The Waiting Room

Every school worth its salt had an entrance exam. If anybody would know, it would be Herbert Richard Beaumont III nay, Bert. He had done his research a hundred times over and this place, he was sure, had to have the most arduous, mentally taxing, physically demanding admissions process of any academy he had ever applied to. It was exhausting, but Burt thought he had come to understand it. They had to weed out the weak after all.

Bert fiddled aimlessly with his checkered tie. He had only worn it once before today and the feeling was unfamiliar against his skin. It was exacerbated, of course, by the long hours he had been sitting patiently in the waiting room.

He thought of his friends Ronnie and Jud wishing him good luck this morning. They had promised to take him out for cake or maybe ice cream after he was done but Bert, as always, had hardly heard them. He was too focused on his application.

So focused in fact, that he had arrived a few minutes before the front doors opened only to find a line already around the block. When Bert finally passed into the waiting room, it was dark and crowded with empty seats. The line must not have been as long as it looked.

Now though, the rows of chairs only seemed to fill more and more as three grandfather clocks ticked on in unison. They blended in against the ancient wood paneling, their intricate faces decorated with gold leaf.

Everything in the waiting room was made of the darkest, oldest wood money could buy— the welcome desk with its iron hooved feet, the bookcases staggering under the weight of a thousand leather volumes, even the armchair Bert currently sat in was outfitted with matching cherry carvings of ravens. Only the best for the most elite of academies.

Bert ran a hand across his inner wrist, tracing the veins up his arm and into his sleeve. This was his year. It had to be. Bert had dreamed of this place, this school, for so long. He would not let himself be beaten down. Not this time.

Ronnie and Jud had assured him it didn’t matter, that he didn’t need the school. But they didn’t understand.

The cuckoo clocks chimed together across the room. Everyone looked up except the woman at the front desk. Her beady eyes stayed glued to her stack of papers even as she called out in a deep warble, “One-one-zero-six.”

A young man Bert knew as Darby stood up a few chairs down. He had been in front of Bert when they entered and would occasionally play pitcher in their friendly scrimmages of baseball in the meadows.

Darby’s hair was messy and his eyes sunken a bit too deeply into his skull. He cleared his throat with a loud “hmm” and stalked down the aisle to the Red Door. It was a few paces from the welcome desk, unmarked and tucked between two sconces and a stone fireplace.

Darby stopped just outside it, his hand hovering above the knob. One of his fingers was crooked and the face of his right knee was unusually high.

Bert prided himself on noticing small details. It was a gift he had nurtured in preparation for this very moment, even if it meant bailing on his friends sometimes. Bert watched as Darby inhaled deeply, his chest rattling as he stepped through the Red Door. It swung shut without so much as a hint of what lay beyond.

Darby’s departure had left a gap in Bert’s row. He peered over at the empty seat. The waiting room was surprisingly diverse today.

A girl in a sun hat and glasses was quietly rehearsing her answers to herself. Beside her, an older man with a neatly trimmed beard and brilliant blue eyes stared straight ahead. Bert supposed no one was really too old to be applying.

Bert wasn’t quite so young himself. Though personally, he preferred to avoid the gray hair and pockmarked skin indicative of age. He moisturized well and came away looking like a young 20 year old, or at least that’s what his friends told him.

“Excuse me,” a high voice inquired. Bert turned to find a pair of remarkable yellowed eyes and pointed ears staring at him from over the rim of an academy handbook. He had the exact same copy tucked into his own jacket. “Do you know if this section is for all applications or just humans?”

The handbook lowered further to reveal a huge black cat sitting comfortably in his chair. His fur was lush, his whiskers thin and wiry. The cat blinked slowly up at Bert, his tail lashing in what could only be growing annoyance.

“I’m not sure,” Bert sat up straighter. For all his preparation and experience, he had never actually spoken to any animals. Of course, he knew they existed here, he’d even seen them around, but human and animal folk were usually kept separate. “Check page one-hundred and thirty-three. They have a guide to the waiting rooms.”

“Thank you…” The cat blinked at Bert expectantly.

“One-one-zero-seven,” Bert offered. The cat snickered. “I mean Bert. My name is Bert, that's just my number.”

“Whatever floats your boat.” The cat purred to himself and flipped through the booklet. The hooded skull on the front cover smiled placidly at Bert. He was the academy’s beloved figurehead and a minor deity in his own right. Bert waved at him. The skull rolled his eyes and turned away sharply.

