Max's Last Interview

Maxwell Jenkins stared at an owl-shaped clock and frowned. The minute hand had been turning anti-clockwise this whole time, but that wasn’t why his thick eyebrows furrowed. Holding the same puzzled expression, he gazed around the room. It was the first time he appreciated that he was in a room, not in a car driving to an interview. The feel of his BMW’s leather steering wheel still lingered in his hands.

           Max guessed this wasn’t a dream because he wore the same navy suit he had chosen this morning. Knowing he’d be late (he forgot to set an alarm), he skipped breakfast and only brushed his hair. Max ran his tongue over his teeth, feeling that fuzzy layer, confirming his theory. He could not, however, remember how he got here. 

           He dug into his right pocket, expecting to find the cold, smooth surface of his phone, but felt nothing but fabric. All his pockets were empty.

           Max didn’t like this, although it hardly came as a surprise. As he always liked saying to his friends and family alike, bad things came in threes, and with this scenario being pretty bad, he just might’ve had one of the worst three going. Within a month, he’d lost his high-paying job at Toptown Lawyers and signed the divorce papers with a woman he had intended to spend the rest of his life with. While Max would try and disclaim anyone from making a pretty obvious connection between these two bad things, most knew what happened. His last client was a woman named Claire, who had long lashes and a pretty smile. She thought it’d be a good idea if they worked out her affairs further while in the privacy of her bedroom. Max approved.

           Staring at this owl clock, he wondered if he’d been kidnapped. He was a fan of Better Call Saul, so perhaps he had caught a crime lord’s eye with his acute decision-making and photographic memory. If that were the case, he wondered how well he could put his negotiations to the test, perhaps make a deal that would take him out of the criminal records while being paid more than any firm CEO would ever consider. He didn’t mind this idea, and it did explain why his phone and wallet were missing. It didn’t explain why he wasn’t handcuffed or tied to this chair. It also didn’t explain why he had no memory of the last two hours. He guessed it had been two hours; it could have been forty.

           There were no windows, but there was a door to his right. Apart from the clock and the grey chair he sat in, the room was void of decoration. He supposed this crime lord might be testing him, seeing what he’ll do – whether he’s worth the kidnapping. Max stared at the wall opposite the door, seeing if he missed anything, before checking the wall behind him.

           “Hey mate!” yelled a voice.

           Max jerked back around.

           The door was ajar. In front of a soft, candlelight glow was a balding man with a wide, toothy grin.

           “You’re all good to come in.”

           Max stared as the head disappeared and kept staring for half a minute longer. His idea of being kidnapped now seemed very idiotic. He must have been waiting for his interview at Joyer and Burns Lawyers. He tried not to think about his lack of belongings and that there was only one door. He got up, straightened his tie, flattened his blazer, and entered the next room.

The man walked with a slow, controlled pace around an enormous mahogany desk and sat down. He wore a green polo shirt as if he intended to go golfing as soon as this was over.

“Sorry, I was late,” said Max.

The man didn’t seem to hear this. Whistling, the man started nonchalantly rearranging papers on his desk. Max could see the man’s jaw tightening and loosening as if chewing or from irritation.

Max guessed this was his punishment, so he examined the room. A leather couch to the right, a vinyl player on the left of him, two bookshelves sat on either side of the player, and a single painting rested above the old man. The last item was particularly fascinating. The depiction must have been a while back because the men held muskets and swords. Max knew no more about history than a ten-year-old, but he presumed it was Napoleon-era. The interesting point was that the painting was tilted ninety degrees so that they were fighting vertically.

“Do you like my office?” the old man said and raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah. It’s clean. Looks good,” Max answered. 

The man strained a smile.

“I wish to create ease – you wouldn’t think it, but such a feeling is hard to develop. Come take a seat, Maxwell.” 

Max sat and discovered the chair was the most comfortable thing he had ever sat on. It was like a sturdy marshmallow.  

“Do you like The Rolling Stone’s, Maxwell?” he asked. 

“I’m honestly not a big fan. I prefer the heavier side of rock,” Max responded. 

The man’s strained smile appeared again.

“Shame. You don’t mind if I put some on, aye?” 

Max said he didn’t. The man clicked his fingers, and instantly Miss You began to play from the vinyl player. Max turned to the player and then back with wide eyes. 

