Photo © Chris Bartholomew
John Abbot rose from the red metallic bench, brushed himself off, stretched and, for the fourteenth time since his arrival, yelled for help.
And for the fourteenth time there was no answer.
He slumped back onto the bench. How long had he been here? Hours?
Days? He honestly didn't know. There were only three things he was certain of: First, he was alone in a white room with a bench (well, to be completely honest, he wasn't actually sure it was a room. He couldn't see any walls, or corners, or ceilings, but he did see a lot of white and he was alone). Second, he was dead.
He yelled again.
The final thing he was certain of was that there was no escape. Every time he walked away from the bench he'd walk into another one. Only it wasn't another one--it was the same one. Or, it was another one and the old one kept disappearing. In any case, there was only one bench. And it apparently was meant to stick close to him.
Just as he was about to yell again, (he was planning a good bellowing shriek this time) a calming wave of acceptance washed over him. And in that instant, he realized how unfair his predicament was. Not the bit about his being dead, because a lot of people might argue that it was deserved. No, what was unfair was that something was preventing him from panicking. Every time he wanted to freak out those god-awful feelings of peace overwhelmed him. What a rip-off. What was he suppose to do now?
He lowered his head. "Dying can be a real bitch," he sighed.
"Do you say that because of how you died?" asked a baritone voice.
He nearly slid off the bench in surprise. He hadn't said that. Even when talking to himself he always responded as a tenor. Cautiously, he rose to his feet and looked around, turning around in a circle like a dog chasing his tail. He saw no one. "Who's there?" he yelled.
"That's not an answer. That's a question."
"Yeah okay," he said returning to the point, "If you must know--my death wasn't particularly fun. It was premature, you might say."
"I'm not surprised," said the voice. "You always seem to be struck with particularly creative deaths. I can't help wondering if that's not a coincidence."
"So are you God?"
A split second of silence was followed by a deep laughter. "Hell no."
"Hell?"
More laughing. "Stop it! You're killing me. Or you would be if I were alive. Try again later. And calm down; I'm not a concept that you need to worship or fear.
"I am calm. I seem to have misplaced my panic-disorder."
"Yes, those do seem to get lost here. This place has a prosaic effect on recent returns. I should say most returns. It took it quite a while to stop you from that embarrassing display."
John crossed his arms in protest and said, "If you'd gotten here sooner, I wouldn't have found it necessary to scream so much, would I?" He knew he sounded petulant, but he was annoyed.
"I arrived when it was my time to arrive. I'm quite punctual," the voice said reasonably.
There was no point in arguing with a voice, so he let the matter drop. "You said I'm 'always returning,' so where is it I've returned to?" All things considered, it was a fair question. John had lived by the motto: location, location, location. And he intended to die by it also.
"Consider this place a Soul Transit Station."
Before John could ask another question, a swatch of paisley materialized and hovered before him. He backed away slowly. "Is that you?"
"Me? You didn't get much of an IQ this last time, did you? No. Look at it closer."
John did and, finally, after an endless time-about a minute-he recognized the pretty fabric. It was a memory. And it wasn't really a paisley-it was more like an oil slick on a white-top, with myriad colors swirling together. Funny that being here, he thought. I don't usually leave them lying about.
The oil slick rose above John and poured itself into him. The sensation of entry felt great; sex great. After more time--another minute (much like the interval of time that John usually needed for sex)--the warmth finished cycling through him and he remembered. "I recognize your voice," he said.
"It's about time! Yes, you've known me many times over."
The memory inside John grew. He snapped his fingers. "Yeah, the last time I saw you, you were a Japanese farmer named," he hesitated for a moment to get it right, "Akio. Yeah, that's it Akio Masuko! Man, that was ages ago. It's good to see...I mean hear you again."
John heard a throat being cleared behind him. He spun around and saw an elderly man with acorn-colored skin walking toward him. The man wore a dusky blue kimono. He said: "Konnichi wa, Abbot-san."
