Five Stars for Dying

The day I was killed was the best day of my life.

It just did, mostly because it got me out of Wednesday.

The universe that morning was calling the roll, and I was not so much as present. My toaster felt the need to turn my bagel into a mini frisbee.

There was that time my phone, in what can only be described as a spectacular, if not ridiculous, autocorrect moment, changed meeting to mating once and for all. And it really didn’t help office morale!

And then there was my boss's quick huddle that lasted long enough for a small civilization to develop.

As I rushed to buy some emergency doughnuts, I stepped into the elevator, hit Ground, and let out my final breath. The elevator jolted, the lights flickered, and then it came to a stop between floors.

There was a little pop, the faint smell of burning wire, and suddenly I was standing beside myself, watching my body slump like a deflated chair.

A woman in a blazer appeared, clipboard glowing. “Congratulations,” she said. “You’ve been selected for the Afterlife Customer Satisfaction Survey.”

“I’m dead.”

“Temporarily. Please rate your dying experience from one to five stars.”

I glanced at my corpse. “Do I still have to finish my reports?”

“Only if you want to haunt the quarterly targets.”

“No, thank you.”

A door opened in the air. Warm light, faint jazz, and the scent of cinnamon rolls drifted out. I took one step, then froze.

“I can’t,” I said. “I didn’t submit the homework for my night class.”

The blazer woman blinked. “You’re worried about homework?”

“My tutor is terrifying.”

Behind me, a ghostly terrier trotted up, tail wagging, carrying my folder. It dropped it at my feet and barked once, like a confession.

I stared at the papers, glossy with slobber. “The dog ate my homework.”

The woman smiled. “Perfect. You’ll fit right in.”

She stamped my form: EXCUSED, FOREVER. My lift dinged. Somewhere, my boss scheduled another huddle, and I laughed like a saint quietly.

I gave my dying experience five stars.