Nine Lives

Mike Reynolds was on his lunch break. He was heading to the deli two blocks over from the office when he was struck by a bus and killed instantly.

Next thing he knew, he was in The Lounge. Nothing fancy, just two simple armchairs separated by a small wooden table. Gray carpet, blank walls, a bare light bulb in the ceiling. He looked around for a moment, disoriented, then it came to him. He was dead. He exhaled slowly, exasperatedly, and ran his hands through his hair. “Fuck me,” he muttered under his breath.

“Hey, watch the language,” said God. Mike looked up. God was seated in one of the armchairs, hands folded in His lap, looking plaintively up at Mike. He’d been there the whole time, or had He? He always seemed to make His presence known while Mike was looking somewhere else.

“Sorry,” said Mike. “It’s just kind of, uh, jarring. You know. The whole death thing. That one caught me kinda off guard. What…what happened, exactly?”

“Bus,” said God. “That one’s pretty common. You people need to learn to look both ways before you cross the street. Rookie mistake. You of all people should know better by now.”

Mike smiled sheepishly. “I’m getting better,” he said. “It’s been a couple of years, right? At least a year and a half.”

“Five months, Mike. You choked on a carrot last October, remember?”

“Right, right, the carrot thing. Totally forgot about that.”

“Take a seat. You’re gonna be here a while.”

Mike pulled out the open chair and sat down across from God. “How long?”

“You got hit by a bus, Mike. Shattered your pelvis, four cracked ribs, a cracked skull, a broken arm. That won’t regenerate right away.”

“I’m supposed to pick Will up from school at three. Think I’ll make it?”

“Yeah, you should be back by then. You’re gonna be sore for a few days, though. You know the drill.”

Mike was about to mention how hungry he was; he’d skipped breakfast that morning because his alarm hadn’t gone off. He realized then that the hunger was gone. So was the headache he’d had on and off since Tuesday and the throbbing of that bruise on his thigh he’d gotten playing backyard soccer with Peter. He felt his cheek. His shaving cut was gone. Dying had its perks, however minor.

“Mike, we need to talk,” said God. “I’m worried about you. That was your sixth life. You’re only forty. It takes most people till at least their fifties to make it that far. Good number of people in their sixties. Look at me.”

Mike reluctantly pulled his gaze from his left knee and looked up at His face. God’s luminescent green eyes, the only feature that Mike could ever remember clearly once he hit dirtside, stared into his. His tone was light enough, almost pleasant, but Mike could hear gravity in every word He spoke.

“What concerns me isn’t just your death count. Six deaths at your age isn’t exactly normal, but it’s not by any means unheard of. I saw a kid recently who was on death number seven before he hit puberty. Of course, he had a bunch of birth problems, so a number of those aren’t his fault. That’s why you all start with nine, to make up for circumstances beyond your control.

"None of your deaths, though, have been anyone’s fault but your own. When you were three, your mom told you not to put that paperclip in the electrical outlet, but you did anyway. In high school, you picked up drag racing. I don’t think either of us needs a recap of that incident. In college, you fell off the roof of a frat house when you were, according to your own explanation, ‘piss drunk.’”

“I’m sorry,” said Mike. “I’m trying. You know I’m trying. I’ve been getting better.”

“Have you?” asked God. “You choked on a carrot and got hit by a bus, Mike. That doesn’t sound like trying to me. It’s recklessness, is what it is.”

Mike said nothing.

“I talked to a woman last week, she’s about your age, it was her first death. Her first, Mike. It was incredible. She died trying to get herself and her eight-month-old baby out of a burning hotel. When she got here, I asked her how she’d gone forty years without dying. I knew the answer, of course, but I wanted to hear her say it. She said she’d made a habit of living, and she didn’t intend on breaking that habit any time soon by doing something stupid.

That’s why I put this whole system into effect, Mike. To negate the permanence of little accidents here and there, yes, but even more, to reward heroism and self-sacrifice with life. I can’t tell her this, of course, but that woman’s going to die twice in the next year and a half, once getting T-boned by a lady running a red light, the other trying to talk a teenager with a gun out of robbing a convenience store.”

“I get it,” said Mike.

“Three deaths in just over eighteen months. If that happens to you, that’s it. Game over, thanks for playing.”

“I get it.”

“Imagine if you only had one, Mike. One life. Imagine how careful you’d have to be, every day, all the time. One false step, one moment of inattention, and you’d be gone forever. One drink too many. Pushing the gas pedal instead of the brake.” God smiled. “Eating a carrot too fast.”

Mike grinned in spite of himself. “Yeah. That…that’d be tough.”

God leaned forward in his chair and put his elbows on the table. “I’m sorry if I’ve been a little harsh on you. But once someone hits the two-thirds mark, I have to take the gloves off, talk some sense into them. There was a guy last week, he broke his arm when he fell off a ladder. He shot himself in the head so he wouldn’t have to wear a cast for two months. He went back fully healed, just like everyone else, but it’s people like that that sometimes make me rethink My whole nine-life policy. You’re not that bad. You said you’re trying. I know you are, I believe you. Just…try harder.”

Mike nodded. “I will.”

“I know you will. You’re a good guy, Mike.”

“Thanks.”

“Ready to go back?”

“Already?”

God chuckled. “I might’ve exaggerated your injuries a little bit. I was trying to scare you. It work?”

“Yes, sir, it definitely did.”

They both stood up. God extended His hand and Mike shook it.

“Until we meet again, Mike. No matter how careful you are, you know we’ll meet again.”

“Yeah.”

“Tell your wife and kids I love them.”

“They don’t know?”

God looked him in the eye again. “A little reminder every now and then can’t hurt.”

“Right.” Mike closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he was lying in a hospital bed.