The Scots

You know, sometimes you stare into the light so long, you start to wonder if it’ll ever fade. So you spend days thinking of ways to avert your eyes. Maybe a carnival ride. Maybe a midnight showing of the latest Apatow film.

Tonight’s aversion was of a different kind.

Morning had been around for a while. I got out of bed. The time was 10:37. I was late for work. I showed up and got fired on the spot. Sucks. I took my bike back home, riding along a busy street. The sun was doing its job today—it was 99 degrees outside. I was sweating through my Chucks.

Inside the 7/11, I caught the eye of a pretty girl. She smiled, took a sip of her drink, and rolled her eyes. I bought a doughnut and a Red Bull. Back on my bike. My heart started to burn. I hadn’t taken my medication this morning. Shit.

I headed home. I was pretty far out—it’d be a while. The burning in my chest spread across my torso. I started to cry. I could feel the tears roll down the sides of my face. The cool air from riding fast chilled them. It was comforting.

I was a block away from my house when I bailed. Lost control of my arms and legs. The burning was insane. I couldn’t breathe.

I passed out.

I woke up. The house wasn’t mine. Someone must’ve picked me up. A man wearing a red-and-black plaid kilt stood next to me. He began to play the bagpipes. I couldn’t speak—or I would’ve asked him to stop.

Three more men in matching kilts entered the room. They spoke, but it felt like my ears had blown out. Just fuzz. The older one put a pair of headphones on my head.

Bagpipes.

The short one—I nicknamed him Fred because he looked like a miniature Fred Flintstone—smiled at me.

“You’re dead, kid,” he said. “Good thing, though. This is something different, how’s that?”

My chest burned again—for a very different reason.

Another old Scotsman, I called him Tall Barney (for obvious reasons), said, “Your heart exploded, son. Literally.” He made a fist and opened it quickly over his chest.

“Well... what do I do?” I asked, trying to keep cool. What’s the point in freaking out?

I got out of bed. The bagpipes were still playing. I stepped outside and felt the sun on my skin. It was warm.

The suburbs.

Every house looked the same. That’s when I noticed my outfit: cream-colored cardigan, white t-shirt, and khakis. All the neighbors were outside, enjoying the sun. Cream cardigans, white tees, khakis—everywhere. What the hell was going on?

Where was I? Really?

This couldn’t be hell. It wasn’t heaven. And I doubt purgatory has the PR budget for this many upper-middle-class homes.

A woman in a cream robe approached me. “I hope you’re comfortable while you’re here. You’ll be here quite some time.” She smiled and walked off.

“Hey! Where the hell is this place exactly?” I shouted.

She turned, chuckled, and pressed her pointer finger to the spot just above her eyebrow. Then she turned again and walked away.

I heard the bagpipes. The sky opened up. Rain fell. The world turned dark.

Then I was standing next to my own casket. Surrounded by everyone I loved. And they were crying.

My cream cardigan and khakis had become a black suit with a silver tie. The rain fell. The bagpipes played.

I could feel reality tremble around me. I felt death. Remorse. Love—the weight and warmth of it—rushing through my veins.

Then it was gone.

I moved through big, blue drapes. One after the other. Eventually, I reached a room with a single cubicle. In it sat a man who looked a lot like my father. He asked me to sit. So I did.

He held up a gun. “Good or bad?”

“Bad,” I replied.

He wrote something down. Then he touched my hand, and I felt a wave of remorse. I saw war. Natural disasters. Heartbreak. I felt sick.

“Good or bad?”

“Bad. Definitely bad,” I said.

He pulled out a stethoscope and asked me to lift my shirt. He placed it on my chest—it felt strange. Warm. I felt joy. Understanding. Beauty. Knowledge. I felt my family. My friends.

Then he pulled it away, and it was gone.

“Good or bad?”

“…The best.”

He never once looked me in the eye. He scribbled something on his clipboard and nodded toward the drapes on the north end.

I got up, thanked him, and walked out.

Through the drapes. I heard a low humming, like an overheating computer.

At the end of the room stood a table. On it, a hamburger, fries, and a soda. A sign next to it read “Please Eat :)”

So I ate.

The room got bright. I felt sick. The light burned my eyes. My ears popped. I saw Short Fred and Tall Barney. They were wearing ties. Smiling.

Barney leaned in close.

“Wake up, boy.”

I shut my eyes tight. Then opened them again.

My hands were small. I felt weak. My stomach hurt. I was hungry.

I cried. I screamed. Someone picked me up.

My hunger was relieved.

I was quiet. Content.

Peaceful.