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The number behind the desk flipped to thirty six. Tom glanced down at the ticket in his hand-- no one had ever told him the afterlife was a fucking DMV-- and stood up, stepping forward to wait. He had no idea how much time had passed since he’d sat down in the waiting room. Or if it even was a waiting room. He wasn’t Catholic but wasn’t that what Purgatory was? Waiting?
“What’s your name hun?” she asked, typing away on her computer-- the clicking of the keyboard was the only thing that felt remotely real. Like something he could hear outside his dream or whatever this was. Maybe he’d wake up in an office and all of this would disappear.
“Uh, Thomas Wambsgans- Hirsch.” Once he’d had trouble remembering his surname. He and Greg had agreed easily but he’d been just Wambsgans for so long. The Hirsch part came easy now though. He’s gotten used to it.
“Spell that for me?”
“W-A-M-B-S-G-A-N-S dash H-I-R-S-C-H.”
“Bet you’ve done that a thousand times. That’s a mouthful,” she chuckled and looked up at him over her half glasses. She sort of reminded him of a secretary out of Mad Men or something. He couldn’t place anything in one time period. The man who’d directed him earlier that morning-- if that had even been a morning-- looked like Paul fucking Revere, and the waiting room looked like Star Trek. Maybe it was every time period and none at all, “Date of birth?”
“October 17th, 1974.”
“Uh huh,” she typed away. Tom shifted his weight back and forth and clutched his ticket in his hand, “Look am I-”
“I’ll answer all your questions in just a second hun, I promise I will,” she held up a hand to stop him, “Where were you born?”
“St. Paul. In Minnesota.”
“Right.”
Maybe this was the DMV. What’d she want next? His social security number?
“Alright,” she folded her hands on the desk. He tried to guess how old she might have been. If dead people even had ages. Mid forties maybe. Tom didn’t even know how old he looked. He hadn’t seen himself. There weren’t any mirrors or even windows. He didn’t feel old, “Yes, you’re dead.”
“What?”
“That’s what you were going to ask wasn’t it?” she asked. The more he listened to her the more he thought she sounded like maybe she’d been from the Midwest too. She reminded him of his second grade teacher, Mrs. Harrison, who had been everybody’s favorite teacher when he was a kid. She had soft features and blonde hair she always wore piled up on her head, “If you were dead.”
“I was going to ask if this was hell.”
“What religion were you?”
“I wasn’t much of anything,” Tom replied. His parents were vaguely Christian when he was growing up, but they hadn’t attended any church regularly, and as an adult, Tom tried very hard not to think about God, who, if He was up there, probably wasn’t too thrilled with him. Greg had been dragged to mass sometimes with his grandfather, but had no particular attachment to any faith.
“This isn’t Hell,” she frowned, “It’s just… what comes next. I’m here to assign you a caseworker, so you can figure out your next steps.”
“This is pretty fucking corporate.” He felt bad about cursing in front of her but it had slipped out. He winced, like she might scold him for his language.
“Then you’ll fit right in won’t you?” she smiled at him. It should have sounded like a dig, but it actually sounded fairly kind, “There are a lot of options for the recently deceased. Afterlives, reincarnation. Nothing. Even hauntings, if that’s your sort of thing. It’s not mine personally but to each their own.”
“Oh,” he nodded, “Right.”
“Who is it you’re worried about back with the living?” she asked, “Children? Or a spouse or something? I try not to pry too much into people’s personal lives but I can see it on your face.”
“It’s, uh, my husband.” After all this time, the word still made him feel like a giddy school kid.
She turned back to her computer, “Name?”
“What?”
“The husband. What’s his name? I can try to reassure you a bit. I can’t get much from down there. But maybe it’s enough to settle your nerves.”
“Gregory. Same last name.”
She typed away, humming quietly to herself. Really he had a million questions. He wanted to know about his parents and his grandparents and everybody else he’d lost in his life. But right now, he wanted to know about the person he’d left behind, who had loved him for a lifetime even when he had not deserved it.
