The Afterlife

A businessman dies and finds himself in The Afterlife. To his surprise, it’s not at all like he’d heard. Every single religion was wrong.

The walls smell like mildew, it’s dark, and the air is moist and pungent.

Suddenly, he feels a tap on his shoulder. He turns around and sees a homeless man he’d passed almost every day on his walk between the train station and his office building.

“Holy crap! What are you doing here?”

“I died, too,” explains the homeless man. “I woke up a few days ago and found myself here.”

“Well, at least there’s a familiar face. What is this place?”

“This crap hole is the lowest level of The Afterlife,” says the homeless man. “You must’ve done something pretty terrible to end up down here.”

“Well, I was waiting to cross the road and this insufferable hipster was standing next to me —“

Just then, a gong sounded three times: BONG! BONG! BONG!

The businessman watched as everyone around them slowly assembled into three separate lines, grimacing and eye-rolling all the way.

“What’s this all about?”

“You arrived just in time for dinner.” The homeless man gestured to the three lines. “That line over there is for a half-eaten, moldy hot dog bun. The middle line is for bland creamed corn that they drop on the floor right before serving it. The last line is putrid sewer water with floating bits of god-knows-what.”

“Ugh,” groans the businessman. They shuffle through each line, find a couple ass-numbing, uneven rock stools and choke down their food.

As they’re eating, the homeless man educates the businessman about The Afterlife.

“It turns out there’s four levels. We, of course, are in the lowest level.”

“Is it possible to get to the next level?”

“Yeah,” replies the homeless man, lowering his voice. He gestures behind him. “See that guard next to that door? He can be bribed.”

“Woah! How much?”

“He wants $1,000.”

“Well, I ain’t got shit else to do,” says the businessman.

He secures a job and, after about a year, raises $1,000.

He walks up to the guard, opens his coat, and shows the stack of bills to the guard. The guard looks around, pockets the money, and opens a door to the third level of The Afterlife. The businessman slips through, and the door slams shut.

He looks around. He finds himself in a studio apartment. The walls are cracked and stained, the shag carpet hasn’t been vacuumed in years, several lights are burned out, but it ain’t a dungeon.

He descends a few flights of stairs and heads out to a small, overgrown courtyard bordered by neglected shrubs. The sky is overcast. People are milling about; a handful are trying to play basketball with an under-inflated ball and looking rather disappointed, but making the best of it.

He feels a tap on his shoulder. He turns around and sees the homeless man grinning up at him!

“Oh man, you’re here, too!”

“Yep,” replies the homeless man. “Got here about a week ago.”

“That’s great! I’m glad to see a familiar face,” the businessman says as a stray dog pees on a broken street lamp a few feet away.

“So, we never finished our conversation last year,” recalled the homeless man. “What did you do that you ended up in the lowest level of The Afterlife?”

“Well, I was waiting to cross the road and this insufferable hipster was standing next to me, talking loudly into his phone, and a bus was driving down the street towards us—“

Again, a loud gong sounded: BONG! BONG! BONG!

And again, people slowly organized themselves into three lines.

“Lunchtime?” inquired the businessman.

“Yeah.” The homeless man gestured to the three lines. “In that line, you get a hamburger with the consistency of a hockey puck and a stale bun. In the second line, a handful of broken potato chips. And in the third line, flat Coke.”

“Well, it’s better than the crap in the last level.”

The men both make their way through the lines and find a wet picnic table. As they sit and their pants slowly take in the dampness, the businessman inevitably asks:

“So, there’s gotta be a way to get to Level 2, right?”

“Yeah,” the homeless man talks in a hushed tone. “See that guard behind me?”

He gestures. The businessman sees a guard standing next to the door of a rusted-out porta-potty.

“Yeah. How much?”

“Two hundred thousand.”

The businessman nearly spits out his charred burger. He wipes his mouth and shrugs.

“Well, I ain’t got shit else to do.”

He takes a job and, after ten years, raises $200,000.

He wanders over to the guard at the shit house. He unzips a duffel bag and opens it. The guard looks down into the duffel, zips it back up, slings it over his shoulder, and turns his back on the businessman.

