Started In June

03 - Last Dance

People know when they're getting near their end; they might not know how they're going to end, but they can sense something big is about to change. As people tiptoe closer to the end of their days, one of two things happens: they become weak, soft-spoken, and they stop caring about anything or they become completely erratic. This idea of "YOLO" was invented by someone who felt his end in his gut. Both reactions come from the same regrets. "I had so many visions for my life; I was going to do so much. I can't go now." The erratic personality will then develop into a frenzy of trying to get done as much as he can--often, his goals aren't even on his bucket list, now, because it's so late, they're all just things he can say he accomplished when he's laying on his deathbed or standing for judgement.

You should see these guys in the Courtroom of Forever. They walk up to the stand, pretending to chew gum, trying their best to hide the shaking in their hands or the knocking of their knees. Most of 'em couldn't imagine what it's like because all their lives they said God wasn't real. To stand face-to-face, you on the ground, looking up as He sits at the table of judgment, that's not something you can prepare yourself for in the five seconds it takes to go from deathbed to the Gate. They try, but lying's a lot harder to get away with when you're dead.

The prosecuting attorney will grill them hard, asking why they deserve to go in the gates, what did they do with their lives? And the defendant will always start on that list of activities he erratically tried to complete before his time was up. "I jumped out of a plain. I entered a baking contest. I bought a Maserati and raced it down 401."

"That's the reason you're here." The prosecutor laughs. "You come into the Court and brag about breaking the law?" He leans against the defendant's counter. "Please, tell us more."

The defendant loses some confidence here. The prosecutor is out to get him, he knows that, but his voice is so smooth, so charming, and there's something alluring about him. He looks great in that suit, and the defendant can't help but say everything that's on his mind. "The girls. I got with so many girls -- and some of them were charity cases. Like, these girls were ugly as a sin--"

The prosecutor laughs again. "So Saint Weiner, we should call you?"

The defendant never thought about it, but an awkward chuckle comes out and he says, "I wouldn't be opposed to sainthood."

My beeper chimes; my next job is waiting. As I leave the Court, the prosecutor asks the defendant for more details on his sainthood.

"There was this one chick, like, must have been at least five hundred pounds. She was like thirty-five, virgin -- can you believe that? A virgin in 2018? That's like seeing a unicorn or some shit. There are people who are into that mess -- people like her. Websites like shrines set up just for people like her, but somehow no one had plucked her. I saw her at the grocery store, gave her a couple compliments. We stopped at McD's--her choice, I got her whatever she wanted and she took me back to her place. I took some photos as we did the deed--you know, the deed." He laughs. With my hand on the courtroom door, I turn around, the defendant's looking at the Judge with a crooked, proud smile on his face. "She said I made her feel special for the first time in her life. Said she could actually think about marriage if it was with someone like me. I said yeah, me too, cause I'm a gentlemen--but as soon as she fell asleep, I was freakin' out of that place. Never exchanged numbers, so I wasn't worried about her finding me. She was a shut-in anyway who only went out for groceries sometimes. But isn't it kind of charity to make someone feel that good? I got more stories like that, you wanna hear 'em?"

"Yes. Please, tell us everything you have," the prosecutor says.

I shut the door and walk out.

Down the hall, screaming, crying, laughter, and song all mix together from different rooms, different cases, different outcomes from different lives.

My beeper shows the pickup for my next client. Some hospital in the middle of Oklahoma. I step aboard the flight train, sit down, and I'm on a bus going down the street, headed for Normal Regional Hospital. I pull the string, the bell rings, I get off. The large, brown building is tens of stories high with rooms stacked to look like a wall on just one end. Windows cover the front end of it, a perfect view of the bus stop. You'd think patients could see death coming.

I enter the hospital and walk past the desk, the young, college age pair of girls signing in to visit their friend in the maternity ward. I call the elevator, the doors open immediately. It's empty and I walk in. The girls from the front desk run for elevator, but it closes before they make it.

"Why aren't smart elevators a thing yet?" One of their voices comes through the door. One of them pushes the button, but the elevator is already moving up.

Floor 11. I get off. I walk down the hall and the orderlies don't say anything to me. I press the button to open the security door and walk through. Room one is at the end of the hall.

The curtains are drawn when I walk in. The room smells of mass produced scrambled eggs and buttered toast. "Good morning," a gentle voice reaches out to me from the bed. It's young, energetic, missing the characteristics of "well what do I have to lose?"

"Good morning," I say, stepping up to the bed. Her heart machine beeps softly, its pulse is much louder than her natural one. She's ten-years-old, dark blonde in a braid, messy, it looks like it was washed this morning. "You sound like you were expecting me."

"For a couple of days." She pauses. "A couple of weeks." She pauses again. "A couple of months. The doctors said you'd come years ago, but I wasn't ready to go."

"And you're ready now?"

She looks from the window to her hands. Her fingers twitch, but she doesn't lift them from her lap; she can't. "Not really, but I can't fight anymore."

There it is. "When did you give up?"

"I haven't given up." She laughs. "I really can't fight anymore." Her wrists shake, her muscles tighten up, she tries to lift her arms, her heart monitor picks up in pace, but her hands never leave the bed. "I wanted to dance. It's amazing to me, watching the people on television. The hit their heads, they trip, they drop each other, but they make it to the performance and they... They through each other around, slide across the floor, they look weightless. I always thought if I believed, if I fought hard enough and believed, I could be like them and get back up. I know you're here, but I still think I could do it. I still want to."

"I'm here to collect you today. Your last wish isn't going to happen."

"When do I have to go?"

I look at my watch. "Now."

"Then, please, dance with me to wherever we go. Just once. Please give me a first and last dance."