Fair Play

I can’t tell if the blinding pain is a memory or a dream, but it’s so vivid that I reach to see if my back is bleeding. Only my wrinkled palms meet my stare and yet, like some warped associative thinking exercise, I see red anyway. My vision has a subtle red tint as if I were wearing a set of proverbial rosy-colored lenses.

“Where am…?” I begin to whisper, but I’m interrupted.

“Bronson Alcott III!”

The disembodied voice crackles through an overhead speaker and hovers in the air a moment before it sinks in. Though my rational mind can’t figure where I am or who called my name, my subconscious mind puts my body into involuntary motion. I feel – more than see – my way through the darkness until I reach an office door. It’s a relic, like me. The chipped paint and scuffed dents remind me of the one that led into Principal Darwin’s office generations ago. There’s a faint orange glow through the frosted pane and that’s when I see the carefully stenciled writing on the glass:

HEREAFTER, INC.

Punctuality is a Virtue

“Next!” beckons the voice on the other side.

The sudden outcry sends my heartbeat into a nervous cadence. My quickened pulse shoots another shock of electricity through my back. Again, I reach reflexively and still no blood. Without a clue as to why, I open the door.

“Close the door behind you, if you would, Mr. Alcott,” says the man behind the desk. “We run a very tight ship here, and you’re about forty-five seconds behind. Punctuality is a virtue.”

The room is small, but the columns of stacked cardboard boxes along each wall make it seem smaller. There’s a perfectly good window in one wall, but it’s blocked by a thick screen. A hobbit-sized bald man sits behind a large mahogany desk, writing meticulously on his notepad with an old number two graphite pencil. If he’s not a CPA, his wardrobe could’ve fooled me: a short-sleeved, white button-up and a black tie. His glasses look much too large for his pudgy face and are slightly steamed. The name plate on the desk reads: Doug Dickerson, Case Officer.

“Pull up a chair, Mr. Alcott,” he says. He pauses from his feverish writing to check his wrist watch. “That’s just over a minute gone now. I’m going to need you to take a seat.”

I can see how he’s working up a sweat in here. It’s strangely humid and the heat of his lamp’s orange glow probably isn’t helping. It takes some effort to lower myself onto the visitor’s chair, reminding me that my sixties are firmly in the rearview mirror. I can feel Dickerson’s eyes on me.

“Sorry, Dick, I’m not exactly a spring chicken these days.”

After I land, I see him tapping his wristwatch.

“I’m afraid we’ll need to omit the pleasantries. We can skip some of the boilerplate material for now. Let’s jump into the meat and potatoes then, shall we? Can you fill me in with the particulars?”

The pregnant pause afterward makes me uncomfortable.

“Sorry? What particulars?”

“Time and circumstance of your death?”

I’m almost ticklish at such an odd question, but it knocks something loose in my head. Without warning, I see the shape of a leaf floating in midair. Like the shooting back pain, I can’t tell if it’s the shadow of a memory, but, I see the imprint of falling leaves etched into my mind’s eye. Leaves so red, they almost look painted.

“Leaves,” I whisper.

“I’m sorry?” Dickerson asks.

“Something about red leaves? Pain in my back?”

“See, this is what happens when we skip the so-called boilerplate language.” I can tell Dickerson’s upset that I haven’t yet grasped some hidden truth. “We spend more time going back to re-orient the individual than if we had just read the script at the outset. Efficiency is a virtue, too, but who cares about what Doug says?! Do you know where you are, Mr. Alcott?”

I try to remember where I was before the dark room, but nothing comes. It’s like the answer is hiding behind an invisible curtain.

“Memory loss, disorientation, nausea…” Dickerson lists symptoms like he’s naming side effects of a strong prescription. “It usually doesn’t take too long to clear up once you accept the truth. Mr. Alcott, you’ve passed on.”

