The Conscience Assignment

Jeremy sat in the vast white room lined with benches sat upon by a multitude of people with no recollection of how he came to be there. As he observed his surroundings and the individuals within it, he was uncertain of whether or not he was dreaming or perhaps at a casting call for national stereotypes.

While phosphorus-bright lighting illuminated crisp white walls, white geometric furniture, and white flowers in glass vases, those seated within the room were of every conceivable colour and creed. A woman of Indian-appearance, wrapped in a magenta and gold sari, sat next to a striking Scandinavian gentleman—silver hair, broad-shouldered with ice-blue eyes and a bearded jawline carved by the gods. A stern man in what Jeremy guessed was traditional Afghani garb, sniffed loudly, startling the Japanese Harajuku girl to his right. If it was a casting call for cultural tropes, Jeremy wondered which one he’d applied for. Middle-aged, middle-class, middle-of-the-road white bloke? 

The people were all diligently reading and filling in some type of form on identical white clipboards. Jeremy looked at his lap and saw, to his relief, the same clipboard. He hated being left out. 

He’d been to plenty of doctors in his life, such was his fragile constitution, so filling out medical forms was not unusual. In fact, he quite enjoyed it. He knew his MediCare and insurance numbers by heart and took satisfaction in requesting additional paper from the receptionist to list past procedures and current medications. He looked up but could see no receptionist. He frowned and wondered where all of the pens had come from and who would replace his when it ran out of ink, as they so frequently did by page three of his ailments. He removed his reading glasses from his pocket and investigated the form to glean any information that might provide some clue as to his whereabouts.

His personal details had already been filled out. That gave him a feeling of unease and he looked up from the page to see all the others still scribbling down their answers. He considered asking the girl to his right—mid-teens, wavy red hair, tight blue jeans with ragged holes in the knees revealing skin as white as the walls—what she was here for. But that seemed impertinent. Who asks another waiting room occupant what they’re having checked? One simply posits a theory based on the available data: coughs, sneezes, itching, groaning, the occasional bucket for gastroenteritis. The redheaded girl gave nothing away.

He leaned ever-so-slightly to peer at her clipboard and his adjustment caused the girl to glare at him and tilt her form so he couldn’t see. Ashamed, he swallowed and said, “Sorry, I was just—”

“Huh?” the girl huffed.

“No talking, please,” a cheery woman’s voice boomed. 

Jeremy looked around. Nobody else seemed to have heard it. Or, at least nobody cared where the mysterious voice had come from. 

He whispered to the girl, “Did you hear that?”

The entire room gave Jeremy a synchronised “Shh!”

“Sorry,” he said.

“No talking, please,” the unseen woman repeated.

Jeremy thought whatever speakers they’d installed must be top of the line. The reproduction was crystal clear with an impressive response across the top and bottom with barely a trace of fuzziness through the tricky middle register. And, wherever they’d installed them, they were practically invisible. Probably those new Bang & Olufsens.

Jeremy focussed on the form once more.

Name: Jeremy Anderson

Date of Birth: 11/05/1973

Date of Arrival: 03/07/2020

Arrived with: N/A

Please advise the last thing you remember before you arrived: 

He chewed his pen, relieved that it appeared to be brand new, and recalled his last memory before appearing in the waiting room.

He wrote: I was riding my bicycle home from work.

Based on the four lines the form had provided for this answer, he wondered if that was sufficient information. He elected to come back to it if time permitted. 

The shoosh of a sliding door arrested his attention and a captivating black woman in a brilliant white suit strode into the room. She had a doll’s button nose with lips as full as ripe blood plums and was completely bald except for the two dashes of her eyebrows. Jeremy thought she might be the most beautiful creature he’d ever laid eyes on. The door shooshed closed behind her. The woman’s heels clicked and echoed through the room as she walked with graceful purpose, spun, and said, “Jeremy Anderson?”

