by Nick Pirog
Chapter 2.
Orientation
Dr. Raleigh said he was going to show us a short movie and if we still had questions after the movie, he would answer them. The lights dimmed and SONYY faded from the screen. The last movie I’d watched was the Adventureland DVD. I was a movie fanatic, going to the theater once or twice a week, sometimes with a buddy from law school, sometimes with a girl, but mostly by myself. It’s sad that I wouldn’t necessarily miss my own father, but I would miss Matt Damon.
The TV came to life, showing exactly what I’d expected, a long-distance shot of Earth. And Dr. Raleigh hadn’t been lying. It looked the same. Six continents. Four oceans.
A voice over began.
“As you can see it is the same Earth as you remember. And as far as our scientists can tell, it behaves as such. But is it identical? Probably not, and for no other reason than a different group of people inhabits this Earth. It would be foolish to think we would have the same impact as our fellow humans had on the past Earth. And how long have people been here in Two? Well, for as long as people have been dying.”
The planet faded and small clips began running. A series of businessmen and women hustling and bustling into a metropolitan high-rise. A bunch of Asian people wading through rice paddies, their faces partially hidden under large straw hats. A professional football game. One team looked like the Patriots, the other had the colors of the Raiders, but there was a different emblem on the helmet. The Patriots were killing them.
I recalled what Dr. Raleigh had said, “Most things are the same. There are, of course, some small differences.”
The stadium was packed. People were still screaming. People still had beers and hot dogs in their hands. The Los Angeles Raiders look-alikes still sucked.
A voice-over began, “The population of Two is 2.4 billion people. Roughly, one third of the 6.6 billion people living on the past Earth. It is not known how people come to be here. How they are chosen. Or if they are chosen. There is no pattern.” They ran a clip of every group of people you could imagine—white, black, Russian, Muslims, Christians, Koreans, Jews, militants. “No race, no religion, no sect, has a greater percentage of its dead that come to Two.”
They showed news coverage of the recent election. A reporter was asking a wrinkled old man, who had to be in his nineties, about the new president. Underneath the old man was the caption, “Ex-president John F. Kennedy weighs in on president elect Jonathan Hart.”
I could hear the two old men in the back rustling. I had a feeling this had hit home with both of them.
They showed clips from a tsunami that had hit India and a bunch of soldiers unpacking aid relief supplies. They showed clips of war. It appeared there was still fighting in the Middle East. A news correspondent spoke of the fighting. A couple countries had different names. Harazz. Jerualamabad.
They showed a clip from the Olympics. The 2008 Olympics were held in Chile. They ran the trailer from Heath Ledger’s new movie, The Flyaway.
After another ten minutes of short clips they cut to a man. He was standing on the steps of a government building. I thought I recognized him, some local actor or news reporter who had been in a plane crash when I first moved to Colorado. He said, “As you can see, our world is the same as the world you are used to. I’m standing here on the steps of the capitol building in beautiful Denver, Colorado. As you can see it resembles the capitol building you have seen or even visited in your previous life. Of course it couldn’t be identical. It was built by different people.”
I took a second to digest this. I’d assumed that all these buildings, take the capitol for instance, had been here. But that wasn’t the case. People had died, then people had built a capitol building. It was only natural the people who built it would want it to resemble the capitol building they remembered. That’s why it was similar. But not identical.
The man continued, “In case you are wondering, you are in Denver right now. You are sitting in a Two Adjustment Facility or TAF.”
So, I was still in Denver. Just a different Denver. I thought of that old Andy Garcia movie, Things to Do in Denver When You’re Dead.
Right.
“You will remain at the TAF for five days, whereby the staff will decide whether it is safe for you to enter Two.”
This didn’t sit well with me. A bit too 1984 for my taste. I’d basically been on my own since I was thirteen and now you were telling me that after having my body and brain poked and prodded, they were going to tell me if I was suited for reentry.
I gave a quick glance at the door. If I made a break for it, could I make it outside? Or would I be tackled and sent God knows where? No, better to show I was a well-adjusted young man.
Anyhow, the movie lasted only a couple more minutes, then the lights flickered on.
Dr. Raleigh walked to the front of the room and said, “Well, I hope that answered most of your questions. At least for now. Over the course of the next five days many more of your questions will be answered. Does anyone have any other questions right now?”
I looked around. No one raised their hand. I had plenty of questions, questions about how the little girl’s PSP came with her, and questions about the cut on the side of my head, and how if you died of cancer, did you still have cancer, and questions about why one of three people who died came here and where did those other people go.
I had so many questions. But like all the others, I kept my questions to myself.
⠔
The door opened and two men walked in with boxes. They quickly went around the room and handed a box to everyone. I opened my box and found a turkey sandwich on whole wheat, an apple, a bag of almonds, and a bottle of water. The exact lunch I’d gotten for the past three days.
The men exited and Dr. Raleigh said, “I thought we would have a quick bite to eat and each of you would go around the room and tell us a bit about yourself. Where you lived, your family, and how you died. This might be hard for some of you, but I can assure you it is the first step to adjusting to your new surroundings. Some of you may still be in denial and it might help some of you accept the fact that your old life is gone.”