At first, it seems like a joke, but once again the comment knocks loose another tile in this strange mosaic. It fully dawns on me when I turn back and see the stenciled lettering on the office door. It takes some effort to accept it, but once I do, the dam breaks and the memories flood back. I can’t help but chuckle.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” is all I can think of to say.

“Let’s hope not,” Dickerson answers. “I’m Doug Dickerson, the Case Officer assigned to evaluate your file to determine your next steps.”

“Next steps?” I wonder aloud. “Like an upstairs versus downstairs kind of thing?”

“Not quite. Do you remember the particulars now?”

The sharp pain pulses in my back again.

“I got stabbed in the back by the park groundskeeper.” It’s almost an out-of-body experience to hear those words echo in the stuffy office. “That sounds considerably more amusing than it felt.”

“I can imagine. So you were murdered?”

“Affirmative.”

“Did your assailant have any motivation?”

When I think of the groundskeeper’s last words, I can’t help the smug grin that forms on my face. My back twinges again. Now, I can remember the shears of his large leaf trimmer plunging into my back, between my spine and shoulder blade.

“I’d call it fair play, Dick.”

“Can you elaborate?”

“I was walking Deacon through the park, same as every morning for the last fifteen years. The pooch is a relic like me, and we’re both creatures of habit. Well, Deacon’s prone to digestive issues that make it awfully difficult to pick up after him. I take him out nice and early and I never thought I was hurting anybody. Hell, I’ve even heard their feces help the plants grow.”

I pause to see if Dickerson’s getting all this, and he’s putting every court stenographer I’ve ever seen to shame. He’s not even bothering to blink while feverishly writing every word I say.

“Anyway,” I continue, “this groundskeeper fella has been working in our neighborhood almost as long as I’ve lived there. He’s color blind, but he’s a good fella. So, Deacon does his business not too far from where this fella’s raking the leaves. After my pup’s done, I bend over to tie my shoe and when I get up, he runs me clean through with his leaf trimmer. A couple times, now that I think of it. ‘Would it kill you to pick up after your dog,’ he asks me. Didn’t feel like laughing then, but I can’t help myself now.”

“Does the color blind groundskeeper have a name?”

“Vern, I think it was,” I say, wracking my brain to remember the name stitched on his green public works vest. “Stanley, that’s right. Vern Stanley. That’s what it was.”

“Mr. Stanley murdered you for not picking up after your pet dog Deacon? How is that fair play exactly, Mr. Alcott?”

“For one, there was a sign that said, 'Please pick up after your pooch...or else!'' Secondly, when you consider he’s been working the same job for as long as I’ve had my dog. Deacon’s had digestive problems all his life. I never realized until now that Vern took it on himself to clean up the mess.”

“Ah, I see,” Dickerson says. He looks like a snake charmer taking his notes. He wields the pencil as if it were a snake dancing an exotic jig. No wonder he’s working up a sweat.

“Fair play, right?” I ask.

“I’m curious to know why you’d think so.”

“I suppose it’s something of a motto in my town.”

“And where’s that exactly?” Dickerson asks, pausing his pencil-charming for long enough to wipe his sweaty brow before starting up again.

“Oh, just some Podunk forest town in the Pacific Northwest.”

“Did you know Mr. Stanley personally, Mr. Alcott?”

“Can’t say that I did, no.”

“Then, how did you know he was color blind?”

I can’t help but smile. Dickerson looks like an uptight CPA with a generous dose of OCD, but his thorough and quick analysis of my story’s details brings him to this question. The question that could derail my entire evaluation. Just how weighty will this Case Officer’s recommendation be?

“You picked that out, did you?”

I stall for inspiration to strike. What white lie could I weave to steer this elsewhere? I’m not without practice in the art of white-lying, but still nothing comes.

“It was important enough for you to mention it, yes. And yet you struggled to recall his name. So, how did you pick up on such an interesting detail regarding an individual you never knew personally?”