Bert had memorized the entire handbook years ago. He had spent more time with the semi-sentient skull mascot than his friends. The section the cat was looking for was mostly made up of long lists of dos and don’ts, all very boring. The important rules, the stuff that actually mattered was outlined in startling red above the welcome desk:

Do not exit out the entrance. No outside food or drink. And most paramount of them all— suits are required.

Bert ran a hand down his corduroy pants and examined his hands for scuff marks. He was notoriously clumsy and Ronnie loved to shove him around when he hit the occasional home run. Jud was normally quieter, but when it came to baseball he would holler so loud it woke the entire street. It must have been weeks since they played together. Bert turned to the cat, suddenly feeling the need for a good conversation.

Before he could muster a word, the cuckoo clocks began to chime. Bert swallowed hard, tremors building under his suit as everyone, even the cat, looked up. Darby had come in not long before him and Bert knew he had to be next. He tried to conjure the carefree feeling of the meadows and Ronnie and Jud as the old woman cracked open her mouth.

“Herbert Richard Beaumont III,” she crooned across the room. Oh god. Bert tried to summon the courage he walked in with but his legs still wobbled dangerously as he stood.

“Good luck, one-one-zero-seven,” the cat threw at his back with a light flick of his tail. Bert didn’t bother thanking him as he sucked in a breath, smoothed a hand down his suit, and stalked towards the Red Door.

He could feel eyes on him as he approached but Bert didn’t want to hesitate like Darby. He wasn’t weak. He puffed out his chest, squared his shoulders, and opened the Red Door.

It was a baroque study with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves towering over a patterned wood floor. The ceiling was painted with an image he knew all too well: the Angel of Death.

“One-one-zero-seven,” an elderly man intoned, his eyes fixed on the papers before him. He sat behind a grand desk not dissimilar to the one in the waiting room, “sit please.”

Bert did as he was told. “My name’s Bert actually. Beaumont. You may know it.”

The man didn’t blink. His nose was longer than Bert remembered, the sockets of his eyes sunken deeper into his head, and a new pair of tiny round glasses perched on his face. They had spoken quite a few times before, but if he remembered, he didn’t say anything.

“I like the spectacles,” Bert offered in what he hoped was a confident drawl.

“Are you familiar with our admissions process?” The man didn’t look up from his desk.

“Yes,” Bert answered. He fought the urge to wipe his sweaty palms across his pants.

“While you were in the waiting room, we siphoned a sliver of your soul. You agreed to this when you made your interview appointment.”

“Well I—” Bert started, but the man went on unfettered.

“You will sign this parchment,” the man presented a yellowed scroll tied together with a prickly red ribbon. At the bottom, there was a single empty line. “It is written in the ancient hieroglyphics of the first men. You may read it if you like but it will be docked from your time. You have four minutes to remain in this room. Your clock started the moment you entered.”

“Oh, well, I haven’t really—” Bert paused. He had a time limit and it was fast approaching “Do you have a pen?”

The man didn’t so much as glance at Bert as he handed over a jet black quill. Bert signed on the line. The scroll rolled itself up with a flourish and returned to the man’s waiting hand.

“I will ask you a series of questions. You will answer them as succinctly as possible then present a summary of your application materials.” The man barely paused to breathe as he steamrolled on, “What is your age?”

“22,” Bert answered.

“And your post-mortem age?”

Bert hesitated, “It’ll be 167 years this October.”

“And why do you want to become a reaper at the Academy for Post-Death Studies?”

“I died young,” Bert admitted bluntly, “I think I still have something left to give the world.” It felt like so long ago, he hardly remembered what it was like to be alive. Ronnie and Jud were clearer to him than his mother’s face though technically he’s known them longer.

“And have you applied to our school before?”

“Yes,” Bert nodded. “Every year since I arrived.” A hint of shame crept into his tone, but Bert batted it away.

“And you don’t intend to move on past the gates?”

Bert’s jaw clenched. They had started asking him this question after his 90th failed application attempt. “No,” he answered, more than a bit petulant. “No, I don’t.”

The man marked something down in his papers. If he thought anything in particular of Bert’s response, he didn’t show it. “You’re free to begin your application presentation, one-one-zero-seven.”