Jeremy looked around. It was a common name and he wasn’t so presumptuous as to assume this spectacular woman was looking for him—especially considering he'd only just arrived and was yet to complete his paperwork. But no one else spoke up.

Jeremy raised his hand. “Er, I’m him—he. That is, I am he. Jeremy,” he said. “Jeremy Anderson is me.”

The woman smiled and said, “This way, please.”

Jeremy followed the woman down the corridor, passing many identical white doors which, he assumed, contained many identical waiting rooms. Ordinarily, not knowing where he was or why he was there would have been a source of great agitation but somehow he was at peace with it. There was something comforting about being led by this woman, her powerful energy and exotic features incongruous with the clinical environment. He thought her name might be Destiny or Zeus; something of that nature.

“Excuse me,” Jeremy said.

“Yes, Mr Anderson?” she replied without breaking stride.

“If you don’t mind me asking, what is your name?” Jeremy felt his face flush at this uncharacteristic brashness—he’d never been able to talk to initiate conversation with any woman besides his mother.

The woman smiled over her shoulder and he fell to pieces. “It is not a name that you would be able to pronounce, I’m afraid.”

Though her accent was familiar to him—northern Midlands, Derbyshire perhaps—he wasn’t surprised to learn she had a name from her ancestral heritage. Something with clicks in it, he guessed. “Try me,” he said, attempting a roguish grin.

The woman spun, opened her mouth, and what Jeremy could only describe as aural perfection filled his ears and his soul. He was reminded of the time his dad had first taken him to see the philharmonic orchestra: The program had begun with the string section playing a suspended G chord and his heart had ached for the resolution. Just as it did now. Jeremy was overcome with a sense of peace so profound he almost wept.

“You’re right,” he said at last, his voice breaking. “That is quite hard to say.”

“We’re here,” she said.

A door slid open. An elderly man in the regulation white suit—evidently standard-issue at this facility—walked toward him and greeted Jeremy with a warm handshake. It was surprisingly firm for his presumed age and now, at this close proximity, Jeremy could see the man’s eyes were youthful; a clear, emerald green. Jeremy sensed he would have been a real looker in his heyday. He could probably still pull without too much trouble if he was that way inclined.

“Jeremy Anderson,” the older man said, his voice a caramel baritone. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“A pleasure to meet you,” Jeremy said, conscious of his own thin voice—a weak timbre and, on account of a cauterisation procedure for frequent nosebleeds during his late-onset puberty, quite nasal.

The woman handed Jeremy’s clipboard to the older man and excused herself. Jeremy watched her leave as one farewells a departing passenger plane: waving from the terminal, invisible to everyone on board. His heart sank as he knew, somehow, that he would never see her again.

He turned at the sound of the pages of his form being flicked through. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t get a chance to finish.”

“That’s all right, Mr Anderson,” the man replied. “We have everything we need. Come, sit.”

Jeremy was led to a plush white armchair upholstered in luxuriant white velvet. A disaster in the making for someone as clumsy as him. He prayed that no one—even the beautiful woman—would not bring him tea and a biscuit.

The white-haired man took a seat on his own leather stool—backless, Jeremy noted, admiring the man’s core strength—and placed the clipboard on the glass table between them. He cupped his hands in his lap and smiled. “So, you were riding your bike home from work.”

“Ah, yes,” Jeremy said. “I’d finished my day at Audiophile and was on my way to get my dinner when I, I guess, ‘woke up’ here.”

“Audiophile is the shop in which you work, correct?”

“That’s right.”

“Speakers, stereos, that sort of thing?”

Jeremy smiled the smug little grin he made when people who thought they knew a thing or two about audio equipment assumed what he did. Like when someone, when speaking to a fine artist, might say, “Paints, brushes, that sort of thing?”

“That’s right,” he said. “Very high-end audio equipment.”

“And you were happy there?”

“Very,” Jeremy said enthusiastically. “I noticed the sound quality in the waiting room was very good. Could do with some baffling to combat the echo, but that’s tricky to get right with shiny surfaces and lots of people.”

