The Postmortal Read online

  “Okay,” I confessed. “You got me. I don’t want to die. I’m terrified of death. I fear there’s nothing beyond it and that this existence is the only one I’ll ever possess. That’s why I’m here.”

  He patted my leg to give me reassurance. “That’s why they’re all here. Even the ones that believe in heaven and seventy-two virgins and every other good thing supposedly waiting for them in the afterlife. But again, this is no cure for death, even if everyone is calling it that. It’s merely a cure for aging. In fact, if Malthus’s theory is right, you certainly will die. It may be a hundred years from now. It may be ten thousand years from now. But it will happen. And not in a pleasant fashion, mind you. What this cure guarantees is that you will never die a natural, peaceful death. And you’re going to have to spend the next two weeks asking yourself if it’s worth all those extra years of knowing that your demise will inevitably come at the hands of disease, starvation, or a bullet.”

  I immediately pictured myself being gunned down in an alleyway, a smoking revolver barrel the last thing my eyes ever have a chance to focus on. Then the sliding door in my brain shifted and I was eighty-five years old on my deathbed, fat nurses sponging off my rotting skin.

  “I don’t think most people die natural, peaceful deaths,” I said. “All the loved ones I’ve seen die have been sick, frail, and helpless. Undergoing chemo. Lying in hospitals. Soiling their beds. Two of my grandparents died alone, with no one to talk to. I don’t think natural death offers much in the way of gentle relief. I think it’s a slow, wrenching thing I’d like to try to get far, far away from.”

  “Okay.”

  He stood up and gestured to me to do the same.

  “How many of your patients have come back after two weeks and decided they didn’t want the cure?”

  “Oh, I think you already know the answer to that. Come on. We’ll take your blood in my lab.”

  He walked me over to the apartment’s open kitchen. The cupboards and drawers were all white, painted ages ago and in a sloppy fashion, with big streaks of dripping paint frozen and hardened in place. Inside the cabinets, where you normally would see dishes, glasses, and assorted sundries, were medical supplies: swabs, gauze, syringes, scalpels, tongue depressors, etc. I marveled at the lack of food or items to help prepare it. He quickly got out everything he needed to extract the blood and slapped a tourniquet onto my arm.

  “What do you do if you want to eat here?” I asked him.

  “I never eat here. Tell me, what do you do for a living?”

  “I’m a lawyer.”

  “Oh dear. Another lawyer? I should put a moratorium on you folks. Last thing we need are a bunch of godforsaken lawyers hanging around forever. Here comes the needle.”

  He pulled my arm toward him, gave a firm slap to the underside of my elbow, and drew one large vial of my blood. I’d never stopped to consider my own blood before. I’d only really thought of it as the fluid that occasionally seeps out of my body, causing me great alarm. Nothing deeper than that. Now I stared at the blood filling the vial, and it was that deep, rich, unmistakable red, the kind of red they try to reproduce in paint and in lipstick but can never quite match. It looked vital, as if it had its own pulse. Active. Alive. If all went according to plan, I thought, it would soon return to me even more so.

  “Let me ask you something, Doc.”

  “Of course.”

  “What’s your normal practice? What’s your doctor day job?”

  “Orthopedics.”

  “Ah.”

  “I almost went into plastic surgery, but I didn’t. Thank goodness. Those guys will be doing nothing but sucking out fat from now on.”

  “So you run a successful practice, yes? I assume you make a nice living just through your day job.”

  “That I do.”

  “Then why do this? Why do more than what you need to do? Why risk losing your license to practice medicine by giving this out? Hell, you’re risking your life. What’s the benefit for you, besides making extra money you really don’t need?”

  He grinned. “Well, John, with this cure I have the power to grant anyone the ability to live thousands of years—possibly forever. Let’s just say that it appeals to my curiosity.”

  He bandaged me up.

  “This won’t cause me to sprout fangs and sleep in a coffin, will it?”

  “No, that’s a different gene. Would you like me to alter that one?”

  “No, no thank you.”

  “Well, you’re all set. I have you in the books for the same time two weeks from now. Don’t bother calling to confirm. Just show up with your money—no denominations higher than fifty dollars, please. I’ll be here.”

  (Note: the total cost was seven thousand dollars. Not bad.)

  I walked to the door. Four million more questions flooded into my brain. I felt the urge to ask all of them simultaneously. Instead, I offered only one.

  “One last thing.”

  “Sure,” he said.

  “Have you given it to yourself?”

  “Of course I have.”

  “But you’re over thirty-five.”

  He shrugged. “Oh well. I’ll live. I’ll see you in two weeks, John.”

  A cursory wave goodbye and the door shut behind him. I walked back out into the street. A massive thunderstorm had come and gone while I was getting my blood drawn, and as I walked out, all that remained in the sky was that odd, sickly glow that happens when a thunderstorm clears out at summer twilight. It’s an unsettling kind of light. Almost puce colored, as if the sky hasn’t been feeling well. I was stuck between the violent darkness of the storm and the last flickering embers of daylight.

  I rushed home. And now here I am, a day later, comfortably seated in immortality’s waiting room.

