the way to the afterlife is through a dumpster
The icy breeze nips at my nose as I walk, my cheeks rosy against the cold. I can see my breath in front of me, hanging suspended in the morning light. If I were to sit completely still, I would be able to feel the moisture in the air crystallize over my entire body, freezing me slowly from the outside in.
I’ve seen it too many times before. One this week, actually. Brenda Stonesmith, 46. She was watching her neighbor’s kids when one of them wandered off into the woods. She went after him.
She found him. Curled up around him to keep him warm. By the time they brought in the dogs, he was still alive. She wasn’t.
Her heroic actions promoted her instantly to the afterlife of her choice. She chose to be reincarnated. Ironically enough, she was reborn yesterday as a German Shepherd puppy. The owners hope that someday, he’ll make a good search-and-rescue dog. Hopefully he’ll be able to keep others from befalling the same fate.
It’s funny how karma works. What goes around really does come around.
I look over my shoulder, making sure no one is watching me, even though I know the streets are bare, but I’m also looking out for those shadowy figures that follow me
wherever I go.
The sun is just beginning to peek over the horizon, greeting me hello as I turn into the alleyway. There’s a large green dumpster pushed against the back wall. According to my data, I should be in the right place.
My notebook is clutched tight to my chest. I swing my backpack off my shoulders and tuck my notebook in tight among the scattered school papers, taking care not to let any of the loose sheets of paper fall out. Placing my backpack in a safe spot against the wall,
out of view from any who might walk by, I hoist myself into the dumpster.
My feet sink into what seems like miles of banana peels and ripped trash bags, torn to
pieces by frantic alleycats searching for their next meal. Suddenly I’m glad I decided not
to wear my converse today.
I fall to my knees among the rubbish, ignoring how the trash juice seeps through the
knees of my jeans. They’ll wash. I have a job to do.
My hands move of their own accord, searching for the right little pocket in the
universe. They find it- a fold in the fabric of reality, and begin to peel it back.
I’ve often searched for a metaphor to describe opening the Spirit Gate, but I can’t find
one that suits it well enough. The closest thing I can think of is somewhere in the middle
of peeling old wallpaper off and opening a zipper that holds together this world. It’s quite
the experience.
It’s very fitting that the portal to the DownSide would be currently residing inside of a
dumpster. It’s like they want me to quit.
I sigh, peeling back the extra space until the hole is big enough for me to maneuver my
body through. I hold on to the edge of the world and slip inside, then let go.
My feet hit the ground and stay planted there as my head spins. I wait until I catch my
breath and look up at the tunnel.
On the side behind me lies the door back to the UpSide, a solid oak door. Nothing
fancy. Some one hundred paces from me is the door to the DownSide, which is
constructed from bleached bone and shards of souls, glimmering with their rainbow of
colors- exactly what you’d expect from the world of the spirits.
I take a minute to look at the names that scroll past on the walls of the tunnel- the
names of those who have registered as dead in the last twenty-four hours. I see a few
famous names, mostly older actors and such, but thankfully, I don’t see anyone I know.
Moving on, I walk down the tunnel, steeling myself for what I might find when I open
the door. I place my hand on the doorknob, noting how warm it feels underneath my
palm. Never a good sign.
I crack it open and peek my head around, blinking as the white light floods into my
retinas.
“Ellis!”
I’m greeted with the familiar chorus as I step through the door, wiping my feet on the
entry mat. They don’t want souls tracked through the room- I can tell you from
experience that they take forever to get out of those white floors.
I nod a greeting to the orderlies flitting around the room as I make my way over to
Moira, who’s sitting behind the receptionist’s desk as usual, chewing a large piece of gum with her mouth wide open. She blows a giant bubble and pops it in my face as I lean against the counter.
I roll my eyes and pick a piece of gum out of my eyebrow. Her face says it all. There are dark bags hanging underneath her eyes, and her auburn hair is disheveled.
I sigh. “Rough time?”
She nods listlessly, propping her elbows up on the desktop. In her thick Irish accent,
she mumbles, “It hasn’t stopped, Ellis. All day.”
“I’m sorry.” I watch her for a minute more as a blinking light goes off on her phone.
She hits the answer button and holds up a finger for me to stay quiet for a minute.
I turn my attention to the room and the people sitting in it. It’s no wonder why this
place is called the Waiting Room- everything is white and screams ‘sterile’. Low ceilings
hang with fluorescent lights, and small chairs line the perimeter of the room, some of
them with dejected people in them.