He can tell I’m stalling. I don’t know how long Dickerson’s been working this job, but I have a gut feeling he’s been underutilized at Hereafter, Inc. Perhaps telling the truth will earn me some good will with him.

“Screw it,” I mutter. “You want the truth, Dick?”

“That would be preferred, yes, Mr. Alcott.”

“Truth is I didn’t know Vern personally, no. He was more of…an associate.”

“How is that? Something of a co-worker?”

“More like an accomplice.”

“He engaged in some kind of illegal activity with you?”

“Somewhat unknowingly,” I answer.

“Much like the dog excrement then?”

“Good one, Dick,” I say with only a hint of sincerity.

“You were describing the nature of your partnership with Mr. Stanley?”

“Much like with Deacon’s messes, Vern often helped me clean up several others without knowing it.”

“Can you elaborate any further?”

I wonder how detailed I should get, but decide to err on the side of caution. Dickerson doesn’t seem the judgmental type.

“There was a Jehovah’s Witness, a UPS delivery man, a Republican gopher conducting a survey for some campaign, and an overzealous matron selling cookies on behalf of her daughter’s Girl Scout troop. There were others, but those are the more recent ones.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I…”

“There are two things you have to know about my Podunk forest town, Dick,” I interrupt. The point of no return passes as I delve into my explanation.

“The first is that the old-timers who own it are very serious about certain rules. Some are more serious than others, but there are certain rules that if broken, can get you into a world of trouble. Are you aware of these signs that people put on their front doors that say ‘No Solicitors Allowed?’”

“Indeed, I am, sir.”

“Well, Dick, I don’t have many rules, but I myself am very serious about the ‘No Solicitors Allowed’ sign on my own front door. I don’t take kindly to violations of my right to privacy. I don’t appreciate perfect strangers defiling my doorstep with their egotistical presumptions. I don’t need to be disturbed to listen to something that means nothing to me just because they rang my bell!”

The sharp pain in my back zaps me back to reality – or alter-reality? The red hue in my vision begins to pulse darker in rhythm with the back spasms.

“I’m sorry, Dick, it just really chaps my goat that people expect me to afford them the opportunity to talk at me. To lecture me at my door, about inane things no less! Especially when I warn them against doing so by posting a damn sign on my door.”

“What do you do to them?”

“I don’t do them in on the spot, Dick, if that’s what you’re asking. I give them a chance to get away first. I offer to listen to them if they’re willing to come back the following morning and join me and Deacon on our walk. Only the desperate ones take me up on it and that’s when I do it. In the park.”

“You murder solicitors in open daylight for not respecting your door sign?”

“Not entirely true, not in open daylight. And that’s the second thing you need to know about my Podunk forest town. Autumn is absolutely beautiful there! The dawn air is so crisp you can see your breath and there is a lazy fog that doesn’t quite burn off til mid-morning this time of year. I off them in the middle of the park where no one can see.”

“By what means?”

I hesitate before answering.

“Canine?”

For the first time since meeting him, I see Dickerson flinch. His staccato fits of note-taking stop. He pushes his thick glasses up his nose and stares right into me.

“Are you saying…Deacon consumes your murder victims?”

“Not completely,” I answer, second-guessing myself for exposing such an unadulterated version of the truth. “Whatever larger parts he leaves I can easily cart away to throw into the bin.”

“That explains your pet’s digestive issues. And the blood?”

“The colorblind groundskeeper rakes it away. He can’t tell the difference between those beautiful autumn leaves and the stains left on them.”

“And this is fair play where you’re from?”

“We live by our rules, sure, but we never carry out our punishments in a public way. You hear rumors, you know? I heard that Dorothy O'Connell took a patron home once and cut off his tongue for slurping his soup in her café. It says quite clearly when you walk into the diner: ‘Slurping Will NOT Be Tolerated.’ Fair play, son.”

“Give me a moment, Mr. Alcott.”