  DATE MODIFIED:

  6/7/2019, 8:47 A.M.

  “Death is the only thing keeping us in line”

  I know it’s mere coincidence, and yet I find it discomforting that the pope would officially come out and damn all postmortals to hell right in the middle of my mandatory deliberation period. This article posted ten minutes ago:

  Vatican Threatens Cure Seekers with Excommunication

  By Wyatt Dearborn

  BUDAPEST (AP)—The pope today issued his strongest condemnation yet of the so-called cure for death, officially codifying it as a sin and promising to excommunicate permanently from the Roman Catholic Church anyone found to have received it, including priests.

  Still on his weeklong goodwill tour of eastern Europe, the pontiff purposely chose to deliver his edict in the city of Budapest. Hungary is one of only four industrialized nations, including Russia, Brazil, and the Netherlands, that have officially legalized the cure.

  “This cure is an affront to the Lord and His work,” the pontiff told a crowd of nearly seventy-five thousand at Puskás Ferenc Stadium. “But more than that, it is an affront to our fellow man. What responsibility will we feel compelled to bear for one another if we know we can eternally put off facing the Lord’s judgment? Death is what makes us humble before God—knowing that our lives will come to an end and that when that end arrives we will be forced to answer for them. If we answer not to Him, to whom do we answer? Death is the only thing keeping us in line.”

  The pope then went on to issue this warning: “You cannot avoid God’s judgment. Not even if you live for another hundred thousand years. This planet and the sun that keeps it alight are all fleeting. There is no ‘forever’ down here and to believe so is a blasphemy. That’s why, from this point forward, the Vatican officially condemns the taking of the cure as a sin and an excommunicable, unforgivable offense.”

  The pope’s words were met mostly with silent reverence from the crowd. But thousands protested outside the stadium, nearly all of them in their teens and twenties.

  “The pope hasn’t condemned us,” countered Sasha Delvic, a twenty-three-year-old student. “It’s his church he’s just condemned—to a life of obscurity. How can he expect the people
of his faith to accept dying while everyone else out there goes on being happy and healthy? It’s insane. He’ll lose constituents by the millions.

  “No one should listen to him,” she added. “He’s just a stupid old man.”

  It is believed the pope chose to deliver his address in Budapest as an attempt to pressure the Hungarian government to begin drafting anti-cure legislation. But thus far, here in one of the youngest countries on the planet according to median age, very few government officials appear willing to speak out in favor of doing so.

  When I was a kid, I saw religion as insurance against death. It’s what the preachers on TV used to say. You’re better off believing in God, they’d warn you, just in case. Because you’d hate to arrive at the gates of heaven a nonbeliever and find out the Christians had been right all along. It was a pretty ingenious line of thinking. It almost made me want to go to church. Not enough to actually go, but still.

  I wonder if we’ve completely flipped the script on that now. I wonder if the cure represents insurance against religion. Because what if the pope is wrong? If I forgo the cure and end up dying at seventy to please a Lord who turns out to not exist, I’m gonna feel like a real jackass. Isn’t it better to live an extra thousand years or so, just in case?

  I guess I’ll find out at some point. Some very, very distant point. Twelve more days till the cure.

  DATE MODIFIED:

  6/8/2019, 7:05 P.M.

  “I’m always gonna get my period”

  Until the other night, I hadn’t told anyone that I’m in the middle of getting the cure. I didn’t tell my dad or my sister or anyone at work—didn’t consult them either. They don’t know I’ve done it, and I sure as hell don’t know if they have. I didn’t even tell the banker friend who gave me the address. For one thing, I haven’t finished the process yet, so I’d feel a bit foolish telling everyone that I’m about to live forever, only to find out a week from now that my doctor has been caught and thrown in Rikers.

  But more to the point, I have yet to meet a single person who has publicly admitted it. I think we’ve all collectively adopted the unspoken rule that you don’t mention it out in the open. Like getting a nose job. Every discussion I’ve had about it has been conducted strictly in hypothetical terms. “Would you get it?” “What if it were legal? Would you get it then?” “Would you fly to Brazil and do it? I heard about a bunch of people at work who are taking sudden ‘vacations’ to Rio.” Stuff like that. But no one has ever said to me, “Yes, I got it”—which is just so weird. Clearly, people are going to get it. If a random person like me can go and have it done, I have to assume that I’m not alone. But I suppose there’s just too much uncertainty right now to go around parading the fact.

  Anyway, I was more than happy to keep all this to myself. But Katy got it out of me. She’s an interrogator, my roommate. Aggressively interested in other people. Present her with wine, and she’ll pepper you with questions until you feel as if you’re under a hot lamp. She delights in extracting key information from you and then playing with it—stretching it out and bouncing it against the walls until she grows bored with it.

  We were sitting in our apartment, watching the news. They were doing their nightly cure story, and Katy turned to me, clear out of the blue. She was squinting one eye.

  “Did you get it?”

  “What? No.”

  “Oh my God,” she said. “You are the absolute worst liar ever.”

  “I’m not lying.”

  “You fell dead silent when that report came on just now. Don’t try to hide it. I have excellent cure-dar.”

  “Cure-dar?”

