Short Story / Unfinished Novel - I Died

I have ideas.  I write them down.  And then I do nothing.  Because it takes too much self-discipline and time to write a book.  So here it is...

Maybe it's a story.  Maybe it's part of a novel I won't write. 

I died on the 6th of January, 2010.  I was 40 years old.  They say life begins at 40.  HAH!

Death.  Bizarre.

I remember there was a man.  At least, I think he was a man.  I don't remember his face, though.  

He didn't introduce himself or take my hand or anything, but - somehow - I knew.  I just knew.  He was there to guide me... to what?

"Beyond?"

"God?"

I didn't know and, for the first time in my life, it didn't bother me that I didn't know.  I don't fulfill one of those key success criteria that management books talk about these days:  I was never comfortable with ambiguity.  But, strangely, at that moment, I felt just fine.

"Can I go to my funeral?" I asked him.

"You're not having one," he replied.  "You asked your husband for a New Orleans style procession to a bar and then an Irish wake, remember?"

"Oh yeah!  That's even better!  Can I go?"

"No."

"Why not?"  I was more confused than angry.

"You can't go back," he said, his tone laying out a clear non-negotiation zone.  "Now,  moving on."

"Moving on?  Is that you changing the subject, or are you about to tell me how this all works?"

"I was being sarcastic."

"Well," I said, starting to get annoyed, "it's irritating."

"What do you want me to say?"  His voice was overly patient, like a parent placating a child in public.

"How about: 'I can say, but I can't share that information with you'?"

"Too many words," he snapped.  "Moving on."

"If I have to move on, how do you explain ghosts then?"

"That's all bullshit," he snapped.  "Vampires, werewolves, bla bla bla.  Just fantasies that spawn crappy movies."

"Well, then can I do your job sometime in the future?" I asked, starting to sink to his level.  "I always wanted to be a psychologist.  You know... comforting people."

He ignored me.  I don't remember the color of his eyes, but I do remember they looked straight into mine, unflinching.

"So..." I decided to try again: "How do you understand people in different languages?"

We were walking now.

"We can reflect the person we're talking to."

"Reflect?"

"Reflect."

"Um... OK."

"It's so that we can build a relationship," he explained.  "So, if you're Spanish, I speak and understand Spanish."

"Wow!  That's a cool ability!  I love languages!"

I paused.  

"Um... I loved languages.  Do I have to speak in the past tense now I'm dead?"

This small thing, explaining something I liked, was what made me realize my situation.  I expected to feel sad, regretful, resentful.

Nothing.

He didn't reply immediately, as if he knew I was processing, pondering, at that moment.

"You're still you," he said eventually, his tone warming slightly.

"OK.  I love languages.  I'd love to be able to... reflect like that."

"It's no big deal," he shrugged.  "We can all do it."

"Even me?"

"Even you."

"Wow!"  Finally, something to enjoy about all this!  Maybe itwas a sign.  Maybe I'd be able to do other things.  Fly!  Cook!  Sing in tune!

"How do I do it?" I asked him.

"Just feel Spanish, and you'll be there."

"Cómo lo hago sienta el español?" I snapped, annoyed.  I mean, what the hell did "feel Spanish" mean, and how was I supposed to do it?

He looked at me, waiting.

"HOLY SHIT!" I yelled.  "I just said that in Spanish, didn't I?"

"Si."

"I LOVE IT!"

He smiled.  Well, I think he did.

"Wait a minute."  I stopped walking, and turned towards him.

"If you're 'reflecting' me, what are you right now?"

"I believe I'm a combination of British sarcasm, American chutzpah and a warped South African sense of humor."

For the first time in a very, very long time, I laughed out loud.

To read more in the Short Story / Unfinished Novel series, click the Tag below or the Category Link on the left.

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