The Inevitable Ian

I've no idea what's going on here. Why is the gardener here so fond of gardenias? Oh, here's someone. How odd looking she is in that old fashioned get up. Where have I woken up this time?

"Hello, Ian. Please don't be afraid. You've died, you see. For the last time."

"I'm not sure what you mean. If I can see and hear and understand you, and my body feels just as worn out and uncomfortable as it always does, how can I be dead? I mean, if this is what counts as an afterlife of any kind, I'd like to speak with someone who can do something about it."

"Are you asking to speak with the manager, Ian? How quaint. I am here to help you."

"Is that so? Well, perhaps you can begin by telling me what moved you to say what you said just a moment ago, about my recent funeral and what not. Are you out of your mind, or is this better living through chemistry of some sort? Frankly, I'm not sure how you expected to get away with uttering that preposterous sentence. Shameful, I must say."

"Your hostility is a result of your confusion. I will try not to take it personally, but it is most impolite. As I said, you have died for the last time. You experienced a parallel life and your prior iteration joined us roughly a year ago; your iteration ended approximately twenty two hours ago, largely as a result of your embarrassing diet and sedentary slothfulness."

"This is quite a racket you've found for yourself here. What about the other bloke then? How'd he fare?"

"Your prior iteration ended as a result of a stroke, induced by frustration and exhaustion, if your prior iteration testified honestly. We have been here for a long time. As far as we can tell, based on the testimony of everyone who has arrived here for centuries, this pattern does not change. How do you feel?"

She's mad as a hatter. Fetching, but mad.

"Good of you to ask! I am tired and various parts of me ache and throb, as is their custom, while the other parts do their best to ignore the troublemakers. I feel as I generally have for many years: like the best of it is gone, but something surprisingly savory could turn up before the end."

"I see. Well, it has ended. So, what turned up?"

"Ah. Let's see. I suppose you're quite fair of face and form, aren't you? That's something, even if the rest of this is pure malarky."

"That's what you think. What did you learn from being alive, this time?"

"Uh, I had no idea there would be an exam at the end, that's for sure. I suppose I learned to make a lot of money and enjoy myself. I know you'll hate me for it, behind whatever pharmaceutical haze you're smiling through, but I see no reason to lie to a beautiful hallucination."

"You're funnier than the last fellow. I suppose that makes sense, though he was not without a sense of humor. The difference seems to be that he was considerate of mine. Why do you suppose it was a well spent life, if you spent it getting and spending?"

"Most of the other suggestions I heard were rubbish. We would all recite the fashionable platitudes and then wink and nod and get on with raising a pile. That's all a monkey in a suit is good for, isn't that so? The rest is just talk. So the other bloke and I lived different versions of the same life at the same time, is that what you're selling?"

"No sales are involved, Ian. Yes, you lived two versions of one life, feeling unique and alone for the duration. As you have learned, though, that wasn't so. What about the others you met and read and heard about, while you were alive--what did you make of them?"

"Customers if I could, employees if I thought they could help me make a buck or two; two I married. No, three, though I'm not sure Theresa ought to count. Do I get some sort of score? How many details will get me in A range?"

"I see. Did you ever get the sense that any of them were unhappy?"

"What a clanger that is. Of course! That's how it is: some have got what people want and some haven't. The ones with it are laughing most of the time, and the others missed the joke and scramble to get by outside the party. Have you ever been alive?"

"Yes. Twice. You don't seem to be paying very careful attention to what I am saying, and have said. That is disappointing. There was some debate about my appearance. We agreed that you would be most likely to take me for some sort of angel, or the incarnation of your fondest wishes, or something like that; your 'dream girl,' understand? Did you manage to read any Marshall McLuhan, before all of the fat and sugar and cheap thrills took effect?"

"Who has time for reading? Were you alive before everything became a clip?"

"Oh, Ian. I am very sorry. McLuhan had some valuable insights about the way the messenger shapes the message. We have ample time to read, here. Never mind about that. You have clearly had a terrible life."

"Who do you think you are talking to, stranger? I come to in this whacky garden (someone around here has a relationship with gardenias that makes me suspicious, by the way) and you turn up and want me to think I've died and then play at being on a quiz show with you! What am I to make of that? I had quite a good time, all things considered."

"I understand. That is why I pity you. You see, we have all learned a great deal from the testimony of others over the years. Our library is gigantic and always expanding, and you are warmly invited to sample its many delights and dangers as often as you like. Time isn't really a concern for you, now.