The businessman opens the door of the porta-potty and walks in.

To his amazement, a lavish home opens up before his eyes. There’s a polished grand piano sitting in the corner of a room filled with books. Another room has a brand new billiards table with shiny balls, lined up and ready for a game. Hunting trophies adorn the walls.

He wanders through the home, opens a pair of French doors, and finds himself on a veranda overlooking a courtyard. Several people are laughing and enjoying a game of beach volleyball.

He feels a tap on his shoulder. He turns around and, once again, finds the homeless man smiling up at him.

“Oh man, I’m so glad to see you!”

“Yep,” replied the homeless man. “Here we are again! I got here a few months ago.”

They catch up, having a great time and laughing.

There’s a lull in the conversation. The homeless man, once again, breaks the silence:

“We never finished our conversation 11 years ago. What did you do that you ended up on the lowest level of The Afterlife?”

“Well, I was waiting to cross the road and this insufferable hipster was standing next to me, talking loudly into his phone, and a bus was driving down the street towards us, so I put my hand in the hipster’s shoulder and —“

BONG! BONG! BONG!

Once again, people began organizing themselves into three lines.

“The food here has gotta be great!” The businessman looked eager for some food.

“Oh, you know it!” The homeless man gestured to the first line: “That line is for barbecue pulled pork. Any kind of barbecue sauce you want, they have. The second line is for cole slaw, potato salad, and a slice of any kind of pie you can think of. The third line has every microbrew in existence!”

They load up their plates, find two large leather chairs and sit down. They’re having a great time when the businessman’s curiosity gets the better of him.

“There’s gotta be a way to the top level of The Afterlife, right?”

“Yeah,” replies the homeless man in a hushed tone. He gestures over his shoulder. “See that guy at the door to the cabana? Ten million dollars and you’re in.”

“Holy shit!” He nearly chokes on a piece of Kentucky-bourbon barbecue pork. “Well, I ain’t got shit else to do.”

The businessman takes a job and, after 100 years, secures ten million dollars.

He walks up to the guard at the cabana. He cracks open a metal suitcase, revealing stacks upon stacks of bills. The guard looks around, closes the suitcase, picks it up, and wanders away from the cabana.

The businessman walks through the cabana door.

The doors squeak shut as the businessman is blinded by brilliant gold light.

As his eyes adjust, his breath is taken away. A chorus of cherubs heralds his arrival with an epic symphony, moving him to tears.

Marble pillars tower above him. Light shines down from three bright suns, casting rays through glorious, intricate stained glass windows. Elaborate fountains punctuate the crystal-clear waterways bordering every single mirrored walking path. Gorgeous, scantily-dressed women offer him intricate hors d’oeuvres and glasses of champagne at every bend in the pathway.

He feels a tap on his shoulder. He turns around and, sure enough, the homeless man is beaming at him.

“I can’t believe it!” exclaims the businessman, who tightly hugs the homeless man. “We’re in the top level of The Afterlife!”

“It’s fantastic, isn’t it? I got here a few months before you. Never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined this!”

They walk on and catch up, laughing and enjoying themselves.

Eventually, the homeless man asks again: “We never finished the conversation we started 111 years ago. How did you end up in the lowest level of The Afterlife?”

“Well, I was waiting to cross the road and this insufferable hipster was standing next to me, talking loudly into his phone, and a bus was driving down the street towards us, so I put my hand in the hipster’s shoulder, waited for the bus to get closer, and —“

BONG! BONG! BONG!

Once again, the inhabitants lined themselves up into three lines.

“Holy shit, get a load of this,” starts the homeless man. “The first line is bacon-wrapped filet mignon medallions cooked any way you want. The second line is garlic-butter mashed red potatoes. And the third line...” The homeless man trails off, the smile fades from his face, and suddenly seems lost in thought.

“What? What? What’s in the third line?!” The businessman begs for an explanation.

The homeless man looks down at the ground. Under his breath, he says, “I gotta know. I just gotta know.” He slowly turns to the business man, takes a deep breath, puts his hand on the businessman’s arm, and asks, “After 111 years and ten million, two hundred and one thousand dollars: would you have come all this way if you knew there was no punchline?”