Oops, Can I Do It Again?

Freeman checks the connection between Jean and the generator.

“This isn’t right,” Sylvia, his assistant, says. “She’s not a car battery. We can’t just attach a cable to her and start her up again.”

Sylvia adjusts her thick, oval glasses and checks the equipment. Wearing a baggy turtleneck sweater, loose-fitting pants, and tan Wallabees, twenty-eight-year-old Sylvia appears heavier than she is. Although she’s quick-witted and resourceful, her chin-length auburn hair, freckles, and potato-shaped nose give her the appearance of a socially awkward nerd.

Freeman bites his lower lip, unaware that he’s praying aloud.

Research scientists Freeman Falter and Sylvia Kleinbower have been trying to reanimate Jean Mortenson’s corpse for the past two months. The thirty-five-year-old researcher's appearance shows the strain of trying to bring the woman he loves back to life. His skin is ghostly pale, and thick bags have camped out under his watery brown eyes. Tall and thin, his lab coat hangs off him like a shroud. His once sunny features, highlighted by his bright smile, dimpled chin, and wispy dark hair, now seem tired and corrupted.

“Shout out the moment there’s a heartbeat,” Freeman says, flicking the generator’s switch.

“Shout? I might scream.”

A massive charge of electricity carries through the wires, arching over Jean’s body.

Jean’s body convulses, writhes, and shudders in a grotesque dance of death.

“Her hair’s burning!” Sylvia shouts above the din of the generator.

Jean’s skin starts to sizzle.

“Any signs of life?”

“Nothing!” Sylvia replies, the sickening smell of burning flesh filling her nostrils.

Grabbing the fire extinguisher from the wall, Sylvia sprays the corpse.

Sparks fly from the generator as it sputters and dies.

Jean’s detached hand falls off the gurney. Freeman picks it up as Sylvia stifles her gag reflex.

“I think your girlfriend’s body needs a break,” Sylvia notes. “She smells ripe, is crispier than Sunday morning bacon, and she’s falling apart.”

“Yes, we’re destroying her. We can’t keep experimenting on her unless we’re a hundred percent sure our methods will work.”

“Agreed. Let’s put her back in the freezer, decompress, and take that vacation to Aruba you’ve been talking about.”

“I was planning to go to Aruba with Jean. I want it to be our honeymoon trip.”

Sylvia’s features screw together into a frown. “You’re marrying her? Let me get this straight. You knew Cinderella for what, three hours?”

“But I knew she was the one the moment I met her,” Freeman says mournfully.

“Okay, but did she know? From a scientific standpoint, I think it’s noble that you want to resurrect her. Being able to bring people back from the dead will benefit society. However, from a personal standpoint, you’ve got to know when to hold ‘em and when to fold ‘em. You need to admit to yourself that you gave it the college try and move on to something else.”

“We have to try again. We’re so close.”

***

Freeman injects Jean’s corpse, carefully extracting the needle.

“What’s in that stuff again?” Syvia asks.

“Calcium chloride, potassium chloride, sodium chloride, sodium bicarbonate, dextrose, and adrenaline, all designed to jolt Jean’s heart and get it pumping again. Anything?”

“Nada.”

Sylvia barely answers his inquiry when a blip crosses the screen.

“…Wait a minute…”

The heart monitor begins to beep.

Jean’s body shakes violently.

“Maybe you gave her too much,” Sylvia says.

Jean’s body rises from the table. Her once-enticing green eyes pop open, now veiny and threatening.

Freeman reaches for her.

“…Jean… My darling…”

Jean opens her mouth, letting out a blood-curdling scream so shrill and filled with agony that Freeman and Sylvia are forced to cover their ears.

Groaning, she collapses, a putrid cloud of smoke engulfing her body.

Freeman turns to speak to Sylvia, who’s already run out of the room.

***

Freeman finds Sylvia in their office, drinking directly from the bottle of gin he keeps hidden in his desk.

“Jesus, Freeman. I know how much you want this to happen. But we’re scientists, not ghouls.”

“It worked, even if it was only for a second.”

Sylvia takes a long swig from the bottle. “That was success? There was murder in that thing’s eyes. You bring her back using that cocktail of drugs, and she’ll be more of a monster than a human being. She may never again be that flirty hash-slinger that you fell for.”