John bowed his head. "Konnichi wa. So it really is you."
Akio sighed. "Seeing is believing, I suppose. Except this is not really me, it's only an avatar of something I was. It's a visual crutch for you."
"But you really are here?"
"Yes."
"Then enough with all this stupid talk about crutches. Tell me, what have you been up to since I last saw you?"
"Open your consciousness."
John instinctively unfocused his thoughts and suppressed his ego. From Akio's mouth and eyes flowed pea-green memories. They weren't like an oil slick this time. They were more like the projectile vomit from The Exorcist.
John backed away from Akio and reached for the back of the bench. He gripped it for support until the grief passed. "I'm sorry," he finally whispered.
Akio sat down on the bench. "Don't worry about it. I don't. All experiences are washed clean by the Transit Station. It's all part of that purity of soul policy. No dirty souls allowed in the Collective. Once you are there, you'll understand."
"Yeah, right," John said skeptically as he took a seat beside Akio.
Changing the subject (not unnoticed by John), Akio asked, "So, tell me, how'd it happen this time? Nothing lingering, I hope."
"My death? Nah, it was pretty quick. Some nutcase shot me during one of my motivational speeches. He pulled out a gun and demanded his money back. And let me tell you," he pointed a finger upwards for emphasis, "John Abbot does not give refunds. And, anyway, here I am."
"I'm getting the sense that you're upset."
"Upset! You think?" he said. "I was fuckin' shot!"
Akio shrugged. "So? You're dead now. It happens to all of us. Every time. Now take a deep breath and relax."
"I'm dead. What breath?"
"Metaphorically."
"Stick it up your metaphoric--"
Akio held up his hand. "Stop, before you say anything I'll make you regret. You need to put things into perspective. I seem to recall that you've had much more irritating deaths in the past."
"That's not the point. I still identify with John Abbot. And I know for a fact that he would be pissed off about being shot.
"Don't worry, his persona will fade."
It was true. John already felt past lifetimes brushing up against his most recent ego. It felt weird, but not unpleasant, like a kitten's tongue.
He stood up and circled the bench, studying his surroundings. Bench, Akio, and white. No surprise. He held his arms out. "Except for the odd bit of memory laying about, this 'Soul Transit Station' of yours isn't all that remarkable. When I'm back in the Collective I plan on suggesting some changes."
"I thought you gave up on interior decorating after that whole beheading debacle in France."
"Those people had no sense of style."
"You don't care for 'head-on-a-pike' retro?"
"Nope. That's just plain tacky." John again gestured to the space around him. "Still, you have to admit this Station of yours is a pretty bleak place."
Akio smiled. "You perceive only the fringe. Open your consciousness again and see what I see."
The last time he'd tried that, it had felt like he was drowning in Akio's anguished vomit. But he figured--die not, want not. So, he stepped away from the bench and braced himself. He opened his mind and saw, or more appropriately he felt, a whirlpool of colors and emotions rising from the horizon. The bland surroundings brightened with exquisite hues. John bathed in the colors while his mind expanded to accept possibilities. All he could say was: "Wow."
"Yes, wow. Now focus back on me, because I can't stay long. I'm on my way to being born. You know how it is, you're dead one moment and alive the next."
John felt old colors evolving into new ones inside of him. It was amazing. Unable to look away from the glowing horizon that was folding into music, he called over his shoulder: "How much time do you have before your birth?"
"It's difficult to say. My mom's first two babies had long deliveries, so I'm pretty sure I have some more time."
Colors danced inside John to the rhythm of the horizon. His ego was dissipating and he didn't mind because it felt so damn good. Soon he would be ready for his departure.
"Why is it," he asked, "that you have to be born? Why not stay merged within the Collective forever? The Paradise."
Akio reached into the folds of his kimono and pulled out crumpled document. "Because my ticket is good only for my birth."
"Rip it up and join me."
"I can't."
