Excuse Me, I'd Like to Speak to A Manager About This Incarnation
A call to the afterlife's complaints department
♥️ Please take a second to heart this post. Every click helps more people discover my work, improving my chance of rerouting my writing life onto a road with fewer potholes. ♥️
The Bardo, an undisclosed number of years ago.
‘Hello. I’ve come for a life, please.’
Derek — for that’s the name on his friendly-fonted name badge — looks up from his paperwork.
‘A human life?’
‘Yes, a human life.’
He surveys me quizzically. When I say me, I mean the holographic shimmer of my last incarnation, fixed at my chosen age of 36.
‘You’re sure. You wouldn’t want to be, say, a horse? Much loved, empathic, powerful, gallops around fields in the sunshine.’
‘Isn’t there a risk I’d be ridden?’
‘Fair.’ He snaps his fingers and a piece of paper appears between them. He scans for a moment. ‘It says here you like swimming and you’re irritated by the lack of gender equality.’
‘The 16th century is ridiculous. They’re still debating whether women have souls.’
‘Well humans have all this “society” nonsense, you know. That’s why I’m asking if you’ve considered other options. Have a rest from it all. What about seahorse? The male does the pregnancy and childcare. Pick female and you can just float around looking lovely.’
‘Swimming is great, but not as a full-time job. As for “float around looking lovely,” is that a meaningful existence? I was thinking something less likely to be gobbled up by a crab or smashed against coral in rough seas. Something with more agency.’
‘A handsome Sumatran tiger?’
‘Too endangered.’
‘A chimpanzee?’
‘If I’m going for primate, I might as well go for most evolved, you know?’
‘Bonobo?’
‘No, human. Come on. Come on. Give me another go. I promise I won’t kill anyone this time.’
‘Alright, alright.’
He manifests a manila folder and starts shuffling through it.
‘How about this? A scientific couple in England, both of them brainy, good-looking, and musical. High school sweethearts who met in the Madrigal group. They have everything going for them. Twin boys already, so you wouldn’t have the burden of being the eldest. You’d pretty much be left to do your own thing. The last generation of free-roaming children.’
‘What year?’
‘It’s the dawn of the Space Age. Your future father is working on ceramic components for rocket engines.’
‘Ooh. That sounds rather cool! So, “It IS rocket science”!’
‘You bet!’
‘How’s equality going?’
‘Not great right now, but by the time you’re twenty, vastly improved and by the time you’re thirty-six — your favoured age, right? — the UK will be pretty much there on all fronts: gender, race, sexuality, disability…’
‘What’s the catch?’
‘Oh, you know.’ He scratches the place where his ear used to be. ‘The usual human stuff.’
‘Want to be more specific?’
‘You know how it gets a bit messy when every member of a species has agency, language, and advanced tool use. Plus this equality you’re so keen on…’
‘What?’
‘Well, it’s going to mess up your life. Just a little bit.’
‘In what way?’
‘For a start, your mother’s going to hear about Women’s Lib.’
‘And?’
‘She’s going to want some for herself. Liberation.’
‘And that’s good, right?’
‘Of course, of course. We’ll all be very happy for her when she stops crying herself to sleep.’
‘But?’
‘Sorry, that’s as much as I can tell you.’
‘Really.’
‘Spoilers. But it’s a ride.’ The look he gives me burrows into my joy like a worm.
Do I really want a ride? Is it only that the Bardo wears a little thin after a while? For a while after transition, the people who loved you and miss you bring you to mind, and you get to taste life through their eyes, ears and tongues, and whisper to them in their sleep. Then one by one, they re-emerge by your side. It’s joyful to see them. But soon there’s no one on Earth to summon you to their senses.
And sure, a human life is the bumpiest of roads, and I’ve never known a smooth one. But that’s what you sign up for. Expansion. And isn’t a little pain worth the pleasures that a human life affords? I’d do anything to lie in a meadow in June watching clouds dissolve into blue at their edges, cool grass against my back, the thready melody of a skylark high above me. Anything to taste strawberries and cream again, with a sprinkling of sugar.
‘That’s great,’ I say. ‘It’s a ride I’m after.’
‘Alright,’ he says, shuffling his papers. ‘If you’re sure.’
Something about his tone makes me nervous.
‘I mean, unless there’s another human life in your file there that’s a little easier.’
‘This is the only available slot that suits your growth goals. Take it or leave it. Or, you know. Take the tiger gig. Work out some of your anger issues.’
‘No, it’s okay. Oh, listen, can I be a writer again? I like being a writer.’
‘Of course. You’ll be born one. Know it to your bones.’
‘Excellent.’
He hands me the statutory disclaimer. I sign it.
Monday, this week.
‘Hello. Bardo customer service?’
The line is quiet for a while. Then I hear, in my own voice,
‘Yes?’
‘Is that — Derek?’
‘It is.’ My eyelids tingle, then twitch rhythmically: Derek’s version of two-factor authentication.
‘Listen, Derek, I’m not sure this is the life I ordered.’
‘Really?’
‘I mean, didn’t we discuss my passion for equality? You said things would get a lot better.’
