Getting Ahead

I.

I expected a foul, reeking combination of blood and spinal fluid (or at least what I imagined spinal fluid would smell like. Kind of rusty, maybe?). But my senses were still foggy, so all I could smell was an aggressive bleach - which I assume was someone's polite attempt to replace something I shouldn't try to imagine. It's strange that I spent my first few seconds back from things assessing the air quality when I was so obviously without the luxury of leisurely sniffing out my surroundings. There were clearly more pressing matters at hand.

At hand. Guess I shouldn't say that for a while.

I remember the literature warned of possible confusion, weightlessness, nausea, and vertigo, but I was wholly unprepared for the panic. Is this normal? Is this how I'm supposed to be feeling? They didn't mention the panic. Or the headache. (Why would they)? But despite the dull pain of my slowly thawing skull, I still expected success. The miracle of science.

In fact, my confidence was obscene. I bragged about my mortal solution to anyone and everyone who would listen. That's how certain I was that everything would work as planned. It seems embarrassingly foolish now - how easily I found the cash, signed the papers, and naively anticipated the promise of a second life. I'm just too busy for chemo, I told anyone who would listen. Bank ladies, passer-bys or even children. I figured I would beat cancer in the most extreme and violent way possible. Like my own executioner. And all I would have to do is agree to be temporarily one head tall.

II.

I felt a growing panic express itself in desperate attempts to revert to a breathing process I simply did not need. I mourned my body. Even in its most ill and painful state, it was, after all, the only body I had ever had. I wasn't even surprised when I felt a ghost pain not unlike the phantom limbs described in history books or war documentaries. But I assumed my entire useless and diseased form was now chopped up in little pieces. Sitting in a hazmat bin somewhere. Diced away in neat little cubes (like lunch ham), with the cancer finally sucked of its power. I grew as increasingly concerned about my body as I did my necklace. What did they do with the only thing I own now - my heart-shaped locket that used to hang like dice in the car but later became a constant fixture around my neck. I liked having it there to touch when I wanted a reminder of feeling loved.

III.

I wouldn't be directly addressed for hours, but finally a man with a booming voice barked out strings of numbers, pointing to a helper to show where heads would go. "04226 goes over here." "Add 04880 to the top of that stack." "Put 03971 aside. We need further paperwork on that." "88236 will need medical attention. Carry it to the back." Before I could truly understand, I felt my whole head spin to the right. The Numbers Guy turned me sideways and yelled over me to the others. "03823." I heard a loud thud as I returned from his spin. As I regained equilibrium and fought through a sudden slushy feeling, I realized the thud was me. I was boxed up and ready to go. "Maybe this is it. Maybe I'm headed to surgery."

IV.

Numbers Guy stepped atop a stool to address us, or perhaps to get a head count. Bored and rehearsed he gave us the news.

"Congratulations. You have successfully completed your journey. We are here today to thank you for your patience and to share your next steps. You must have many questions, so please let me assure you that each of you will receive your placement shortly. Your placement has been determined by your previous work experience and will shed light on your situation."

"Situation"? When do we get our bodies? I can't wait anymore," a lady half-cried, half-spoke. I recognized her voice. It was clearly audible by now as she had thoroughly de-thawed. 

Numbers Guy repeated: "Your placement determines your timeframe for re-connection. We will speak with each of you individually to share the details."

V.

When you hear someone state your "number" out loud, it would behoove you to memorize it. Or at least that is what I have come to learn. They called us in numerical order and had I remembered my number I would have had a sense of my wait time, which as it turned out, was infuriatingly long.

The Numbers Guy lifted me with his left hand and grabbed some other head with his right. Together the two of us surfed down a hall with the Numbers Guy serving as master puppeteer. Another figure emerged - shadowy to me, Numbers Guy handed her my head friend. I bounced along to The Numbers Guy's gait, and then he placed me atop a table and pulled a chair around for our chat.

"So, Mr. Sauls," it says here you worked in the television business," he said. He sounded rather impressed so I attempted to elaborate.

"Yes, I am an entertainer."

"I can't really understand you, but it does say here in your folder that you hosted a television show on Comedy Corner. That must have been cool."

He stared at me a bit either in disbelief or an attempt to place me. He stared a lot, actually.

"Well, that's good news for you. Your placement allows you to continue your career. For some folks it doesn't. But you're pretty lucky. Someone will be back to check on you in the morning."

With all of my strength, I summoned what remained of my vocal chords and said -

"Body."

Numbers Guy turned white. I know he heard me.