“I’m getting the feeling you’ve lost faith in the project.”

“That’s an understatement, Freeman. We’re risking our reputations and our freedom by keeping her corpse on ice. She should be buried along with any notion that we can bring her back to life.”

“Haven’t you ever been hopelessly in love? Have you ever felt love’s all-consuming warmth and that jolt of adrenaline when the person you love looks at you? No, I don’t suppose you have…”

Sylvia’s forlorn stare dwells on Freeman, who looks away.

“You’d be surprised…You’re still willing to risk everything for her, aren’t you? I’ve never understood what you saw in her…”

Freeman smiles as he remembers meeting Jean…

***

…Freeman looks around at Starz Diner’s kitschy 50s décor. A waiter resembling James Dean, complete with a leather motorcycle jacket, wizzes by, balancing two malted milks on his tray.

The Marilyn Monroe lookalike waitress, as bouncy and jubilant as the genuine article, wiggles up to the table, whispering breathlessly, “I’m your waitress, Jean. What can I get you?”

The normally conservative Freeman blurts out, “Your number!”

Sylvia smacks him with her menu.

“Aren’t you cute. Seriously, hon, the meter’s running.”

“The Starz Cheeseburger Special.”

“Make it two,” Sylvia adds.

“She’s a knockout,” Freeman comments as Jean shimmies away.

“You realize it’s all make-up, an outfit that’s way too tight, and attitude, don’t you? Underneath all that goo, she probably looks more like Marilyn Manson than Marilyn Monroe. Her bust size is bigger than her I.Q.”

“Spoken like a true scientist. If a person can’t spout the periodic table, then they’re either an idiot or not worth getting to know.”

“Okay, Romeo. I warned you.”

Jean returns, precariously balancing four plates.

“Let me help you,” Freeman offers, reaching for the plates.

“I got this. Oops, no, I don’t!” Jean replies as Freeman’s cheeseburger slips from her grasp. A plate of fries follows.

Freeman is covered in lettuce, tomatoes, and onions. A cheesy hamburger patty sits in his lap. French fries decorate his hair.

Sylvia guffaws as Jean puts her plates in front of her.

“I’m soooo sorry. How can I make it up to you?”

“Dinner. Tonight. Your place. I’ll bring the wine.”

“Make it champagne,” Jean replies. “Dom Pérignon.”

Sylvia buries her head in her hand.

***

Jean pours Freeman his fourth glass of champagne.

Opening a small round canister, she drops a pill into her glass, chugging it down.

“So, you’re really a scientist?” she asks.

“More like a researcher. We’re trying to find ways to help people live longer and lead healthier lives.”

Freeman smiles drunkenly, content that although she’s off duty, Jean retains her Marilyn Monroe appearance.

Jean’s phone chimes. She picks it up from the table, stares at the screen, and laughs, pecking out a reply.

“Work?” Freeman asks.

“Nah. Just some guy I know.”

“Competition?”

“Don’t worry, hon. I may not be able to balance my food orders, but I know how to handle my men.”

“Men?”

“Just a figure of speech.”

The phone chimes again. Jean chuckles, tapping out a reply.

“So, I’m guessing you don’t want to be a waitress for the rest of your life. Maybe you want to get married, have a few kids…”

“Kind of an old-fashioned waste of life, don’t you think?” Jean asks. “Besides, I may not have this figure forever, so I don’t wanna ruin it by having kids. And it’s hard raising kids and being on a hit TV show at the same time.”

“That’s your goal? There’s a lot of women out there with the same dream.”

“But none of them have a figure like mine or a photographic memory. Makes it easy to remember your lines.”

Jean picks up her dessert plate, taking a forkful of tiramisu.

“Mmm. I’m in love.”

Freeman blushes. “Me too. We’re really different, but I know we can make it work.”

Jean’s phone chimes.

Lost in his bliss, Freeman smiles dumbly at her.

Taking two more pills out of the canister, she pops them in her mouth, chasing them with more champagne.

“What is that you’re taking?”

“Just something recreational. It helps me get in the mood. You’ll thank me later.”

Jean’s phone chimes.

“I thought this was supposed to be our time together.”

“It is, hon. Just give me a sec.”

Jean finishes texting. She pours the remaining champagne from the bottle into her glass, disappointed that it’s still only half full.

“I think I might have another bottle in the kitchen,” she says, standing.