‘And they did, didn’t they. By the time you were thirty-six—’
‘Yes, lots of progress, but now we’ve gone backwards. Massively, rise-of-the-far-right backwards.’
‘Indeed.’
‘And I thought I was guaranteed to be a writer.’
‘Well, you are. You’ve got a poem on the UK exam syllabus, you’ve won prizes, your debut novel was a huge critical success and —’
‘and now the market’s collapsed, and unless you’re on TV, publishers only want thirty-year-old romantasy writers with half a million TikTok followers.’
‘Have you thought of self-publishing?’
‘Jeez, Derek, not you too.’
Derek laughs. ‘Just joshing. But you know, if you will insist on caring about language at the sentence level and not slotting into genres and tropes and beats, what do you expect?’
‘But I wanted to be a writer of — you know, thoughtful stuff. Books that stay with the reader for years after they’ve read them. Now the only thing that matters to publishers is your ability to create viral ten-second videos.’
‘I never guaranteed the future environment. Just the one you were born into. I warned you it was going to be a ride.’
‘So — I wondered if I could still return it. This life. Swap it for a different one. One a bit more in line with my goals.’
My big toe vibrates a little. A surge of energy, as though extra team members have joined the call.
‘Your growth is completely in line with your goals. Exceptional actually. From where you started, we’re all very impressed. You’ve exceeded expectations.’
‘But I’m crashing out here, Derek. On the physical side. I’m really not where I thought I’d be, after all this time. So, as I say, if I could return this life, and get one with a little more …’ — I’m fishing around, but I’m going to have to use the obvious, embarrassing word — ‘… success.’
A second of silence suggests Derek is reaching for diplomacy.
‘This life you’d like to return…’
In the gap he leaves, you could plant a rose bush.
‘Yes?’
A couple of rose bushes. Finally, the words arrive, curled at the edges by a poorly-suppressed smile.
‘It’s little used, isn’t it? Our no-quibble 90-day return policy is very generous, and we can stretch it if there’s a manufacturing defect, but — I hope you won’t mind me saying — you’ve left it rather late.’
‘I don’t think that’s exactly fair. It’s taken me this many years to learn to meditate and get a clear connection.’
‘You still had your invisible friend until you were six. He was your direct line.’
‘I was still happy when I was six! I thought I’d be rich and famous by the time I was thirty.’
‘Children are wonderful, aren’t they? Such dreamers! Such delightful bundles of misgivings and innocence.’
‘Listen—’
Derek laughs, not unkindly. ‘This is the ride!’ he says. ‘This is what you signed up for.’
‘Setting up an Etsy shop to make ends meet?’
‘Of course! Why not! What resilience! What an inspiration you can be to others. How to live a creative life by branching out into mugs and T-shirts. Adapt and survive! It’s glorious!’
‘Hmmm…’
‘And when you’re dead, what an obituary! It’s like you lived six or seven lives already, and here’s another one! Virtual shopkeeper.’
‘Plus, I’m in a lot of pain. My shoulder’s buggered.’
‘I’m sorry, but that’s what happens when you take an old model like yours and fill your joints with repressed rage.’
‘Repressed rage?’
‘About your writing career. About the rise of short-form video and the collapse of literary fiction.’
‘Ah.’
‘Let it go, that’s my advice.’
‘Look, can I speak to your manager?’
‘I’m afraid she’s really busy right now. There’s a lot to coordinate. Seeding brilliant ideas to combat climate change, the rise of misogyny, racism, homophobia, violence—’
‘Yes, I understand, but—’
‘I’m hanging up now. We’ll send some more ideas through for the shop. Did you like the ones we sent already? There are dozens in the pipeline.’
‘Derek—’
The meditation timer trills; the connection drops.
Damn.
Well, if you like pithy or quirky words on T-shirts and mugs, my shop’s here. And yes, I finally got around to creating several versions of the T-shirt I promised in November ‘24. I stand by my words.
Fear not. The otters are coming.
The inspiration, unlocked from the archive:
An Otterly New Approach to Life
The quest was simple: find a life of stability doing what you love. The route wasn’t easy, but with dedication, you made your way: writing, submitting, dealing with rejection, and t…
A reader asked me this week why they haven’t received any free chapters of the novel since late May. I guess some of you missed the memo! I get a chunk of unsubscribes from my ‘free list’ each time I post, so twice a week was sending me further away from the 10,000 subscribers that publishers want to see. Thus, free subscribers get the link to your weekly chapter at the bottom of Friday posts. Do read as soon as you can, because they get locked down after 5 weeks.
Read Why I Stole Your Life, the “Booker-worthy” fictional autobiography of the real-life soldier and pirate Mary Read
Three years after moving in with Mrs Read under the pretence of being her grandson, Mary has gained an education. But no amount of wealth or education can save Mary and Mrs Read from calamity.
This is brilliant, Ros!
I think we must be a similar age as I do feel like there was a point in my late thirties where everything was just the peak of things getting better and better, then it just curved downwards, went sour and now is just awful.
We still have our voices though, and things will change again. 🙏🏻✨
don't it always seem to seem
like we otter be somewhere else?