"Why's that?" asked John as he continued to watch and feel his surroundings.
"Not that damn free will thing, again. Just once, I would like to see you make it through the Station without bringing it up."
"We have it in life, so why not in death?" he insisted.
"John, John, John, my poor misguided friend, the living don't have free will. It's all about cause and effect. The fact that you asked me a 'why' question and expected an answer means that you believe in cause and effect. The same applies to mortals."
"That's sophistry. Don't try playing me for a new soul."
"It's not sophistry, it's determinism. And I'll tell you why."
I'm sure you will, thought John. Let the lecture begin.
"Don't go polluting the station with your thoughts!" Akio said. "Besides, I don't lecture. I give insight. Now, what I was going to say was this: that the only reason some mortals think they're free is because they don't understand the combinations of causes that force them to make their decisions. Schools, governments, and even the financial markets--all of which are controlled by society--direct them. It's a closed system and there is no free will within a closed system."
John shrugged. "I agree that certain events are more probable than others, and that some mortals may fall into a predestined trap, but once they understand events, their actions are free."
"The only way they can understand all events," said Akio, "is to sit outside the system with a bucket of sushi (which they can't, because one, they would have to leave the system from which they were created, and two, there is no such a thing as a bucket of sushi 'to go') and watch the causes of the events."
"Interesting."
"Does that mean I've convinced you?"
John turned back to Akio. "What? Oh I see. No, your idea is rubbish. What I found interesting was the way you fling parenthetical asides." He pointed at parenthetical points one and two. "Oh look, your points have just changed into a sad blue."
"I think I can hear my parents-to-be calling." Akio stood up and began to walk into a rainbow. "Good-bye."
"Wait! I was just kidding. I didn't realize you were so thin-skinned. But wait, you don't have any skin. Your body is just a crutch."
Akio sighed. "I can see why you were shot."
"Yeah, whatever." John was still a little sensitive about that subject.
He listened to the call of the sounds in and around him. All that tethered him to this place was a thin chartreuse rope woven with his doubt. "Hey, Akio, assuming you're right about systems, then aren't we limited even when merged into the concept-driven Collective?"
"Yes, exactly; even transcended we are part of a system. All of us are part of some system--therefore we can never be all-knowing."
"Ha! A soul that's an atheist."
"Don't be an idiot. I said we. If God exists, then he's an outside observer of all systems."
A disturbing thought, (perhaps a revelation) suddenly came to John. "What if all these--you, me, the Station, everything--are just part of a story? Do we exist if no one reads about us?"
Akio didn't reply immediately. "I don't know," he finally said, "but if you're right, then someone must be reading this."
"Would the reader be God?"
"No, the reader is trapped in our system of words. Say, you never mentioned that John Abbot was a philosopher."
"He wasn't. Truth be told, he was pretty shallow. That's why he became a motivational speaker." The calls were becoming louder. He didn't have much time left here. And, if what he suspected was true, then he might only have a few paragraphs.
He heard Akio say something but it sounded distant. "You're fading," John called.
"I'm leaving and so are you. Farewell, and if you ever come back to life during my mortality, maybe we can get married like before. Maybe you'll be the husband this time. Who knows? The author?"
Akio was gone and there was only silence.
THE END
David Siegel Bernstein lives in Elkins Park Pennsylvania -- which is tucked away, discretely, in the shadow of Philadelphia . To support his writing addiction (and excessively extravagant lifestyle), he works at as a labor economist specializing in the analysis of employment discrimination. His non-literary projects include: Re-inventing the wheel, the Sisyphus relief project, referring to himself in the third person (as THE David, lest fools confuse him with the other one), and his ongoing mission to understand women (through trial and lots of error). His literary writing has appeared in Reflections Literary Journal , Liquid Ohio , Black Petals , Outer Darkness , Bewildering Stories , Anotherealm , Defenestration , Enigma , and Midnight Times . His Home Page. If you enjoyed his story (or not), write to him here.
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