“That must be some sort of sound activation tech isn’t it? I didn’t know they were precise enough to register clicks,” said Max. “I’ve got one at home, but obviously you have to say the name of the thing, then the name of the song. You must have it coded so the click makes it play the stones, right?”

“Yeah, whatever you say. Now, time to talk about the real stuff.” 

“Can you answer me?”

The man blinked as if he’d seen a ghost appear behind Max.

“No.”

“Surely it's not that hard t-”

“Max. You’re not going back home. You don’t need to know how I’m able to click my fingers to make a bloody song play.” 

This time Max blinked.

“What do you mean by th-”

“I’ll ask the questions. Got it?”

“Okay.”

The man sighed.

“Are you ready to go to heaven?” 

“What?”

“It’s a simple question: Do you want to go to heaven?” 

“Is this a trick?” 

The old man arched an eyebrow. “The question is not meant to be tricky. "Why do you think you’re here, Maxwell?” 

“I know,” he said finally, assuming option A that this was indeed the interview he was late for. “My alarm didn’t work. I probably look a little roughed up, but to tell you the truth, I can’t remember entering this building, even walking into this room, I wou-”

It dawned on Max that he didn’t see another door. He took a double take at his surroundings. No windows. No second door.

“You don’t remember anything?”

           “No?” Max said. 

“Fuck’s sake, Max. You’re dead. And if my information is correct, then you were killed in a car collision. The time was at 7.23 am, on Sunday the twelfth of –

“What?” Max exclaimed. The old man furrowed his eyebrows. 

“Don’t interrupt me. You died on Sunday the twelfth of February 2021.” 

“What the fuck are you on about?” 

The man pointed behind Max. 

“Open the door. The best way to deal with recessed individuals like you is to be as blunt as possible. You will find your answer on the other side of the door.” 

Max was getting more confused by the second; he stood up anyway. He turned on his heel and walked back to the door. He opened it and instantly froze, for his next step wasn’t going on the soft grey carpet but a grey void. He held onto the doorknob with all his might before shutting it loudly. 

“Where the fuck am I?” Max stammered. 

“A place between hell and heaven, mate, where all souls go once they're driven out of their body. You see, Maxwell, I’m not playing a game with you. You’re dead whether you like it or not, and now you must come to terms with it. Time here is not like the one in the physical world; I don’t think it even exists... but do hurry up.

Max turned to the old man. He was so confused and dumbfounded that no words came from his mouth when he tried to speak.

“I – I didn’t want to die,” he said finally.

“Well, it would be a bit odd if ya did. No, no one does, even those people who think they did when they were living.”

“It’s not fair,” he said and gagged. Nothing came out. 

“No. No, it’s never fair. Someone of your age should understand that by now.”

“Did anyone else die?”

John eyed him closely before answering. 

“All I am allowed to tell you is how you died. It’s for the best.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

John shook his head.

“These questions… Why don’t we just get this over with? Do you want to go to heaven?”

“Is there a heaven? You’re saying Christianity was on it the whole time?"

“You’re an atheist?” asked John, who looked at his papers with puzzlement. “Weren’t you Baptised?”

“I was. I also used to go to church on Sundays with my parents, but I’m more or less an atheist.”

“Fuck,” whispered John.  

“So, is there a heaven?”

John sighed and shook his head again. “Yes.”

“You’re lying.”

“I am?”

“You are. Where am I really going?”

John didn't answer, making Max consider reaching over the desk and asking him a little less politely. John hadn't looked up from the papers he shuffled around in front of him.

“So, I’m in limbo?”

“Huh? Oh, yes, limbo that’s right.”

“And you want me to leave to heaven? But it has to be my choice?”

“Will you give me a minute?”

“What if I don’t say anything? Will I stay here? Is there a hell?”

John stood up. “Yeah, there’s a hell, and I’ll be sending you there if don’t make up your mind.”

Max stared at John, and John knew the lawyer was staring right through him.

“Bullshit.”

“You want to stay here?” asked John. “As you are probably aware, there’s not a lot of space for privacy.”

“You made that room disappear. I’m gonna assume you can make it reappear.”

“That’s not how this – Maxwell, you're dead. You’re not coming back to life by irritating me for an eternity. Say yes, for my sake and yours. No, you will not go to heaven, just like you won’t be reincarnated as a butterfly, but you’ll be blessed with never seeing me again.”