“I’ll be sure to look into it,” the man said with a soft smile.

“Happy to help.”

“So you were riding your bike home from work and now you’re here.”

“Yes. Which is where, exactly?”

“Most people hazard a guess at this point.”

Jeremy thought for a moment, taking in his surroundings once more; considered his experience and the people he’d encountered, the ethereal nature of the staff, the purity and calmness of the whole facility. “The new international terminal at Heathrow?”

The man chuckled. “Almost,” he said. “I can see from your answer here, and from your general demeanour, that you are at peace, Jeremy. No significant unresolved issues.”

Jeremy thought about this and, though he was in an unfamiliar environment with complete strangers and hadn’t eaten anything for hours, he agreed. “Yes, I suppose I am.”

Apparently satisfied, the man smiled and said, “Mr Anderson, you’re dead.”

Jeremy frowned. “Dead?”

“Passed away, as you like to euphemistically say.”

“I kicked the bucket?”

“Carked it,” the old man confirmed. “Killed by a bus.”

Jeremy shook his head slowly, then clicked his fingers as the moment of his untimely demise occurred to him. “The bus lane. I ducked out from the line of cars at the lights,” 

“That’s right,” the man said. 

“So this is, what, heaven?”

The man shrugged, “Your kind has many names for this place. Call it what you like.”

“My kind?”

“I’m afraid we haven’t much time together, Mr Anderson. If you have any further questions after we’re finished, there are people you can talk to before you’re assigned.”

“Assigned?”

“Your next role. You might call it your promotion.”

Jeremy sat upright. “Assistant manager?”

“Your days at the stereo shop are complete, Jeremy.”

Jeremy cringed at the term ‘stereo shop’, but said, “What did you have in mind?”

“It’s not what I have in mind but whom.”

Jeremy sat with this updated information and pondered his predicament. The man must be God and the woman, his assistant, an angel. “So you’re the big guy then.”

“The big guy?”

“You know, God.”

The man chuckled. “You have no idea how often I hear that. You’re a Christian?” the man said.

“Catholic,” Jeremy said. “Non-practicing. It’s a bit of a surprise to be here if I’m honest.”

“Oh?”

“I’m sure you already know, but I have been known to borrow certain items from the new arrivals from time to time. Taking a little bit of my work home with me so to speak,” Jeremy said, hanging his head. Then added, “I have, on occasion, been partial to a little bit of, shall we say, adult reading material as well. Nothing too off-colour, just your garden variety nudy mags.”

“I’m not Santa, Mr Anderson,” the man said with a smile. “Your admittance here is not based on good deeds.”

“You’re not God?”

The man shook his head.

“And that woman,” Jeremy thumbed over his shoulder toward the invisible door. “She’s not an angel?”

“Well, that’s up to you. What did she look like?”

Jeremy frowned. “What do you mean? She was just here. I mean, she’s the most beautiful woman I have ever seen—that anyone’s ever seen I’d hazard.”

“Interesting,” said the man. “The being who escorted you here is a manifestation of your guiding companion—your soulmate as you might call it. These are the projections of your ideal life partner. Though what you see is more often than not completely unattainable.”

“Unattainable is right. But I’ve never seen her before in my life?”

“Perhaps not as one single entity you haven’t, but as individual characteristics observed over the course of your life.”

“That’s the girl of my dreams?”

“I don’t believe you have a single word for it—perhaps the German do—but that’s a rough translation.”

“And what does that make you then?”

“I am the Mentor,” he said. “I am your ambition and purpose in life. I am your projection of what you hoped to become. Those few who live their life to their complete satisfaction often see themselves sitting here before them.”

“You’re who I want to be when I grow up?” Jeremy said.

The Mentor smiled, considering his response, and said, “Eloquently put, Mr Anderson.”

“I would have looked fantastic if I hadn’t been hit by that bus.”

“Now,” said the Mentor, clasping his hands and rising from the stool. “You will be assigned to a young girl, Magdelina—”

“Oh god, you’re not reincarnating me are you?”