“You can call me Bert,” he cleared his throat. He had practiced this spiel every day since his last rejection from the academy. “All of my materials were organically sourced from seven separate sources.”

He reached into his jacket and withdrew a folder. Inside were photographs of seven different people, most of them smiling. The man accepted them with a limp stare. “And your process?”

“All original,” Bert handed over a small scroll of his own. “I spent 8,000 hours examining participants from the meat pit for added accuracy and realism.“

He started to extend his arm but he didn’t get very far before the chime of the cuckoo clocks cut through the study. “Please remove your suit and hang it on the rack. We will review your materials and get back to you within ten business days. The exit is to your right. Thank you for your time, one-one-zero-seven.”

Bert stood, a lump building in his throat. He rubbed at the back of his neck. He could already feel the rejection. 8,000 hours, most of his time, almost all of his year. It was the longest he had ever spent on his application and the least fun he had ever had.

The man frowned down at his desk, “One-one-zero-seven please remove your suit and proceed towards the exit if you would like to stay in consideration for this year.”

Usually, Bert might argue or beg for another chance. But this year, Bert just tugged at the skin flap thoughtfully hidden under the back of his skull. He wished he could wear a suit all the time but the practice was strictly forbidden. Suits were only permitted in the academy because it was the one place still truly tethered to the human world, even if only by a string.

Bert pulled the false flesh of his face up and over his head. The skin of his arms and chest came with it, then his artfully crafted abs regretfully hidden under a sweater, his legs, and finally his shoes. He’d chosen a pair of nice plaid oxfords to match the young academic look he was going for.

The clothes stayed masterfully stitched with the skin suit just as Bert had intended. Once it was fully off, he shook out the flesh and carefully slid it onto a hanger next to the skin of an older woman with a cowboy hat and a leopard-patterned dress.

This year’s suit was supposed to be his masterpiece. His 167th application was thoughtful, innovative, and unexpected. Or at least those are the adjectives Ronnie and Jud had used when he presented it to them. To become a student of the Grim Reaper you had to prove you could fit in with living, breathing humans, that you still understood them and their world.

The challenge was not only to create a flesh suit the same as the ones the reapers wore to disguise themselves among the living but to embody someone else completely. Bert had never gotten that far in the application process but he always planned ahead just in case. This year, he had designed his suit with a young ward by the name of Jeremy in mind. He would’ve liked yelling about video games, reading long, obnoxious fantasy books, and talking about philosophy with a cigar hanging off his lips. Now that Bert thought about it, maybe his persona was a little dated. Next year he would go with something more cohesive.

Bert swung open the metal exit door. He caught his reflection just as it slammed shut. Bert’s bones were starting to yellow slightly. Though for a skeleton as old as he was, he thought he looked pretty good.

Maybe next time he would try something more exotic for his persona like a volleyball player or a hula-hoop dancer. For now, though, Bert stepped back into the meadows of the dead. He was sentenced to another year as just Bert, the stupid 22-year-old who bled out after accidentally shooting himself in the leg.

“Hey Bert,” Ronnie appeared out of nowhere. His legs were long and he had obviously been very skinny during his time among the living. “How’d it go?”

Bert shook his head.

“Ah man,” Jud bumped his humerus gently. “I’m sorry. Do you want to get rootbeer floats to commiserate?”

“Yeah,” Ronnie encouraged. “We were thinking we could take you to that diner. We know it’s your favorite.”

Despite himself, Bert found a smile fighting his way onto his face. It must have looked more like a grimace though (it was hard to tell when you were a skeleton), because Ronnie backtracked, “Or you could sit alone at the meat pits for another year?”

Bert knew the offer was genuine, but for the first time in 167 years he wasn’t particularly interested in who the academy wanted him to be. He would worry about that in a few hours.

“Okay,” Bert agreed when an idea struck him. “Maybe I should be a milkshake-making baseball player next year. I bet no one’s ever done that.”

“Alright,” Ronnie slung an arm over Bert’s clavicles. “We’re having an intervention.”

“I’m just brainstorming.”

“Yeah, alright.” Ronnie and Jud took Bert by the arms and steered him away.

“You know we only put up with you because you’re a good hitter,” Ronnie teased.

“Do not,” Bert feigned offense.

“Do too,” Jud added.

“Do not,” Bert stuck up his nose. “I have plenty of great qualities.”

“Yeah,” Jud slapped him on the back. “You do, Bert.”