Ghastly Business

The last thing I remember hearing was a high-pitched, unwavering monophonic noise, a beep, a C sharp about ten cents off-key if I had to venture a guess, though my ears were never that good at deciphering pitch. The beep went on for about three minutes, and then I faded out.
When I woke up again the first thing I noticed was that I could see, something that I hadn’t done clearly in years upon years. I saw the bright fluorescent light above me, emitting a low buzzing noise, as they are oft to do. The next thing I noticed is that the room was completely decorated in off-white- the walls, the chairs, my clothes, and even my skin took the colour. I didn’t know where exactly I was, but that also didn’t concern me, strangely or not. Perhaps the reason I had no consternation over my mysterious location was that before my unknown whereabouts could be registered in my mind in time for my brain to set off an alarm was because quickly after waking my name was called over a loud-speaker that was hanging on the wall and right above a door. “Paging Jay Harvey Peters; now paging Jay Harvey Peters.” My full name, that never once becomes a positive way to be addressed throughout one’s entire life, because no matter how old you become or whatever accomplishments you achieve in life, when you hear your full name called out, you instantly assume the mindset of a child about to be scolded by their parents. I began to question myself if I had committed some sort of misdeed or atrocity recently, but couldn’t think of having done so. Indeed, I couldn’t recall anything that I had done- good or bad, over the last decade.
Without further delay, I sat up on the edge of my bed, and proceeded to stand up and head towards the door. It was then I noticed that my off-white clothing was in fact a gown, was I in the hospital? That would explain the long beep I had heard earlier, but I noticed no machines in my room. Turning the handle on the door, I pushed to open it, but the door wouldn’t open. I paused for half a moment and then pulled the door towards me, and was relieved to find it open.
I stepped out of my room, still half expecting to find my long-dead parents standing before me in the hall ready to give me a good reproaching for some reason still beyond me. But rather when I stepped through the door I entered another room, not the hallway I had not so wrongly anticipated. This was another point that would have sent alarms through my body had I not been so perplexed by the objects in front of me. In yet another all off-white room, was an elegant wooden table- lovingly left in its original tone save for the varnish that gave it its lustre- oak I’d wager. On either side of this rectangular table were two supremely elegant and plush leather chairs, upon which sat two men, both rather tiny in stature, naturally dressed in off-white three-piece suits, and both adorned with bowler hats. Aside from their attire they actually looked quite similar, surely twins. The only instantly noticeable difference between them was that one had a pipe in his mouth.
“How did I end up in England?” I thought to myself. I am not one who has extensively travelled but I am also proud to announce that I have left my mother country to seek adventures in other lands, but England had not yet been crossed off my list.
I was obviously expected as both men were looking at me, and have been since I first entered into the room. The man with the pipe in his mouth gently removed it and spoke to me.
“Yes, Mr. Peters, if you’d kindly come beside the table we may commence. I’m afraid we don’t have a chair for you at present, but we should have one of the attendants bring one in should you require.”
I ventured nearer the table, and saw upon it laid a few briefcases, and what looked like a large cigarette holder made of polished steel.
“Thank you, but I’ll stand for the time being.”
“As you like.” Said the man with the pipe, who promptly returned it to his mouth.
“I’m sorry, but what exactly am I doing here?” asked I.
“But of course, how could you know? My good fellow, I’m afraid you’ve passed on.”
“I’ve- I’m…?”
“Deceased, yes old boy, quite infinitely.”
Memories came rushing back to me. That long beep I had heard was a heart monitor. My heart and stopped and it began its wail until the doctor came, and acknowledging my demise had shut it off. I had been in a coma. That explained why I couldn’t see for all those years, but I could recall conversations, though now I understand why they were so one-sided, I could hear, but not reply. So it is possible to hear and be at least semi-cognizant while in a coma; or so I thought until once again the man with the pipe spoke to me.
“You can only hear and comprehend those around you if you will not recover.”
“You’re saying that if someone can hear all the doctors and visitors and the like while you are in a coma, that means you will never come out of it?”
“Rather.”
“That seems to me a little cruel.”
“Yes, ghastly business that, but if you don’t find out until after the fact, it doesn’t harm much does it?”
He was right I suppose, to awaken and not know anything that was said in your presence, and to not know that you could have heard isn’t such a bad thing. And then to know what people have said about you, directly in front of your face no less, but having to die to realize it, well I suppose it’s a consolation prize, a bit like finding out where you left your retainer at twelve years old at the price of never being able to recover it. I began to remember the conversations people had as I lay seemingly unconscious before them. My aunt and uncle discussing my “wayward ways” knowing that I could not speak up to inform them that I was indeed not wayward, but rather free-spirited. My father and his wife discussing where to get a decent meal after they left! Oh how I would gladly give my life ten times over to hear the things that were said about me in my absence.
“Right. So, I’ve passed on, and you know that I’m Mr. Peters, which would make you?”