We have been hearing and reading about other lives for as long as we have been here. What we have learned is that one life begins in want, and the other, simultaneous life begins in plenty.

The other elements are variable, but within easily discerned parameters: sex, race, bodily specifics that will gradually emerge over the course of a lifetime--height, weight, gender, proneness to various diseases of the body and the conscious being who calls it home, sexual preference (this one is more volatile than you might expect, even over the course of certain trips abroad or years at boarding school), religious and philosophical theories, beliefs and moral and ethical principles. Lots of fretting about pronouns, these days. Were they a worry for you?"

"Don't kid yourself. I dreaded HR, so I did my best, but you are clearly a woman and I am clearly a man. The rest is hogwash, isn't it? Play acting and make believe that we've all got to take seriously. I'm well rid of it, if I'm really dead. Can't you do something about my knee, if that's true? Were you a point guard, or something like that? You know how sports can murder your knees, I expect."

I find myself wondering if it is always twilight here. I can detect jasmine and honeysuckle despite the ostentatious gardenias. She really is lovely, though she seems cross with me.

"Ian, this is all rather sad. I spoke with your prior iteration at length, and learned a great deal, I might add. That prior iteration is no longer with us, by the way. I wish I could be surprised that you haven't asked."

"Oh, I see. So where am I then? Is this economy class seating? How much to see behind that curtain?"

"We're not exactly sure where they go. None of them have ever come back, so we can only speculate. Most are optimistic. Some leave happy and others with anger or fear. I am envious of the former, which I find it difficult to accept. I thought I had been here long enough to move past that kind of thing. It does take some time to get better at being human, doesn't it, Ian?"

"You seem to fancy yourself the expert. So he's gone you don't know where. Well, what did he say before he left?"

"He thanked me at some length, and rather eloquently at that. My appearance was different for him. The more I think about it, I feel I was someone he loved talking with. You see, the appearance of the greeter used to be known as quite a solemn business--ordained by various authorities, not to be trifled with. The more we've talked about it, most of us have become convinced that some refinements are needed prior to the first meeting. As it turns out, just discussing them with the greeter has actually made some refinements come into being before our eyes.

Little surprises those of us who have been here for as long as I have, or longer. That dialogical editing of the greeter's appearance did cause plenty of astonished controversy, though. We've since discovered that consensus can refine almost everything here, once it can be reached. I will have to tell the others that I think I have the form of someone with whom you should have talked, but did not."

That's about enough of that. With whom does she think she's talking?

"Look, I've got to spell it out for you now: I do not care for your tone at all. From what I can gather, this may be the low rent version of whatever you think we're doing here. I can smell an upgrade coming. I've always been good at that."

She actually sighed, just then. So judgmental! Do I hear Bach? Where is the orchestra?

"Your prior iteration never mentioned a similar talent. You were very good at gushing about whatever you were hawking, though you seldom read anything but the advertising copy, and not much of that."

"Where did you get that idea, and why do I get the feeling I'm on the wrong show?"

"I've seen clips. Your prior iteration was a careful, intelligent partner in conversation who had gained all kinds of insights from his life and observations of the general state of the other humans, with whom he felt a close, concerned kinship. In fact, like many of the most astute minds around here, he seemed to have grasped that he could have been any of the others, anywhere, at any time."

So she liked the other bloke better. Story of my life.

"Well, what could have been obviously isn't what is. If that were so, you would be a lot more friendly and someone would have done something about my knee. I'd like a scotch and soda, too. What about some hors d'oeuvres, eh?"

"Ian, I'm not sure what went wrong. I mean, you were the CEO of a powerful, wealthy company. A few others loved and cared for you. Many feared you. A few idolized you. At least three were plotting to kill you before you died, and that was solely based on what they could glean about you from the media.

I am beginning to understand their feelings, though I would not have encouraged them to act upon them. Imagine how terrible their lives would have been after that."

I do not like this person.

"Just hold on. Have you just said that the only reason not to kill me would have been to avoid the nasty consequences of doing so? That other than that, one of these weirdos would have been doing the world a favor? Have I got that right? What is your name, anyway?"

"I am here to greet you, Ian. What do you suppose my name is?"

"What sort of a question is that? Based on this sunny chat, I'd say you think you are some kind of doctor, or a school mistress, or someone's annoying mother. Is your name 'Yes Ma'am, right away ma'am!' by any chance?"