His pencil dances to his charms again. I look around his small, crowded office and wonder how hard it would be for Dickerson to request a fan. It’s getting stuffier with every stroke of his pencil. If not a fan, why doesn’t he at least crack the window? I see Dickerson reach into his desk for a clipboard with a stapled packet of spreadsheets on it. He starts thumbing through his notepad and carries out some mathematical equations on the clipboard. After a few minutes, he signals his completion by taking off his glasses and setting them on the desk.

“Your case is an interesting one, Mr. Alcott,” he says, wiping his face with both hands. “Unfortunately, my initial analysis is inconclusive. Some would consider your crimes grossly heinous and yet you show no malice toward the man who committed a similarly heinous crime against you for a similarly trivial motivation. On the other hand, you demonstrate a kind of integrity, albeit a perverse one, that shows a commitment to your values. May I ask you a question, Mr. Alcott?”

I nod.

“Would you behave at all differently if given another chance?” Dickerson asks, folding his pudgy arms across his chest.

“How do you mean?”

“If you had to live your life over again knowing what you know now, would you live it differently? Would you spare the lives of those who knocked on your door?”

I know the answer in an instant, but I feign some meditation before leveling with Dickerson.

“I can’t say with confidence that I would, no.”

“Even if it meant Mr. Stanley sparing your life in return?”

I take a bit more time to think, but shake my head. Dickerson pushes his chair back and waddles to the window screen, yanking it down before it whiplashes upward on its own. Except this is no window, it’s a barn door with a large red leaf painted on it.

“Mr. Alcott, our existence can be likened to autumn in your Podunk forest town. The long summer days wane and as autumn takes hold, the leaves turn pastel oranges and reds. Eventually, they fall off their trees and hunker down for the hibernation of winter. After the shadows of her cold nights fade, the leaves bloom again in spring. Like the cyclical nature of the seasons, I want to grant you another lap around the merry-go-round of life. Can you promise to at least consider mending your ways in exchange?”

Dickerson pushes the door open and the bright light beyond it is blinding. I honestly don’t think I could change my ways, but Dickerson’s analyzed my case and here he is, offering me another chance at living? Who am I to say no?

“Promise to reconsider your ways?” Dickerson asks.

“Why not?” I mutter, shaking his hand. I don’t even notice that my fingers are crossed in the other. “I appreciate the opportunity.”

“Fair play?” he asks.

Dickerson’s almost squinting to read the thoughts behind my eyes. Before betraying my true feelings, I cross the threshold.

* * * * *

The step down to the sidewalk is a smidge wider than I expect, and I almost drop my package on the way down. A strong nostalgia compels me to look backward. What exactly am I looking for? The answer’s on the tip of my tongue, but it’s like trying to remember a dream in my first waking moments. All I can recall is a chubby accountant standing in a doorway, but I don’t see either when I look back. My large brown truck doesn’t have doors, just the iconic logo painted in gold on the side.

Sensing the weight of the bundle in my arms, I suddenly remember my job. I walk up a concrete path through a perfectly manicured lawn and see my reflection in the window beside the front door. I’m not yet thirty, but I notice my brown shirt stretched by my paunch and my brown shorts forcefully hiked up into my crotch by my inflated thighs. I haven’t worked for UPS longer than six months, and already I need a replacement uniform. I promise myself to hit the gym after my shift, but who am I kidding? There’s leftover DiGiorno in my fridge and an XBOX game that’s not going to play itself. It’s a contest of priorities that I always seem to lose.

Just before I ring the doorbell, I see a sign nailed to the door that reads, “No Solicitors Allowed.” For some unknown reason, it feels wrong to violate the warning, though it’s not the first time I’ve seen a sign like this. Something in my gut tells me to turn back, but then I think of my manager lecturing me. Punctuality is a virtue, he’d say. After another moment of pensive reflection, I make my decision.

“Hell, I’ve got a job to do. Fair play, right?”

Wondering why there’s a palpable dread crawling up my neck, I ring the doorbell.