  “Uh-huh. Remember when I said Jesse Padgett had it done? She totally did. You could tell because she’d clam right up whenever the subject was mentioned. Just like you did there. You should look in the mirror. Your face is so red right now. You look like a giant tomato.”

  “Aw, Jesus.”

  “You did it! You did it! You did it! I can’t believe this. You slippery bastard!”

  She got the confession in record time and beamed in delight at the accomplishment. Her eyes bugged and she smiled proudly. She has a snaggletooth and loves to flaunt it as a distinguishing feature.

  “Don’t go broadcasting this all over the place, all right?”

  “Oh, I won’t tell anyone,” she said. “I promise you that. But you’re gonna tell me everything.”

  “They haven’t even finished yet.”

  “They haven’t finished? What do they do to you? Tell me, tell me, tell me. I heard you get sixty shots, all in the armpit.”

  “No. They just took my blood, and then a week from now they give me three shots. That’s it.”

  “That’s it? Holy underwear. What did it cost?”

  “Seven thousand bucks.”

  “Seven grand?”

  “Shh!”

  “That’s nothing! That’s less than nothing! I once expensed a tab at Lusardi’s that was bigger than that! You have to tell me how to do it.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Oh, bullshit.”

  “This doctor will only take direct referrals from a small circle of people he knows, and one of them happens to be a guy I know. No extra degrees of separation beyond that. It’s like a drug dealer, I swear.”

  “So just give me your guy’s name and I’ll say I know him.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Oh, please. Who made you guardian of the fountain? What—is this like your little boys’ club? Do you all go get the cure and then take a naked swim together? Is that it?”

  “I just don’t want to get anyone in trouble. They asked me not to refer anyone.”

  “This is so unfair. Who’s the guy you know? Is it Schilling? I bet it’s Schilling.”

  “No . . .”

  Another crooked, triumphant grin. “It is! This is amazing. I don’t even need a polygraph. All I have to do is ask you a question and wait for your head to blow up.”

  “Regardless, you still need the address and phone number.”

  “Well, why hold it back? Honestly. Give me one good reason, apart from your little pinky swear not to, why I don’t deserve the information and you do. I’ve never known you to be timid about anything. But I ask you about this and you turn into a mute. Come on. Don’t be so annoying. It’s not like people won’t find out at some point that you’ve had it done. In fact, judging by how quickly I found out, the whole city should know by morning.”

  “Okay. Fine. I will give you all the information. After I’ve gotten the final shots a week from now. And you have to pay the cable bill for six months.”

  “What?”

  “Referral fee,” I said. “It’s only fair.”

  “You’re such a goddamn lawyer.”

  “Those are the terms. We have a deal?”

  “We do. I can’t believe you found it. Oh, I love you! Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you! Yes! You know, I’ve been trying to find a curist for months now. I am so relieved. This is gonna be incredible. Except . . . You’re sure this guy’s legit, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Because you know about all the bogus ones out there, right? How do you know this guy isn’t gonna inject you with Cascade? Remember the lady in Queens who had that done to her last week?”

  “I’m certain it won’t be Cascade. For one thing, this doctor has no dishes to wash.”

  “Okay, then I’ll wait until you get your shots. And if you don’t drop dead on the spot, I’m definitely calling him. I am so excited! I’m gonna be twenty-seven forever! And I don’t have to go to São Paulo to do it!”

  She sprung up and rushed to the kitchen, then froze halfway there.

  “Oh, Christ,” she said. “Do you know what I just realized? I’m always gonna get my period. That sucks.”

  “Seems like a minor sticking point.”

  “We could be roommates forever too. Do you want to sign a hundred-year lease ?”

  “No.”

  “Your lo
ss, because I am gonna party my ass off until the year 5000!”

  Then she poured a glass of Shiraz to the brim and danced on the sofa.

  DATE MODIFIED:

  6/13/2019, 10:02 A.M.

  “Cake-batter mixes are one of the great food innovations of the past sixty years”

  That’s the kind of thing you hear when you talk to my dad for any considerable length of time. I don’t want to say he goes off on tangents, because that would suggest that he has a main topic from which to deviate. I enjoy his company because he never answers any question with the phrase “I don’t know.” He either knows or he’ll talk out his ass until he’s convinced you he knows. It’s a skill I’ve yet to master.

  I’m due to get the cure finished off on Monday. I should be all excited at the prospect of beginning the rest of my indefinitely elongated life, but I’ve found myself increasingly impatient as I grow closer. All I’ve done the past few days is calculate population figures and think about death—mine and anyone else’s. I don’t enjoy thinking about death, which is one of the reasons I wanted the cure in the first place. Now, I seem to be obsessing over it. The irony of it all is infuriating.

  All this ruminating and provocation was beginning to feel like a vise on my head. I was getting sick of endlessly talking about it with myself. I needed an outlet. Someone besides Katy. Any time I bring up the cure with her, she screams out in ecstasy and packs a bowl. She’s got a fabulous attitude about the whole thing, but I needed to go a bit deeper. Besides, I was already visiting my dad for the weekend, and I would have burst like a grape if I didn’t fess up.