’t see any record of you, Paul.” “Then I ain’t supposed to be dead?” Paul asked excitedly. I sucked on my teeth. The Working Stiffs were regular humans who worked for the promise of a better place in line, or for the hope of a kinder judgement, or because they were bored. Which meant they were prone to loving up, just like the rest of us. “It doesn’t really mean anything…” “But you said it, maybe it was a mistake, and it was, right? This is all just a big mistake!” Lubertha leered at me, dealing with the dead like Paul was her eternity. “Sir, I’m sure we have your records here, I just don’t have them at the moment. If you’d like, you can get back in line and somebody will be along to help track down your records.” “No, no, no. Now I don’t mean to be causing no fuss here, but I am going to have to demand that I speak with your manager. I’m sorry to be troubling you, but this is urgent.” “Urgent? Sir, you do acknowledge that you are dead, don’t you?” “Well, yes, I guess I do agree that I am currently deceased, but that’s just it, isn’t it? If I’m dead but not supposed to be dead then every minute we waste is lost time for me.” “I’m sorry sir, but we don’t have the resources to help every single discontented ghost. You’ll have to go get back in line.” “Come on, let's get back in line, I’ll even wait with you.” I tried pulling on Paul’s arm, but he wouldn’t budge. “No, I’m awfully sorry, but time is of the essence.” “You know what? I think I’ve got just the person for you. Her name’s Helzberg, I’ll just go get her.” --- Lubertha came back with maybe a twelve year old girl in tow. She was chewing tobacco and looking like she just came off from the prairie. Paul smiled warmly at her. “Oh who is this now?” “Helz.” “Pardon?” “My name. Helzberg.” “But you’re just a child.” “Been dead longer than you.” She looked at Lubertha, “what the gently caress do they want?” “Mr. Giffords here thinks there’s been a mistake.” “That’s right, I’m not in your records, so I shouldn’t be here.” “And?” “And, well, I should be sent back.” “Sent back, to Earth? You Jesus Christ? Cause you sure don’t look like Jesus Christ to me.” “Now little girl, I have manners, but I won’t tolerate this kind of behavior.” “Won’t tolerate-” I jumped in. “Look, he’s confused, he doesn’t even know how he died.” “Looks like somebody gutted ‘em, I’d say. Must be some kind of pervert to have somebody hate ‘em that much.” “I’m no such thing!” I had my doubts, but I didn’t see the need to pile it on the old guy. “He’s just an old man who dresses up as Santa Claus to bring people a little Christmas cheer, whatever got him probably wasn’t even intended for him.” “poo poo,” Helz spat. “Is that what this getup is?” “Yeah, he’s a mall Santa, right?” “Sherway Gardens, the largest mall in all of Toronto.” The girl screwed up her face, sniffed, then turned to Lubertha. “What decade this guy from?” “The 1990s.” “Yep, it's another one then.” “Another one?” Lubertha, Paul, and I all asked. “Unaccounted Santa Clauses have been showing up here for awhile now, nobody knows why.” “No poo poo?” I asked. “No poo poo.” “So you’re going to take me back?” “Hell no. But I’ll take you to see the Record Keeper. And since you brought this to our attention, you’re gonna come along with us,” Helz said to me. “Well, poo poo.”
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Apr 13, 2020 06:01
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I'm so glad I didn't miss this! In.
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Aug 18, 2020 01:00
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