"Get some rest."

And with that he shut the door.

VI.

By morning, I was rather proud of myself. I had a voice, albeit monotone. When Numbers Guy came in, I started on the questions:

"When is my re-connection surgery"? I sounded like a stupid robot.

"How do we get in contact with the others"?

Numbers Guy smiled a little but would not retain eye contact.

"Look, if you don't know, ask someone else!," I cried. The sound of my own panic surprised me.

Numbers Guy picked me up mid-sentence. We walked. I talked. He listened. Or didn't, I'm not sure.

"This guy's headed for the big house," he said. He laughed wildly at his own joke as he handed me off to some intern who looked no more than a kid. He was far too excited to hold me and gleefully outstretched two sweaty hands for his new toy. I swear he did some happy bouncing as he moved me into a van. For just a moment, I caught a glimpse of the van's side. A logo, something green, and the words "Innovation TV." But Henry and I had contracts with ReLife Inc. A contract paid in full to get the bodies we deserve. What is the big house? What the hell is Innovation TV? And when do I get my fucking body"?!

VII.

Although I had a narrow and straight-forward view in the van, I could see enough to understand why someone would call it "the big house." We passed stately magnolia trees, winding pathways, and a series of gates requiring multiple passwords and scan cards. We must have been fairly near to begin with because it seemed we arrived in under an hour. The happy intern grabbed me like a frisbee and rushed me up the stately stairway to an ornate golden door. A short wait by the door and we were then in an impressive hall. I was moved like a turkey on a platter from one fancy servant to another. Each time I questioned a servant I was ignored, but each time I addressed the happy intern he leaned right in my face with no regard for personal space. It made me a little sick. And all he would say is that I can perform now. Forever.

"Mr. Sauls is here, Madam," a gloved man proclaimed as he lifted me a little too high with way too much flourish. "Thank you, Grayson," said a voice to my left.

A jeweled woman, proud and regal towered in front of me. "Oh, this is grand!," she exclaimed. "This really takes me back." "I AM A BIG FAN," she shouted, as if having no torso meant I couldn't hear very well. "Master Blaine will be delighted."

"Wait"! I projected a piercingly shrill sound like an animal. The jeweled woman was initially taken aback, but then she sighed and whispered to her staff. She moved toward me again.

"I understand this must be uncomfortable for you, Mr. Sauls, but I trust in time you will come to find your stay here quite delightful."

"STAY? What are you talking about? I need to get the fuck out of here! Where are the doctors? Where's Henry?"! I spit my anger out. My voice was my only power now.

But the room looked upon me with pity. A familiar pity they had extended before and will extend again. It seemed they were quite used to these outbursts.

"Grayson, take Mr. Sauls to the den."

I found my way under Grayson's arm as he shuffled us through multiple halls and into a separate wing. As he pushed the door ajar, it squeaked a squeak I would hear over and over again for the remainder of my days. And then I saw it. There before me was an enormous grid, forming the largest screen I had ever seen. Greater than the old IMAX theatres of the past. "Wait. What are we doing here"? Grayson was kind enough not to answer. He walked me behind the screen and lifted me into the small empty space that would become my forever home. If I had had a heart it would have sunk to the pit of my stomach as I came to understand my fate. Dozens of heads, neatly packed into individual open boxes faced outward in eerie quiet. Once positioned in my own confining block, I gazed ahead at a single recliner and side table.

"No! No! You can't do this. I can't be here"! I screamed, as I felt Grayson's hand leave the back of my head to wobble into place. "There's been a mistake"!

Someone groaned with disdain. If they had to learn to be here, then I did too.

Grayson rounded the screen and leaned in to my cube. He issued one last word of instruction. "You will know it's your turn when your box lights up."

I summoned one last plea. "But what about my body"?

"Comedians don't need bodies," he said. "In fact, they're funnier without them."

It was something I couldn't really argue with. And then he shuffled away.

Peer pressure kept me silent. It seemed no one wanted a share of my terror.

VIII.

We sat in silence for hours. A hundred heads in a hundred dark boxes. Waiting for a light. Or something better. Something like death. And then with a squeak of the door, little Blain ambled in. Was he six? Seven? He used a stool to climb into the big puffy recliner where he sat ready for his entertainment. He was a little presence in that big chair, but you could tell he knew he had great power. He held a shiny remote in his chubby little hand, and with a push of his finger, my cube light gave me the cue. I would never have a body. I would always be a head, but I would perform again. And Grayson was right after all. Comedians don't need bodies.

The End