“He’ll be alright,” she said, and he watched her scan the screen, “Time passes differently here. You’ll see him before you know it. And you can always discuss hauntings with your caseworker if you get desperate.”
“Can I like, I don’t know, try and show him I’m alright?”
“Like a sign?” she asked, “Sure, I can take care of that for you. Anything in particular you’d like to send? Anything meaningful to the two of you?”
Tom didn’t know how you summed up a lifetime into a single, vague sign. He tried to think of something Greg wouldn’t blow off. Greg was a firm believer in the paranormal, in the supernatural and that shit, so maybe it would work.
“Hungary,” Tom said, the idea leaving his mouth before he could think too much about it. It had been a very long time since that dinner in Hungary, since that first kiss in Hungary but Tom had not ever forgotten it. Greg liked to remind him of how embarrassed he’d been showing up unannounced at Greg’s door. It was one of the last conversations they’d ever had. Before, well, before Tom had died.
“The country?” she raised her eyebrows.
He nodded.
She made a note of something.
“I’ll take care of that for you hun,” she smiled warmly. Now, what you’re going to do is take your ticket down that hallway. Third door on the left. You go in there, and Taylor, the receptionist in there will get you all set up with your caseworker.”
“Thanks.”
***
Tom kind of felt like he was in his mother’s office. He used to visit her all the time as a kid, admiring the diplomas on the walls, the photos of the family. He had been so proud to see her name on the front door of that law firm.
But this wasn’t his mother’s office. This was some kind of after life civil servant’s office. The man was older, balding, but bright and kind. Tom had to admit that everybody had been kind so far-- kinder than a regular corporate office, that was for sure. So maybe it wasn’t hell. He had introduced himself as Peter and told Tom to call him Pete, then he pointed out several celebrity pictures on his wall, excitedly informing Tom that they’d been some of his clients once. Tom made himself smile. Really, if he could have felt sick-- he didn’t really feel much of anything-- he would have. He sat down in the chair, towards the edge, and kept his hands clenched tightly in his lap. He pinched himself occasionally to prove to wasn’t a dream.
“Now, let’s see what we’re working with here,” Pete picked up a manila folder with Tom’s name scrawled on the tab, “Do you think of yourself as a good person Mr. Wambsgans?”
“Not particularly,” Tom replied. There wasn’t any sense in lying now. He was pretty sure Pete would be able to tell, “I mean. I did a lot of bad stuff.”
“Everybody does bad things,” Pete shook his head. Tom couldn’t tell, exactly, what he was reading in the folder, but it looked like things from Tom’s life. A report card. His marriage certificates, some polaroids, and what looked sickeningly like some of the Brightstar evidence, “But that doesn’t mean they’re a bad person.”
“I’m an asshole,” Tom pointed out.
Pete chuckled, “Is that why you thought this was hell? Because you’ve done bad things in your life?”
“I guess.”
“I don’t see an evil monster here Mr. Wambsgans,” Pete flipped through a few more sheets. Tom thought one of them was an old drawing he’d made for his mother once, as a little kid, and another looked like an anniversary card, though he didn’t recall that one off the top of his head, “I see a normal, human who made mistakes and made bad choices, but also made a lot of people very happy, and who had people who loved him.”
“Greg,” Tom said, “Probably.”
“This is Greg?” Pete held up one of the polaroids. The quality wasn’t great-- and since Tom was pretty sure he hadn’t used a polaroid in decades he didn’t know where it came from-- but it was, in fact, a picture of Greg one Halloween. They’d gone to one of the neighbors' parties, and Tom remembered it well. He could see the cheap decorations, and taste the cocktails he’d made himself tipsy on, and hear the high pitched laugher of their one neighbor-- Rebecca, he thought-- who was known for her loud laugh. There were pumpkins on the stairs, and Greg had tripped on the way out and nearly taken them both down onto the grass. Why could he remember that like it was an hour ago, but his own death was hazy?