“Then where am I going?”

“Away.”

“That’s not going to cut it, John.”

The old man gripped the desk until his knuckles went white.

“Fine!”

John reached under his desk and pulled out a drawer containing a single page of paper. He shoved it in Max’s face.

“Read it.”

Max scanned the paragraph, his eyebrows going higher with each sentence.

“Your job is simple. Each person who arrives here has died and hasn’t accepted it. These people cannot enter the afterlife without acceptance of death. Your job is to sway them. Use religious values to make it easier.”

“Who the fuck is in charge of you?” asked Max, started looking in each corner as if expecting a pair of eyes to be staring back at him.

“I don’t know, but now you do know the situation I’m in.”

“It doesn’t help.”

“I don’t know where you go. Okay?”

Max frowned. “So, I could be going to hell.”

“No, evidently not, Max. I don’t know where you’re going, but it's not hell or heaven. It’s something humanity hasn’t realised yet, although you have gotten close sometimes.”

“Why do I have to accept death?”

John wished he could leave, say yes himself, and leave this concrete wall of a lawyer to his own devices.

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t you want to know?”

“No. Can you just say yes?”

Max shook his head, keeping his eyes on John.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Silence ensued. John made himself busy by rearranging Max’s file on his desk. For a while, both sat there, hoping the other would do something. Eventually, Max got up and walked to the door again, opening it and looking at the grey void beyond.

“What happens if I fall?”

“Try it.”

Max looked back, his eyes narrowing. “I won’t go to where you want me, will I, John?”

“That’s for you to figure out and me to know.”

“Fuck you.”

Max turned back to the empty void and jumped. John shook his head and rearranged the files again; the door closed.

“Oh, you gotta be joking with me,” said Max from the next room. A few seconds later, the door opened, and Max came through from the same room he woke up in.

He slumped himself back down on the chair.

“What happens if I did decide to use violence.”

“Try it.”

“I’m guessing I end up back in that room?” 

“You’re a smart fellow, Max. Maybe use that to realise that there’s nothing here for you. Stay here for as long as you like - nothing will change.”

“Can I at least know how I died?”

John raised an eyebrow.

“I think you’d prefer not to know.”

“Is that so? What if we make a deal?”

“I’m listening.”

“You tell me. I leave.”

John sighed, knowing that if he told him, there’s a good chance sending him away would do more harm.

“Are you sure? You could leave right now, be ignorant of it. You were in a crash; it happens a lot.”

“I do.”

“You didn’t die from the crash, but you did cause it.”

John saw the colour run from Max’s face.

“You were late for an interview. You took a turn without looking. A twelve-year-old girl was walking across, looking down at her phone, texting her mum.”

“Stop.”

“You hit her square on. She died on impact. You were unhurt.”

“I get it. I’ll go.”

“Not wanting to deal with it, you reversed and drove the other way.”

“I’ll go. Please, I’ll go!” Max cried.

“You used the backyard hose to-”

“Yes! I’ll go to heaven!” Max cried, his face turning to the colour of a tomato.

“As you wish.”

Max disappeared from the room mid-scream.

John sighed and looked down to see Max's file had been replaced with the twelve-year-old girl's. He stared at it in disbelief. It had been almost an eternity since he cried – he certainly couldn’t now, but he wished to. He had told the truth to Max, for the most part. As for the girl, she had survived it, or as the file had said. It seemed life had been unfair again.

As he said to Max, time wasn’t a thing here. Even though he had never met Sarah before, her past became his, and with it, the knowledge of her passing. The file he always received was brief considering the length of life, yet it held all the crucial details, enough for him to always know the person before he asked them to come in.

John didn’t get tired, yet sometimes he felt too exhausted to leave his chair. He had no way of measuring how long he'd been doing this for. All he could rely on was how he sensed the passage to time. It felt like forever had passed a long time ago.

He felt envious of Max, leaving as he did. Now, John had to be brave and put on a kind smile. He had to look this kid in the eye and tell her what no one wanted to hear.

Through the crack in the door, he saw the small girl looking around with wide, wet eyes. She was wearing those hospital robes he saw most people arrive in the room with. He’d make sure she was smiling before he sent her away.

“Hello Sarah, why don’t you come take a step inside?”