“I’ve had enough.”

“Well, I haven’t. Don’t you wanna have fun, hon?”

Jean’s gorgeous features go slack. She pitches forward, landing in her linguini and tiramisu.

Freeman checks her pulse. Fumbling for his phone, he calls Sylvia.

“She’s dead!”

“Boy, I’ve had some bad dates, but nobody’s ever died on me,” Sylvia replies. “Call the police.”

“No. They may think I drugged her.”

“Relax. You’re a geek. She’s a party girl. The only thing the cops will suspect you of is having bad judgment.”

“She said she loved me, Sylvia. I can’t lose her now.”

“…I know where this is going…”

“Think about it, Sylvia. If we can regenerate her, your face will be on every medical journal worldwide. You’ll be rich.”

“…I won’t be able to spend a dime if I’m in prison…”

“Bring the van and a gurney… Drive around to the back of the house so no one can see.”

***

Sylvia snaps her fingers in Freeman’s face. “Taking a trip down hormone lane? I don’t believe in the third time being a charm, Freeman. We need to ditch Marilyn Monroe.”

“How can you be so cold?”

“Me? You’re the one who fried her like a circus corn dog.”

“There’s one last option, a costly one,” Freeman says. “I can beg Hades to release her from the kingdom of the dead and send her back to me.”

“Hades? As in the dude who collects people’s souls when they’re dead? He’s a myth.”

Freeman bows his head in reverence. “He’s real. I’ve met him. What time is it?”

“Three twenty in the afternoon.”

“Good. Hades will be in his office.”

“The king of the underworld keeps office hours?”

“Nine to six, although he tends to take long lunches when his wife, Persephone, is in town,” Freeman says.

He takes out his phone, tapping on the keys.

“What are you doing, making an appointment?” Sylvia scoffs.

“Exactly.”

“I didn’t know cell phones have connect me to hell buttons.”

“Oh, good. His assistant texted me. He’s free at four.”

“You said you’ve parlayed with the god of death before?”

“Yes, once before. I bargained for someone else’s life four years ago.”

Sylvia snickers. “Who?”

“You.”

Sylvia’s taunting smile fades, and she collapses in a nearby chair.

“…I died? But I have memories… I remember you interviewing me five years ago… I recall attending the Boston Beaker Convention with you last year…You would think I’d remember dying…”

“Blocking out the moment of death is part of the Rules of Resurrection,” Freeman answers. “It keeps the resurrected subject from going into shock.”

“…Not entirely… How did I die?”

“We were at an important point in our research, our first real breakthrough, when some dead mice cells showed signs of rejuvenation. We ran out of petri dishes. I asked you to go to Walmart…”

“I died for a few discount petri dishes?”

“Yes, and I’m sorry. I tried to pay you back the only way I knew how…There was a bad thunderstorm, and visibility was near zero. The police stated that your car hydroplaned across the highway, struck a guardrail, and then skidded back across the road, hitting a tree. You died instantly.”

“And you asked Hades to bring me back to life…”

“I felt responsible. And it was an important discovery…”

“So you said,” Sylvia replies, a twinge of hurt in her voice. “Suddenly, I feel like a puppet on a string. What did you give Hades in return for my life?”

“You remember Samoots?”

“That fleabag. I hated that dog. Oh… I’m sorry…How long do I have to live?”

“I’m not supposed to tell you.”

Sylvia grits her teeth, balling up her fists. “I’m way past going into shock, Freeman.”

“Don’t you want to be surprised?”

“I hate surprises.”

“You’re going to live long enough to be a Grandma.”

“Seeing as how I’m not even married yet, that’s cool. How do we get to Satan’s lair?”

“He’s not the devil. He’s death. He hates the comparison.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Sylvia replies. “What do we have to do? Sacrifice a few goats, offer our souls?”

“Drink a Dr. Pepper.”

“Mama always said soda was bad for me. That’s it? Drink a nasty-tasting soda?”

“And we have to chant ‘Ire reubus socex.’”

“What’s that mean?”

“Go, Red Sox.”

Sylvia gives him a skeptical look.

“He’s a fan.”

***

Freeman and Sylvia walk down a long, wall-to-wall carpeted hallway, stopping at a front desk.

A woman with two heads and four arms greets them.

“Hello, Mister Falter. It’s been a while.”