Despite the nurses flitting around from person to person, asking them if they need
anything, and the occasional sniffles of a young woman in the corner, it’s quiet. A fish
tank bubbles in the back of the room, but all the fish died long ago. Figures.
A nurse emerges from the doorway in the middle of the room, clipboard in hand.
“Meredith Calper?”
With the assistance of the old man sitting next to her, an equally ancient woman stands
shakily. With nervous eyes, she glances back to the man.
The nurse sees this interaction. “Is this your husband, Meredith?” I lean in, curious
about their cause of death. We don’t usually get couples unless they died in some sort of
accident.
She nods, fighting to hold back the tears. “Are we dead?”
The nurse exhales, ready to launch into the usual spiel. “Yes. But we’ll take great care of
you. Come back with me and we’ll get this figured out, okay?” She looks at the man.
“Your husband can come too. I’m assuming you want to stay together?”
The husband takes Meredith’s hand in his own, veins sticking out and knobbly fingers
intertwined. They look perfect together, whole- even in death.
They nod as one.
The nurse gestures the two of them through the door. I hear her explaining to them
what is about to happen, that they are about to go to their Appointment. If they are both
judged to be worthy, they will move on to the Afterlife of their choice, depending on
their religion and beliefs.
If you believe in some sort of heaven, that’s where you’ll go. You deserve it after going
through life.
If you want to be reincarnated, go ahead. There’s really no choices on that one, though.
It’s more a lottery of sorts. I feel bad for the poor souls who get stuck as animals with
short lifespans. Then they’re back here all over again, but in the Vet’s Office this time. It’s
a never-ending cycle of life, death, and rebirth. It really is a beautiful thing.
For those who don’t believe in any afterlife at all, they simply fade away into
nothingness. It doesn’t hurt- in fact, I’ve heard it’s peaceful.
Those who chose to move on somewhere have the chance to reunite with the people
and animals they’ve lost, and eventually if they get tired of the afterlife, they too can fade
away. It’s a choice everyone makes at some point or another.
It’s all a circle, feeding into itself over and over and over again. It never stops; never
ceases for anyone or anything. It goes beyond us.
We’re just here to help it along.
Moira hangs up the phone, a scowl on her face, and I’m reminded of the reason she’s
here in the first place. The people who work in the DownSide were souls who have passed
on, but they don’t belong in either the positive or negative versions of their Afterlife.
Some religions call it Purgatory, but I can’t say I agree. This is more… eternal customer
service. Eventually, if they do enough work, they’ll get promoted and be able to move on.
Either way, on days like these, I can really see why Moira won’t be getting to move on
anytime soon. Her temper is a force to be reckoned with. I feel like I can see the fire
licking off her bright red curls as she glares into space.
“Moira,” I start softly, not wanting to anger her further. “Can I help in any way?”
She snorts. “Not unless you can file all these papers, check all these people in, and tell
the loudmouth in the corner to stop crying.”
I give her a stern look, but she’s loud enough that the woman hears her. She bursts into
tears all over again and drops her head into her hands.
I push back from the counter and go over to the woman, crouching in front of her. She
can’t be much older than me, maybe twenty-three or twenty-four, with youthful eyes. A
bundle sits in her lap, cradled close to her chest.
I move to sit in the chair next to her, and see that within the blankets is a small infant,
sleeping soundly. Newborn, from the looks of her.
I don’t even need to ask to know, it just comes into my head. Allie McCoy, 23. Died of
a miscarriage gone wrong.
She looks down upon her baby’s peaceful face, tears dripping down onto the blankets.
All I can do is offer a shoulder for her to cry upon. Sometimes that’s all people need.
We don’t usually tell people that they’re dead until they get into the Appointment, but
they know. Despite this room being the closest part of the DownSide to what they’ve
previously known, they know.
What seems like hours pass without movement, but I know time is skewed here. By the
time I leave, no time will have passed back in the UpSide.
Finally, an orderly appears and calls Allie’s name. She stands, still holding her unnamed
baby to her chest. I pull her into a hug before she leaves, feeling her tears soak into my
shirt. But I don’t care.
This job isn’t all guts and glory. It’s not all killing demons and saving people. It’s also
comforting people, sitting with people as they grieve for themselves and the life they’ve
lost. It’s a balance, two equal sides of the scale.
Life and Death.