For the next twenty minutes, the only sounds were those of lips smacking, the seals of bottles coughing, and the crack of apples skins piercing. Finally, Dr. Raleigh said, “Okay, who wants to start?”
No hands shot up. No one wanted to be first. And especially, not moi. I didn’t enjoy public speaking. Not a good attribute for an aspiring public defender. My chest was starting to tighten and I could feel the blood racing through my veins.
Dr. Raleigh began looking about the room. I wondered if anyone else was dreading that he might look at them, point, and say, “Why don’t you start us off?”
He raised his eyebrows a couple times, but he didn’t point at anybody, nor did he say, “You there, tell us how you died.”
After thirty seconds, the young girl next to me said, “I’ll go. I don’t mind.”
You could feel the entire room exhale. The average person would rather be in a room with a snake than stand up and talk about themselves in front of a group of strangers. And if the average person was anything like me, they would rather be bitten by said snake before they would stand up and recount how they died jerking off in the shower.
Dr. Raleigh said, “Why don’t you tell us a bit about yourself, then you can tell us how you died.”
She shrugged and said, “Okay. My name is Berlin.”
“Berlin? Like the city?”
Berlin rolled her eyes. “My mom was this crazy hippie. Don’t ask.”
A couple people laughed. Including me.
She went on, “I’m seven. Like I said, my mom was this crazy hippie and we moved around a lot. My dad is some guy my mom met in Chicago. His name is Jack. Jack doesn’t come around all that much. Like not at all. I saw a picture of him once. He’s not bad looking, which is a plus. I mean, I’m lucky I don’t have red hair or something. But I gues
s, if someone else had been my dad and not Jack, I wouldn’t be here. Not here, like this place, I probably wouldn’t have been born. Some other little girl would have been. Or boy. I’m not really sure how all that works.”
I noticed everyone peering at young Berlin the same. Everyone thinking the same thing, a bit profound for a seven-year-old?
Berlin went on to tell how she and her mom had moved around a lot. Ten different states in her short seven years. They would stay at some hippie colony for a couple months, then her mom would get a job as a waitress and they would live at a motel, then they would be moving again. They never had much money, but they always had enough. And her mom was smart, although in a different sort of way. They always had health insurance; her mom still made her go to the dentist once a year for her annual check up. When they found out she had diabetes—she was four—they went to the best doctor, and got the best medicine and the latest supplies. Berlin ended it with, “Yeah, she was a pretty good mom I guess.”
This hit people differently and a couple people started crying. I didn’t.
Dr. Raleigh tried to stem the flow of tears and said, “Why don’t you tell us how you died.”
So Berlin told us. How she’d turned seven on September 8th, four days ago, and she’d gotten a PSP for her birthday, and how she was up all night playing it and how she forgot to take her insulin and she died.
Cut and dry.
There was silence. No one wanted to follow up a seven-year-old. Like going on stage after Chris Rock.
Dr. Raleigh took a step forward and said, “My name is Raleigh Devroe. I was born in Mississippi, moved around a bit, then came to Denver when I was nine. I went to George Washington High School. If any of you know Chauncey Billups from the Denver Nuggets, he was a year below me. Man, that was something to watch that guy play. I even got to watch him play in college. We both went to CU, he only for a couple years. Anyhow, I graduated, got decent enough grades, and decided to apply to a couple med schools. I got into a couple of them, but decided to keep it local and went to CU Medical School.”
This wasn’t an easy thing to do. CU Medical School wasn’t the toughest school to get into, but it wasn’t easy.
Raleigh continued, “Christmas break after my first semester, a buddy and I were skiing Monarch pass. I’d been skiing all my life, since I was five. There wasn’t anything I couldn’t ski. My buddy and I were doing some backcountry stuff and we heard this rumble and the next thing we knew, we had about a million pounds of snow coming down at us at eighty miles an hour.”
He paused, took a deep breath. “I can still remember getting hit. Still remember coming to. Still remember my friend Jeremy screaming my name. Thank God he made it out. And then my air ran out. And I died.”
Everyone was quiet. Raleigh’s face went somber. He was there. He was back in that avalanche, buried under who knows how many pounds of snow. He snapped out of it and said, “That was thirteen years ago. And I sat in the same chairs you’re sitting in right now. I went through the same tests you went through, answered the same questions, and I went through the same program you will go through over the course of the next couple months. Went back to school, became a doctor, and now I help people with their transition to this life. I got married last summer and we’re expecting to get our first child in January. All in all, I have a great life.”
And everyone in those white plastic chairs believed him. Dr. Raleigh went through exactly what we’d been going through. And here he was years later, happy, well adjusted. But one thing disturbed me. He didn't say, "Expecting our first child," he said, "Expecting to get our first child." I thought about asking him what he meant, but someone, one of the women, had already begun telling her tale.