“Yes of course old boy, dreadfully sorry, I am The Devil.”
“The Devil?”
“Yes, or Lucifer, or Mephistopheles, or Beelzebub, or Satan, whichever nomenclature you prefer will suit me fine.”
I turned my head to his doppelganger across the table. “And that would make you…”
“The Lord God, yes. Or Jove, Jehovah, Allah, et cetera, et cetera.”
“Brilliant.” As soon as I uttered that word I lashed out inwardly- why did I just reply with a British idiom? Was I doomed to acquire the vernacular of these two celestial beings? And why were the Britons in the first place? Indeed.
Then a question dawned onto me, “Is Buddha British as well? Mohammed and Moses too?”
My two hosts looked at each other, and without words, expressed their repulsion at my idiocy. God broke the silence.
“Listen my boy, before us on the table you will see placed several briefcases and a small steel box; they are as follows: Chess, Checkers, Backgammon, Cribbage, and a deck of cards. You may choose one of these for which we will play- and by ‘we’ I mean myself and my brother, naturally.”
“Naturally.” I rejoined, as Allah continued.
“Should you choose the deck of cards, the games offered will be Gin Rummy, FreeCell, or Solitaire. Should you choose one of the latter two, you may also choose who shuffles and deals, and who will play- and by ‘who’ I mean myself and my brother, naturally.”
“Naturally.” Dammit.
The next decision I would make it seemed would determine my eternal fate, which is no slight matter. Thusly I began my deliberation in the following manner:
“Cribbage is the first game that I will dismiss, as the winner is based not so much on skill as it is on the fortuity of the cards, as anyone who has played the game could tell you. Checkers is the next game that will be discarded, as I will recall reading from New Scientist Magazine 2007 Issue 30 page 25 that “Checkers, also known as draughts, has been killed by a mathematical proof that shows the game always results in a draw if neither player makes a mistake.” as proved by computer scientist Jonathan Schaeffer. And giving to the credit of the two players before me, I think it not likely that either would deign to make an error.
“Towards the idea of cards, it sounds like a fine choice on paper. Gin Rummy is a game where you can defeat your opponent by relinquishing your own chance of winning should the cards not be going in your favour. Likewise, FreeCell and Solitaire are both games that an experienced player should likely win at any random hand dealt to them. But again, these are not ordinary players. Would they deal honestly? I suppose it’s prudent to assume that Jehovah would, and that Lucifer would not, therefore, should I pick either one, I would have God deal and Satan play, because it is only natural to assume that The Devil would play to the best of his ability to capture another soul. But to bet against God, while in His presence seems like a plea for damnation. True then, the two cannot play Gin Rummy either for donning Satan control of the deck for even a moment seems foolhardy.
“Chess and Backgammon. Chess seems an unwise choice because it as well may end in a draw through any number of ways, and what of my soul then? Would I sit and witness game after game until I am spoken for? What if God becomes tired and errs? I do not mean to undermine His power by doubting his infallible and unfaltering ways, but one must take great care to do the same with Beelzebub.
“Backgammon then is it? But what of Mephistopheles loading the dice? Good rolling does beat good defence, as sad but true though it is. Backgammon is one game where there will be no draw- a winner must be decided by the end of the game. Were I to lose myself to the Eternal Flames, I might take solace in the fact that my fate was decided quickly rather than stalemate after stalemate. And, if I may be so bold as to say so, I quite enjoy Backgammon, and find it not improper that my ever after should be decided by a game I love so.”
“Gentlemen, I have decided.”
The two men sat upright, for in my lengthy internal debate they had both drifted off elsewhere- The Lord resting his chin in his hands upon the table, and The Devil had gone so far as to tip his hat over his face and catch up on some apparently needed rest. Nevertheless the two roused with aplomb, and turned to me, waiting for my decision.”
“The game will be Backgammon.”
“Splendid.” Said Jove as Satan began to systematically clear the table of the other games. “You do have the choice of the match length; we can play a best of three, with allowance to double the stakes, or it can be over with one match.”
“One match, if you please.” Said I, “I would like my fate decided post-haste.”
At this point, mid-setup of the game board, both men looked at me quizzically.
“Decide your fate? How do you mean my dear chap?” Lucifer asked me.
“I assume that’s why I’m here. I have chosen a game for you to play for my soul. Should God win, I will ascend to Heaven and Eternal Paradise. Should you have the misfortune of being the victor, my soul will descend into the fiery depths of Hell with you.”
Satan let out a small chuckle while looking across the table, while I curiously stared between the two, when once again Allah broke the silence.
“My lad, whatever makes you think that we are playing for the eternal resting place of your soul?”
“What else would I be doing here?”
“We like to give people a chance to meet us before they are sent off, and my brother and I have played each game so many times that we can hardly be bothered to choose one over another.”
“So my fate has been decided then?”
“My yes, but ages ago.”
“And where will I lie?”
“I’m rather afraid that you are in Hell.”
Quite.