That got to her. I'm getting the hang of this.

"I'm sorry, Ian. Your prior iteration told a wonderful story when I asked him what he thought my name was. He said that it should probably be Dulcinea, after that woman whom Don Quixote most adored because she appeared to be someone he should not have loved at all, under ordinary circumstances. That is how mundane things are made extraordinary, don't you think, Ian? By love?"

"What, is this some sort of commune or something? Are you telling me that I've died and woken up in some kind of kooky New Age cult? This is a gloomy Tuesday. Still no cocktails. Good times."

"You will soon discover that what you need will appear while you are here, Ian. Here, you are welcome to share these blueberries, if you like. There is some cheese, too, and a little bread. I have water here as well, you see?"

Magic catering? I could get used to that, but the pickings look slim.

"Well, there's some pretty good CGI, eh? I'd like to know where you got that all of a sudden. I didn't even see a waiter. Is that from the bloody cafeteria? All mass produced and heat lamped and school lunchy, is it? None of that for me, thanks. Berries? Who greets a guest with a cheap, wooden bowl of berries?!?"

"You determined what turned up, Ian, if past is prologue. Your previous iteration was greeted with a daring Merlot and a plate of some of the most delectable walnut sauce fettuccini I have ever tasted. He shared liberally, as was his custom for as long as he was with us. He seemed to have an appetite for ensuring that others were well fed and happy. I actually saw my own joy set his eyes alight when I had the first taste. Never mind.

You did love money, Ian. That was what made your schtick irresistible. You were born at a time and in a place that gave you the sense that money was all there was to think about. Everyone around you was very cunning. They all knew how to say and do and think what was necessary to collect money, and let others know they had it, and would soon have more. I suppose there's something of an art to it, Ian. Were you an artist, this time?"

"Look, if our new investments in artificial intelligence pay off as I think they will, my surly son and his sweet, daft little sister will be buying their own islands in no time flat. Did they have a splendid send off for the old man, if in fact any of this actually happened?"

"The proceedings were opulent. Some said garish, if you want the truth. Your first wife seemed more moved than your second, which is a common pattern that I have often discussed with the others. Your son has a serious, illegal drug problem. Your daughter's medication is all prescribed, and she seems quite manic and fond of cosmetics.

Are you quite sure you wouldn't like some cheese? Oh, I'm sorry. It's quite awful. Implausibly orange and much too salty. Is that how you like it, Ian?"

"Oh, come on now! I've tried to be civil, but if I'm honest, I think you're behaving like a proper cunt, see what I mean?"

"I understand, Ian. You were not an artist, after all. Your previous iteration was quite a poet, you know. He was modest about it, of course. He spent his life as a teacher, Ian. He sent most of his modest salary home to his parents in Punjab. Were you ever interested in teaching?"

"Uh, no, I have some sense, ma'am. I may like the sort of cheese the maid would put on saltines for me when I woke up feeling awful in the middle of the night, but poverty is not for me. Nor do I have any patience with kids. My daughter is good to me. She may not be clever, but she behaves properly. My son's a bloody walking disappointment, he is. Haven't you seen the clips? Did he black his fingernails for the funeral, like some sort of fruit? I wouldn't put it past him."

"I was watching his eyes very closely, Ian. I did not notice his fingernails, I'm sorry. Did you often focus on these trivial details, during the life that has just ended?"

"What, was I supposed to be blind this time 'round or some such? I noticed what was right in front of me, like anyone with some sense would do, ma'am. What do you think of the cut of my jib, anyway?"

She doesn't look cross any longer. Sad, and a bit worn, I would say.

"I am here to help you, Ian. What you have said tells me we have gotten it right, more or less: those with material advantages suffer immaterial disadvantages. I was glad to know your prior iteration. I look forward to a time when we are better strangers, Ian."

"How dare you?!? I think I'd like to talk to someone who knows what they're doing."

"Your anger will probably lead you to someone who can address your needs more effectively than I have, Ian. If you remain angry and unhappy here, you will probably leave us quickly. You may not like where you are going any better, though."

"Why do you say that? I thought you could only speculate!"

"That's true, Ian. There are rumors, though. How do you fare in the heat?"

I'm quite sure that upgrade is coming. I do feel a little sweaty, though. Are they dimming the lights? Is that Paganini instead of Bach? Why is it getting louder?