“Yeah,” Tom smiled. Pete handed the photo over, “That’s Greg.”
“Why do you think you deserve to go to Hell Mr. Wambsgans?”
“I don’t know,” Tom brushed a thumb across the photo. Jesus, they’d been young. Newlyweds still. A year married maybe? He couldn't remember when it was taken exactly and the photo wasn’t dated. But the party itself was crystal clear, “I wasn’t a good person. Isn’t hell for people like that?”
“Tell me about your ex wife Mr. Wambsgans.”
“Shiv?” Tom frowned, “What about her?”
“It was a nasty divorce wasn’t it? Do you hate her? I would hate her if it was me. After what she pulled on your wedding night?”
“Of course not. Of course I don’t hate her,” Tom shook his head, “I could never hate her. She was the first person that I ever loved. I loved her for a long time. We just never worked out really. I’m glad she was happy. I told her as much.”
“That doesn’t sound like a bad person talking,” Pete said, picking up another form Tom couldn’t read and looking it over, “Does it now?”
“I guess not,” Tom held onto the photo. He hoped that Pete wouldn’t ask for it back. Greg looked stupid in his dumbass pumpkin shirt, and Tom wanted to keep this photo in his jacket for all of eternity.
“You have several options,” Pete said, closing the folder, “Afterlife wise. I’m going to lay them out for you, and then we can discuss what might work the best. Deb said you weren’t religious?”
“Deb?”
“The receptionist out front, who first took your number,” Pete explained, “So we have some options. The first is haunting. But I don’t really see you as the ghost type?”
“God no.”
He knew that it might be nice, to still be able to see the world, to see Greg but there was no way he was going to torture himself with that. He couldn’t stand the idea of Greg not knowing he was there. Not being able to touch him or talk to him. That was some bullshit. Besides, if Greg found out he’d agreed to be a ghost after how much he’d made fun of Greg for believing in them he’d never live it down.
“I didn’t think so,” Pete crossed something off his list with a pen. Probably this was the list he went down with every client, “But it’s always an option. Usually people want some kind of vengeance when they choose that, but it looks like you were pretty well sorted when you died.”
Thinking about his own death was strange. It was sort of blurry, in a way. He couldn't remember it, exactly. Only that he’d woken up and Paul Revere or whoever had pulled him to his feet-- it was a lobby of a building. Stupidly, Tom had thought of Waystar at first, and directed him to an elevator. He didn’t remember much before that. There wasn’t a hospital. He didn’t think he’d been sick. He wondered if it was Greg who’d— but then he shook the thought away. There was nothing to be done. He’d always assumed he’d be the one to die first. He was older than Greg was, after all, and that was only natural. And he was glad, truthfully. He didn’t want to be alone in life.
“If there’s no specific afterlife you’d be interested in,” Pete said, “though I can offer you pamphlets on any of them for you to peruse. There’s always reincarnation. We can let your Greg know, when he comes along, that’s what you’ve chosen.”
“No,” Tom shook his head, “I don’t want that either.”
One lifetime had been enough. More than enough some of the time if he was going to be honest.
“We can always go with a very basic, very standard afterlife. We’ll go through your life, and find the time you were most happy with. Set everything up for you. I’d imagine it’ll probably be sometime in the first few years of your second marriage. That’s the idea I’m getting from your file. It’s very standard, but it’s simple. Usually when people come to me without a clear idea of what afterlife they believe in, it’s what I suggest. You can always come to me and we can change it up.”
“That sounds nice, actually,” Tom said, “Do you think I could do that?”
“Certainly,” Pete made a checkmark on his paper, “It’ll take a few hours to set up. You’re welcome to wander if you like. I can locate any deceased loved ones you’d like to visit. Parents perhaps?”
“Yes,” Tom replied, wondering if he was actually tearing up, or it just felt like it, at the idea of seeing his parents again, “Thank you.”
