Vonnegut's Reward

By Horatio Algae

"V, v, v, v ... Vonnegut," said the clerk as he thumbed through the files in a gray metal cabinet. "Here it is," said the clerk producing a fairly full file, dropping it on the desk and leafing though some of the loose sheets.

With plain white walls and basic office furniture and appliances, the windowless office seemed too spartan for heaven. And though the fluorescent white lights cast the room in a slightly annoying pallor, the cool air and the pleasant young clerk were not things typically associated with hell. The dead author was especially attune to these issues for reasons that he thought would soon be manifest by the contents of the manila folder.

"Mr. Vonnegut," said the clerk, "it is not every day that my office receives a person of your, shall we say, literary caliber." The clerk's tone made the dead author slightly uncomfortable, an unusual feeling for him. Noticing the reaction, the clerk assured "Oh...oh, don't worry. This isn't about getting into heaven or not." The clerk squinted and smiled and said "I forget that new arrivals are often very disoriented and need some guidance as to what exactly is happening to them." The dead author just stared. "In case you haven't figured it out, you died." "Well, I knew that!" exclaimed the author, speaking for the first time since he found himself in the office. "I see" said the clerk, slightly abashed. An uncomfortable silence ensued. "So, where do we go from here," said the author contritely. "Well," said the clerk, "though, as you have undoubtedly surmised, your life philosophies were incorrect in one fundamental aspect. However, the Boss likes your writings, He thinks they're funny." The dead author did not expect that. The clerk continued, "Furthermore, many of your brothers and sisters didn't learn as much from life as you did. Their mistakes and strivings continue to cause misery in this existence. For this reason, the Boss has arranged for something special."

The dead author's eyes widened as the clerk reached into a paper bag, removed a gleaming white laptop computer and pushed it across the desk towards the author. "Its an Apple," proclaimed the clerk," Or as we like to say, a Fruit of the knowledge of good and evil." The dead author didn't quite understand the clerk's joke, but was happy to see that his role in the afterlife was not going to be that different from his role in life.

"You're free to go," said the clerk, nodding toward the exit. The dead author collected his laptop, stood and turned towards the door. Effulgent rays of glory and light flooded the office as it opened. In one instant, the dead author perceived all eternity as well as billions and billions of his brothers and sisters in various stages of contentment or misery. Before he stepped out, the clerk chimed, "Remember, Mr. Vonnegut, this is eternity and time is irrelevant. I hope you won't forget to fart around some."