“Assigning you. The word you use is ‘conscience’.”

Jeremy stared blankly.

“I’ll be brief as we’re already running behind,” said the Mentor. “When a baby is born, she has no concept of right or wrong and the role those concepts play in her ability to function in the society into which she is born. As someone who has lived their life in such a society, you are equipped with knowledge that you will pass on to the child to ensure her safety, among other things. You will be the quiet voice that urges caution in the face of danger, courage when faced with doubt, integrity when faced with moral quandaries.”

“But I have none of those qualities,” said Jeremy.

“That is why the role of the Conscience is given to the imperfect, the fallible, the conflicted. To be unyielding in your pursuit for what is right is to be destined to failure and disappointment.”

“I don’t understand.”

“If your conscience had been unforgiving, to demand perfection in all facets of life, you would have wrestled with your Conscience for your entire existence. Wracked with guilt, you would have failed to take what pleasure you had in stealing those speakers.”

“Or looking at those boobs,” Jeremy said, nodding.

“Or those,” the Mentor agreed.

Jeremy smirked. “They were pretty incredible.”

“You see?” the Mentor said. “Your Conscience told you it was wrong to steal and to look at pornography, but it didn’t destroy your soul with internal turmoil for choosing against his suggestion.”

“His suggestion?” Jeremy said. “My Conscience?”

“Would you like to meet him?”

Jeremy had the feeling of being on the set of This Is Your Life and that a man in a suit was about to enter the room with a giant leather-bound book of Jeremy’s questionable moral choices. “I—I’m not sure,” he said. “Maybe after you tell me about what I’m supposed to do with Melissa.”

“Magdelina,” the Mentor corrected.

“Magdelina,” Jeremy repeated. “What a pretty name. Is she English?”

“Australian, actually.”

Jeremy flashed a melancholy smile and said, “I always wanted a baby girl.”

“She’s no baby,” the Mentor said. “She’s six.”

“Six? Isn’t a bit late to assign a Conscience?” Jeremy said, worried he was about to take ownership of a dog who hadn’t been housetrained.

“We assign them as quickly as we can, but the truth of it is babies are being born faster than we can pair them with their Conscience. We do our best but it’s not an exact science.”

“What’s stopping them making poor decisions then?”

“Very little,” the Mentor replied. “Mistakes are made from time to time. Many years ago—during your grandparents’ generation, for example—a Conscience was assigned at birth.”

“That’s why they were so much better behaved than the kids these days?”

The Mentor nodded.

“So it wasn’t rap music?” Jeremy said.

“Actually, rap music didn’t help,” said the Mentor. 

“I knew it.”

The Mentor stepped toward Jeremy and offered his hand. “Jeremy Anderson, Magdelina is waiting. It’s time for you to get to work.”

“But I have so many questions,” Jeremy said. “What am I supposed to do when, I don’t know, she needs to pee?”

“I’m…not sure I understand—”

“Do I have to, you know, close my eyes or something?”

“It’s not like that at all. You’re not sitting on her shoulder like a parrot.” The Mentor placed his hand on Jeremy’s shoulder and Jeremy was again at peace. “You will be a part of her.”

“I don’t know, sir. I just don’t think I’m cut out for this. It’s too much responsibility.”

“You are perfect, Jeremy Anderson,” the Mentor said. “For you have lived and made mistakes and paid the consequences for your actions. Who better to help Magdelina navigate her life?”

Jeremy thought about it, unconvinced, and sighed. “If you say so.” He stood and shook the Mentor’s hand. “At least I can point her towards the right setup for her surround sound.”

The Mentor smiled and gently guided him to the doorway where the beautiful woman stood with a teenage boy.

“Magdelina?” Jeremy said, confused. Who could keep up with these gender-fluid kids nowadays.

“Joe,” said the kid with a broad, crooked smile. “I’m your Conscience, mate.”

“Jesus Christ,” said Jeremy. “That explains a lot.”