Maybe he wasn’t a bad person after all.
***
Tom hadn’t seen the old house in years. He and Greg had first lived in Greg’s apartment in Manhattan for nearly a year, before moving out to Connecticut. They both had jobs in the city, and there was a train station nearby. A few years later they would move west, but this was the early days of marriage, where Tom had been terrified he was going to fuck something up, but hopelessly romantic about the idea. It was last Sunday mornings and Chinese takeout and that bed that squeaked but they never replaced.
It was by no means a big place, three bedrooms, two floors. It was old too, built in the fifties. The heater sometimes didn’t work, no matter how many repairs they had done. He ran his hand along the bannister of the stairs, still the same dark stained wood. He could practically see Greg at the top of the stairs, trying to tie his tie because they were late for something. Tom would sigh and meet him halfway, bitching about how incapable of this he was, before tying Greg’s tie himself. Greg would smile and kiss him and thank him and Tom would roll his eyes and vow that next time he’d have to do it himself.
He decided to head towards the kitchen.
There was a noise from the back room. Something hit the floor.
Tom was, truthfully, still in a bit of a daze from sobbing his eyes out in his parents arms. So it could have been his mind playing tricks on him. The old house had been a creaky one. He stepped into the kitchen-- even the backyard looked the same. The same big oak tree, the same lawn chairs on the deck. Hell, there was even a mug with a map of Nova Scotia on it, that he remembered Greg having at one point, sitting on the counter.
There hadn’t been a backyard in the city, but it was on their list when they went shopping for a house. They’d gotten the backyard for-
“Mondale!” Tom explained, as the dog came bounding in from the living room. How could he not have expected Mondale?
He got down on his knees, and Mondale barreled into his arms. He used to do it when they got home. Especially Greg. Tom used to think Mondale's life goal was to see how many time he could knock Greg onto his ass.
“Hey buddy,” Tom ran a hand through Mondale’s fur, “How’s my boy?”
Mondale, who looked young, like he had when Tom and Greg had lived here, answered by frantically licking Tom’s face.
“Oh I missed you buddy,” Tom said, “I missed you so much. How have you been?”
Mondale sat down, tongue hanging out to one side, like he was expecting something. A treat maybe. Tom would have to investigate and see if there was anything in the house for Mondale to snack on. A bone or something. There would probably be one in the pantry. They had always had treats for Mondale.
“You want Greg huh?” Tom sighed, “Yeah. Me too. But I don’t think he’s gonna be along for a little while. It’s just gonna be you and me.”
***
Truthfully, Tom wanted something to do. The afterlife was nice. Sure it was. He saw people he hadn’t seen in a long time. He and Mondale had a house to themselves, with everything they could want, but Tom was itching for something to keep himself busy. He had a habit of falling apart without work. So he had asked Pete-- who’s number had been helpfully written on a note stuck to the fridge-- if there was any place he could get a job. Not a caseworker, necessarily, but something. Maybe just until Greg got there and things could settle down.
“I expected this call from you Mr. Wambsgans,” Pete said on the other end of the phone, “Come by my office tomorrow morning. I’ll see what I can get you set up with.”
And that was how Tom had ended up managing a firm in the afterlife. Really it wasn’t that much different than any of the jobs he’d had when he was alive. He had done hospitality after all, and this was a kind of hospitality. In a… dead kind of way. But it was good. He liked his co workers, liked having something to do.
Pete had warned him that time passed differently here. He had been vague-- mostly, Tom thought, because he didn’t really understand it either. The days felt like normal days. He slept at night, Mondale on the other side of the bed. Greg’s side, he would think sometimes, with a pang of longing in his stomach. He would visit his parents. Visit Marianne. Visit people that he loved. It wasn’t really that much different from life. Maybe that was alright. He hadn’t expected much of anything. But it was fascinating meeting the people who knew, exactly, what to expect when they died.
