Nothing

"What is 'nothing?'" asked Robert. "You said I was 'nothing' up until right now, and now I'm a person. Or about to be. But what was 'nothing?' What was I?"

Robert looked back at himself. "I guess I'm not sure. I took a class about—ah, it was about—Buddhism? And we learned that 'nothing' is the highest concept you can aspire to. Maybe it wasn't Buddhism...anyway, I think it was in line with most religious teachings: get rid of your attachment to yourself, and move upward. Be a better human." He looked down and was saw he still had his winter boots on, though there was no snow on them.

"So," began the other Robert, "what were you before?" He (the other Robert) was wearing the lime-green jersey shorts he had bought with his birthday money two days before eighth grade. They weren't the dumb jean shorts his mom always bought for him. They were sleek and fast, for playing basketball in gym class. And for looking like someone who plays basketball in gym.

Robert reached for the small of his back and rubbed it instinctively. "I was shovelling." Some of his other life's memories were vague; this was not. The background hum of neighbors' snowblowers and the glare white of the snow—and the sharp, cold air. That's what he remembered. Thinking he should have put coffee on before he stepped out of the house. Yes, the normal backache, but then...feeling his arms start to hurt, and the lead in his chest. "I had a heart attack, and I passed on to, ah—here." The sun had just risen, he remembered. Who died in the morning? What jackwagon author had written this script?

The other Robert made a palms-up shrug. Given that he'd never experienced anything, this would be a difficult conversation, in terms of context.

"Yeah," said Robert, doing an unsurprisingly accurate mimic of the other Robert's shrug. He heard his winter work jacket swish with the gesture. Was there a reason he had to keep wearing this outfit? Would he get hot? If death's "sweet release" could not even liberate you from your winter gear, then this had to one of the more overrrated experiences in the universe.

"When do I get to start?" asked the other him, furrowing his brow. "You know? Start being?" He also had on the Metallica shirt from the Load tour. Green shorts, Metallica shirt. And the Nikes with the blue laces, too. Not just clothes, but signposts—almost like theme songs—from different times and places. He thought about playing guitar by the lake, the summer after he'd been to that Metallica show. He thought about snuggling with his sister in the old orange chair and her reading The Berenstain Bears to him. He thought about the way his granddaughter squeezed her arms around his waist when he took her on the old Honda motorcycle for the first time.

"As soon as I leave, I guess," said Robert. He looked to his right. A door (was it the basement door from the first house he lived in, with his mom? With the Hot Wheels in the basement?) stood in space, with an "Exit" sign over it. Behind other Robert stood a glass door with "Welcome" in all caps lettered above the push bar. A pang of longing, like nothing he had ever experienced in his life (even when he saw Jen Rickhart play basketball in high school; even when his daughter walked through the airport gate without looking back; even when he left the State Fair at night with the fireworks bursting overhead) hit him square in the chest from that door. Other Robert's door. Then, it was gone.

"Where are you going?"

"To that 'nothing' you asked me about, I think. Then you're 'something.' And that's easy enough to understand, right?" It was white apple blossoms and French fries and the sound of rain on the porch roof and your smiling friend handing you a cold can and a sleeping, sweaty child in your lap.

"Uh, no."

He smiled. "It'll be cold at first. And miserable."

"For how long?"

"Most of your life, if you don't play it right."

Other Robert's mouth opened slightly. He paused. "Are you scared?"

"Are you?"

"Yes."

"I suppose," he said in a low voice, "we're both being ridiculous. On the count of three." He grabbed the knob of his momma's basement door, and gestured Other Robert towards his door.

Other Robert hesitated. He rubbed the edge of the green shorts in between his index and middle fingers. Robert grinned at that and said, "It's time to know."

The "Welcome" door opened slightly, like a door letting out pressure from a domed sports stadium. Other Robert must have taken as a cue, because he reached out slowly and put his hand on the push bar.

"One..." They raised their eyebrows at each other.

"Two."

"Three." Robert turned the knob and pushed. He closed his eyes, and lifted one boot through the threshold.