Second Stint
By: Anish Ramjee
Tags: Second Chances, Flash Fiction, Death, Experience, Life

Flash Fiction

Second Stint

Would you take another shot?

Photo by Levi Jones on Unsplash

The gatekeeper sat behind his desk, typing on his laptop, glasses perched low on his nose. The desk was one of those heavy-set, Mahogany ones with leather top, mounted on a wide platform. The glass wall behind the desk had a large, high-resolution picture of a smiley ball. Maybe the logo of god.

They were inside an enormous glasshouse. Up above you could see the pale blue dot. The Earth. Just behind the glasshouse were massive arches erected on strong pillars. Two doors stood underneath them. You could see a huge body of water flowing around it. The Blue door took you back to your life. The Red door meant the end. Real end.

The stream of people queued up in front of the desk flowed long, out, meandering between towering snow cloud mountains in the distance. Like an endless river. The gatekeeper imagined them as thousands of ants that line up along the edges of the floor, up the wall, forming a route to the sugar boxes.

The first man up, in a black suit, white tie, and medium build walked up to him.

“Says here you died due to a car crash.”

“I was only 32!”

“It was an accident”

“It’s too soon! I had a family. Kids. Friends.”

“Too many factors at work. You were unlucky.”

“So what now?”

“There’s an option. A second chance, if you will.”

“I can go back?”

“Yes. But there are some rules.”

“Whatever it takes. Can’t get worse than death.”

“It is termed according to the records of your life. You wanted to be a stand-up comedian. You still worked miserably at an office for years. At the end of 6 months now, if you are not a full-time comedian who makes a living on it, you will be called back. Do you commit?”

“Yes, sounds great! I’d be twice lucky.”

“Sign this.. off you go, the blue door.”

The next guy walks up. He’s sporting a green cotton shirt, scarf, and hat. Looks a bit frail.

“Says here you had liver damage. Drinker.”

“I lived my life. I am an actor, I socialize every day. With fame and money, friends come. Women appear out of nowhere too. I only drank when I had company. ”

“You are eligible for another stint too. This time, you need to maintain physical fitness. Regular exercise, healthy diet. Weight control. Diabetes. Cholesterol. BP. Hypertension. If you skimp on any of these, you will be back. Do you commit?”

“I could manage. Does anyone ever take the other door?

“You’ll see. Sign this…off you go, the blue door.”

The next guy is wearing a linen shirt, grey trousers. Few strands of white hair, otherwise bald. Looking down.

“Depression. Turns out you were too focused on yourself. Physically in good shape but lonely, anxious, isolated from friends.”

He nods.

“For your next stint, every day you will be measured by how you make others feel. Every day, you must make someone feel good. If you miss a single day, you will be called back. Do you commit?”

He nods, signs, and walks through the blue door.

The next guy is slightly older, maybe in his early 50s. He’s wearing one of those dark black tee shirts with some nut case rock band’s name on it.

Before the gatekeeper could start speaking, he says

“I was a teacher for many years. My students adored me. I helped people every day — neighbors, friends, coworkers, everybody; I helped people sort their lives out, learned philosophy. I donated liberally; volunteered at the orphanage every other week. I held no ill will against anyone.”

“But I was barely at home, my kids were unhappy, they thought I cared more for the rest of humanity. When my wife left me, it hit me. I quit all my volunteering work to focus on my family. I spent time and efforts to convince them of my affection. I focused exclusively on them — went on vacations, trained with them in education and sports, took cookery classes with my wife.

When all this happened, I had turned into a different person. I stopped caring for everyone else. My friends stopped talking to me. I involuntarily had taken up playing the keyboard and turned inward. Started smoking. Not just cigarettes.

Gradually I ran short of breath. And funds. Lung capacity had shrunk in a span of two years. So I had to kick the habit and start physical fitness — You know the usual — eating healthy, hitting the gym, running the marathons.

Over time, the running caused me massive spinal problems; and had to undergo several painful surgeries to correct it. By this time my music had left me.

If you send me back, I could live a million little lives correcting every aspect. Being someone, doing something. Helping my family, helping others.

I’d rather only do what I want to do. I can’t f***** bother.”

He then picks up his suitcase and walks towards the red door.