He could not have begun to guess how much time passed. He worked in the office. Deb, he discovered, had been born in 1931, and had, in fact, been a receptionist in life. A job she had apparently enjoyed so much she had kept up when she died. Tom felt good helping people. He hadn’t been overly helpful in life. That he refused to take back. Pete had helped him see that maybe he hadn’t been bad but Tom hadn’t been a fucking doctor or firefighter or something. He wasn’t saving lives by running a news firm or hotel or anything. But maybe helping people who had been just as confused as he was, was what he was supposed to do.
Hell, he just had to die to figure out his life. Who would have thought.
“And just spell that for me wouldja hun?” he heard Deb say, as he pushed the door open the waiting room. There was a very confused couple in Pete’s office, and Tom had offered to see if Deb had sent them to the right place earlier.
“W-A-M-B-S-G-A-N-S hyphen H-I-R-S-C-H.”
Tom, who was thankful he’d left his coffee in his office. Otherwise he was pretty sure he’d have dropped it on the floor. And since he was using the Nova Scotia mug, he didn’t really want to see it shattered on the ground.
“Oh Tom!” Deb exclaimed when she saw him come in, “This must be your Greg then. I thought that name was too uncommon not to be.”
“Hi Tom,” Greg said quietly.
“You go on through hun,” Deb said, typing away at her keyboard with one hand and waving them away with the other, “Tom can show you the ropes. Next!”
Tom took Greg by the hand, tugged him into the hallway and let the door slam shut behind him.
“I told you not to smoke so much,” Tom said.
“It wasn’t lung cancer,” Greg rolled his eyes, “Heart attack. I think. I don’t really remember. No offense, but like, what the fuck am I doing at the DMV?”
“It’s the afterlife Greg. Not the DMV. You’re an idiot.”
Greg smirked, “You thought it was the DMV too didn’t you?”
“Shut the fuck up.”
Tom kissed him. Greg made a noise of surprise before putting his hands on Tom’s waist and relaxing against him.
“Babe,” Greg said, when they pulled apart, “Are you working a corporate job in the afterlife?”
“I was killing time until you got here jackass. Took you long enough. How long was it? Time doesn’t work the same up here.”
Greg’s face fell a little bit, “Eleven years.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah,” Greg smiled sadly, “I missed you a lot. You look, like, not that old anymore.”
“Neither do you. You look like when we first met.” Tom had kept the polaroid in his pocket since he’d taken it from Pete’s office. Actually, he thought that Pete gave it to him. He’d seen Tom put it in his jacket and hadn’t asked for it back. This Greg looked just like the Greg in the photo.
“This is kind of weird Tom,” Greg glanced around, “It’s weird right?”
“I think you get used to it. I have a house. We have a house. The old one we had in Connecticut. Remember that one? With the shitty heater? And Mondale’s there.”
“I missed you so much,” Greg said, very softly. Nearly a whisper. He buried his face in Tom’s shoulder, and they didn’t move for several long moments.
***
“Can I ask you something kind of dumb?” Greg asked. They were in the backyard, sharing a bottle of wine, Mondale asleep at their feet.
“Every question you have ever asked me was dumb,” Tom said, “Why would I say no now?”
Greg rolled his eyes, “Like, a week after you, you know, died you know what I got an email about?”
“What?”
“A trip. To Hungary. I think it was just some spam email list I got on or whatever, but I started crying.”
“Yeah,” Tom looked down at the wine, “I asked Deb if she could send you some sign. To let you know I was alright or whatever. I thought you’d think about the retreat.”
“So it was you.”
“Of fucking course it was me.”
“Thanks,” Greg smiled and took the bottle back, “It uh, actually kind of helped.”
A few moments of silence passed.
“Tom?”
“Hmm?”
“What happens next?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean… with us?”
Tom shrugged, “I don’t know. I think for now we just exist. Is that alright?”
“Yeah,” Greg said, his voice breaking halfway through the word, “It is.”