A short story in several parts, this being the first.
Mark heard music, and when he opened his eyes he saw that he was in a big waiting room, like at the DMV. Must have dozed off, he thought. He had recently been in the Seattle DMV, the one on 3rd Avenue, and this was definitely not there. It was very clean, with orderly rows of blue plastic molded chairs, and it smelled like citrus in a fresh meadow, not sweat and frustration. Towards the front was a counter with dividers, and what seemed to be customer service people manning the stations. There were screens behind them displaying a number, and occasionally the mellow piped-in vaporware music would be interrupted by a voice stating “Now serving number D 781 at window 10… Now serving number D 781 at window 10,” and someone would get up and head for the counter. It was very orderly and businesslike. No one seemed upset or irritated that they had to be there.
He looked down and saw that the receipt-style ticket in his hand that read A 562. He sat there for a while without hearing his number. There was no noticeable order to the way they were being called. He started to wonder if maybe he hadn’t heard when his number had been called, or had been asleep. It seemed like a lot of people had passed through while he was there.
Eventually a guy in blue pants, a light blue short-sleeve shirt and a navy blue sweater vest came over and said, “Excuse me, may I see your number please?” He looked at the receipt, looked at the clipboard he was carrying and said, “Come with me please.” Mark got up and followed the guy towards the front of the room.
They went through a door all the way to the left of the counter, into a hallway and then out into a larger room. It looked like a regular office complex/cube farm, with small individual offices around the outside of the room and cubicles in the middle. They stopped at a door that was cracked open. “Here we are,” the man escorting him said, pushing the door all the way open and holding it for him. Mark went in to the smallish office. There was another man who was sitting behind a desk that had a dual monitor setup. He turned to Mark and said, ”Hi. Have a seat,” and gestured at the two chairs on the other side of the desk. Mark sat down in the one closest to the door. The other guy closed it and left.
“Well. I’m so sorry about the wait. My name is Omar, and I am going to be working with you to resolve your situation here.”
“My situation? What situation? Where’s here anyway?”
“Let’s back up for a minute. You were in the waiting room. You remember that, yes?”
“Yeah, of course, it’s right out there, so what?”
“What do you remember before you were in the waiting room?”
“Well I was…uh let’s see, I went….” Mark fumbled, reaching in his mind, but finding nothing to grasp. It was foggy where his recent memories should be, like when you first wake up, but it wasn’t going away.
“Uh…sorry give me a second, I think I fell sleep out there or something.” He let out a nervous laugh, shook his head and opened his eyes wide. Why can’t I focus?
“It’s OK. We’ll go through this slowly, and I’ll do my best to answer any questions. I have to let you know in advance, there are some details that you may find…difficult.”
Omar was starting to give Mark the creeps a bit, but he didn’t want him to know that so he said, “Try me,” and folded his arms across his chest.
“Alright, let’s start with some simple questions. Do you know your name?”
Are you kidding me, Mark thought.
“Mark.”
“Mark …what?”
“McMarkinson,” Mark said and looked straight ahead. It was juvenile, but he couldn’t help himself. He couldn’t hold it for very long though and smirked. “Sorry.”
Omar smiled, “That was good. I know this seems strange but you’ll understand in a minute, OK? Just bear with me here.”
“Lewis.”
“Good. Mark Lewis is correct. And where do you live Mark?”
“Seattle. Washington. United States. North America. Earth. Milky Way.”
“Thank you,” Omar said, still smiling. “So, where do you think you are now?”
Mark looked around. It was all so … generic. Like some kind of government department or something, except there were no logos or symbols or signs or anything that he could see that would tell him which department it was. He couldn’t recall seeing anything distinguishing in the waiting room either.
“I … I don’t know, some government office or something I think. Why don’t you tell me? Am I in some kind of trouble?” Mark was trying to keep his voice steady, but it was tough. The combination of memory loss and disorientation was starting to get on top of him, and he realized he was gripping the handles of the chair tightly.
Omar looked down at his desk for a moment, and then back up at him, looking him right in the eyes and said, “Mark, I’ve been doing this for a long time. I’ve tried lots of different approaches, different techniques, all kinds of things trying to make it easier for folks, and I’ve learned that it’s best to just be direct about it, so here’s the situation: you’re dead.”