Dr. Raleigh’s story got people in the storytelling mood and one by one people started recounting life stories. Telling anecdotes—where they grew up, college, kids, lovers—before finally getting to how they had ultimately perished. It was therapeutic in a way and you could see a weight had been lifted off people’s shoulders after they’d shared their stories. I was no longer terrified when I would have to speak. My heart was still racing and it felt like I’d just walked in from a torrential downpour, but I was no longer terrified. I would no longer pick the room with the snake.
Both the old men were long-winded, as both had led long interesting lives. One had been career army, retiring as a two star general. He had a purple heart from Korea and a couple other medals from Vietnam. He went on and on and on, and then he told us how he’d been driving home from his daughter’s house and gotten in a car accident.
The other old man was an inventor and had a couple patents on microwave parts that had made him a small fortune. He spent most of his life traveling the world and to quote him, “Romancing the ladies.” He had a house in Aspen and had been on his way up when he’d gotten into a car accident. Same day as the other old guy. Same time. Same road.
I’m not sure if anyone else was drawing on this coincidence, but I was pretty sure these two old farts had killed each other.
One woman had a rare disease that killed her. The doctors on Two had given her a new medicine and she was responding well to it. Another woman had epilepsy. She died while having a seizure. Or she assumes that’s how she died. One of the guys had a bad sinus infection and he mixed a bunch of medicines, as well as pot and booze, and his heart stopped. His sinus infection was gone. Another guy was eating at Elways, a steakhouse in Denver, and he’d been choking and excused himself to go to the bathroom.
I’d once read an article in Maxim that five hundred men died each year from choking and only one woman. That’s because women would freak out and someone would give them the Heimlich, whereas guys would try to play it off and go the bathroom, and as in Floyd’s case, not be able to expunge the large piece of prime rib from their airway. Another guy, the black guy, drowned in a pool.
A couple more car crashes, a couple diseases I’d never heard of, and suddenly the only people not to have recounted their deathly tale were myself and the sullen teenager. I could feel all the eyes in the room floating between both the emo-kid and myself. Watching us like a tennis match to see who would raise their hand.
My heart raced and my mouth turned into the Sahara. I raised my hand. All the eyes found their way to me. I said, “My name is Maddy Young.”
I took a deep breath and said, “I’m a law student at the University of Denver.” I laughed. “I mean, I was a law student. I graduated in December and took the bar in March.”
“I heard that shit is hard as hell,” said the black guy who couldn’t swim.
I nodded. “Yeah, it’s a bitch. I got a 100.”
“You lie.” He looked impressed all the same. I saw a couple eyebrows rise around the room. These people thought they were in the presence of genius.
I set them straight. “I got 100 out of a possible 400.” You had to get 176 more points than I got to pass.
“So you failed.”
“Miserably.”
I heard Dr. Raleigh give a sharp laugh in the corner. I looked at him. He smiled and said, “Don’t worry, I took the MCATS three times.”
I smiled at him.
“I was scheduled to take the Bar again next week.” I hadn’t thought of this yet and I found it depressing. All those hours studying. All that money. I took a deep breath and said, “Anyhow, how I died isn’t very interesting. I was in the shower, I was washing my hair and the next thing I remember is falling. I woke up here with twenty stitches in my head and a horrible headache.”
I looked at Dr. Raleigh, I wondered if he knew I was rubbing one out when I’d slipped. If Dr. Raleigh was aware of this, he didn’t show it. He did ask, “What about family? You didn’t mention any family.”
“I don’t have any.”
And we left it at that. Twenty-six eyes moved from me to the emo-teenager. He was staring straight down. His face in his hands. His greasy hair hanging over his eyes. He looked familiar, but I sup
pose all those emo-kids look pretty much the same.
Dr. Raleigh looked at him and said, “You’re up.”
The kid didn’t say anything. Didn’t even flinch. Dr. Raleigh had seen this before. He said, “We can’t leave this room until everyone has told their story. That’s how it works.”
I should mention we’d been in this room for going on six hours. We were ready to be done. Ready to return to our little rooms, with our little bathrooms, and our little beds, and watch some TV. The TV’s wouldn’t turn on before. I had a feeling they would turn on tonight.
Ten minutes went by. Then twenty. The teenager hadn’t moved. Hadn’t even blinked. I was starting to think maybe he was dead. Again. The black guy stood up and walked over to him. I don’t know if he whispered in his ear that he was going to kill him if he didn’t start talking, or if it was his favorite proverb, or a black joke, or what, but the kid snapped out of it.
He looked up and said, “My name is Damon. I’m fourteen. My dad started beating the shit out of me when I was seven. Started fucking my little sister when she was eight. I bought a gun. I shot him. Then I shot myself.”
I’d heard about this. I’d seen it on the news. It had happened two days before I’d died. That’s why the kid looked so familiar. I’d seen his picture on the television.
Damon looked around, then said, “And if that motherfucker is here. I’m going to find him and I’m going to cut him into a million pieces.”
Yikes.
Dr. Raleigh said, “I think that’s enough for today.”