“Four years, Tetra.”

The phone rings. One of Tetra’s arms reaches out, picking it up. Her second head speaks quietly to the caller at the other end of the phone.

“Close your mouth, dear,” Tetra’s first head tells Sylvia. “They’re in the conference room. You know the way, don’t you?”

“To the right?”

Two of Tetra’s arms point right. “Yep. Nice seeing you again, Mister Falter.”

“Please tell me she’s the freakiest thing I’m going to see,” Sylvia says softly.

“Let’s hope Cerberus, their dog, is tied up. He’s got three heads, and they’re always hungry.”

***

Hades and Persephone sit at a large mahogany conference table, studying several charts. They look up, their smiles radiating charisma.

The dashing King of the Underworld has a chiseled jaw, a muscular physique, and dark, curly hair. Persephone’s striking appearance is highlighted by her warm violet eyes, high cheekbones, and waist-length amber hair.

Both are dressed in the latest, expensive fashion, which makes them look like top-notch celebrities.

“Jeez. He’s a babe.”

Persephone’s nose wrinkles. “I heard that. You’re right, of course, but he’s mine.”

“Yeah, for six months. The rest of the time you’re with your mother. You might be a little lonely the rest of the year, eh, King?”

Hades waves his hand.

Sylvia gasps, pointing at her throat.

“Just a reminder of who I am and what I can do. If you promise to behave, I’ll restore your voice.”

Sylvia nods obediently.

Hades waves his hand again.

“…Sorry…,” Sylvia says hoarsely. “I get nervous sometimes, and I turn into Don Rickles.”

Hades gives her an amused smile. “You said she was a pistol, Freeman. I can see why you wanted to bring her back to life. So, what brings you here this time?”

“I’ve come to plead for case number M-4141, Jean Mortenson. She took too many pills and…”

“I understand,” Hades says sympathetically. “But we already gave you one life, and you want us to spare another? I have two conditions. The first is you have to give up your pursuit of cheating death. And by that, I mean cheating me.”

“We could limit the amount of time a person could be regenerated…”

“Being dead shouldn’t be a case of oops, can I do it again?” Persephone replies. “It should be permanent. Keep experimenting with the dead, and we’ll be forced to take action. Ask Sisyphus what it’s like to keep pushing a boulder uphill or ask Prometheus about being chained to a rock and having your guts torn out.”

“All right. I agree.”

“You’re certain you want to bring this woman back to life?” Hades asks.

“He’s right, you really need to consider what type of person she is, whether she’s worth it,” Sylvia insists.

“Please. I can’t live without her.”

Persephone turns to Sylvia. “Men. It’s always looks over substance.”

Hades waves his hand. Jean’s body appears before them.

“Neat trick,” Sylvia comments.

“Watch this,” Persephone says.

Persephone opens the palm of her hand. A vial appears in it.

Hades takes the vial. Opening it, he pours the contents over Jean’s head.

“I command you to return to the realm of the living, Jean Mortenson.”

The potion restores her beauty.

Jean opens her eyes.

“I’m alive again! Can I go home? Butch and Carmine are probably worried about me.”

“What about me?” Freeman asks.

Jean dismisses Freeman with a flick of her wrist.

“…Amateur…”

She looks at Hades.

“Now we’re talking. How about you, hon? Are you free tonight?”

“Easy, you platinum phony, or I’ll turn you into a bone for our dog Cerberus,” Persephone warns.

“And he’s got three heads,” Sylvia adds.

“You said you were in love…” Freeman moans.

“With the dessert, not you!”

“And now for my second condition. I granted you one life, Freeman. You can’t have two,” Hades says.

Sylvia begins to choke, her body jerking from side to side.

“…Choose…,” Hades says. “Save the woman who loves you or the woman you think you love.”

“Do you love me, Jean? Will you spend your life with me?”

Jean looks at her manicured nails. “I’m really kinda busy right now, hon.”

“Me… Pick me, you idiot!” Sylvia gasps. “Don’t you know I love you!”

“Yes! I choose Sylvia!”

“Wait! I changed my mind!” Jean shouts as she disappears behind a wall of flames.

Sylvia coughs as air fills her lungs again.

Freeman holds her. “I’ve been so blind. How can I prove I love you?”

“Two honeymoon tickets to Aruba would be nice.”