Ryan Boudinot - Blueprints of the Afterlife

“I thought you’d be hungry,” the Ambassador said as his famished guest attacked the food. “Any day now,” the Ambassador continued, “the delegation will arrive. I have prepared thirteen years for the delegation, studying the lifeworks of the world’s great diplomats. I am uniquely positioned to represent the interests of humanity to our otherworldly visitors.”

Woo-jin had heard the Ambassador’s spiel before, mostly on the corner of 12th and Vale Street, but he nodded politely, with asparagus hanging from his mouth, as though hearing it for the first time. He’d used the guy’s soap and was eating his food, after all. Pretending interest was the least he could do.

“At one time I was without direction, without purpose, see? Convinced the universe was a mad game of entropy and meaninglessness. I looked upon the pursuits of office workers and engineers as trivial or worse. I saw them as despicable drones manufacturing the methods of their own suffering. Oh, I was among them, making my money, driving my fancy car, with season tickets to all the sports teams and bar tabs at the finest brasseries, what have you. I was going crazy in the stew of my own success and self-loathing, drowning in another man’s vision, rewarded beyond my imaginings. I was hollowed out and no matter how much money I threw into the void of my sadness I couldn’t fill it. I treated women like disposable Bic lighters. I failed to communicate my emotional life in any way. And then one night I took too much cold medication and went out onto the balcony of my condominium. I looked upon the Seattle skyline, brilliant and glittering like a jewelry box beneath a full moon.”

“Here comes the good part,” Woo-jin said to the camera, raising his glass of sparkling water.

“Indeed. For when I looked up into the sky above Queen Anne Hill I discovered a gigantic celestial head gazing down upon me. The next day I would call the customer-service line of the cold medication company and ask whether giant celestial heads were a known side effect of their medicine. As it turns out, they were not. The celestial head had a large forehead, brown hair, a square jaw, and intense eyes. Some blackheads on the nose. Caucasian fellow. He looked down upon me and affirmed his reality by asking me to get a pen and paper. Numb, I did as I was instructed. ‘Okay,’ the celestial head said, ‘I want you to write down a couple things. First, the Mariners will lose tomorrow to the Oakland A’s, 3–2, with closing pitcher Cody Montero walking in the winning run. Shortstop Vic Garbler will get a hammie in the sixth with runners on first and third and two outs. Once these two events are confirmed, you will have the confidence to know that I speak the truth, and that you really need to do what I say. You will resign from your job, effective immediately, and submit to the purposes I design for you. From now on you will be known as the Ambassador. You will take all your money out of your 401(k) and invest it in a company called Argus Industries. They’ll announce their IPO next quarter. Pour as much money as possible into this company. Wait a year. After the stock splits three ways and hits $179 a share, sell. With your profits, buy a house in Georgetown on Orcas Street and make sure it is immaculately maintained and staffed. There you will live and wait for further word on how you should fulfill your duties. You have been assigned the incredible responsibility of greeting a special interplanetary delegation. Don’t fuck this up.’ And with that, the celestial head disappeared behind some cumulus clouds. The next day, the celestial head’s prophecies came true. The Mariners lost in the manner described. I was in a bar when it happened, staring up at the TV, confirming what I had written down.”

“So did you quit your job on the spot?”

“No, I did not. The following night as I was watching a rerun of Stella Artaud I heard a voice coming from the direction of my balcony, calling my name. I went out to find the celestial head frowning at me. ‘How come you didn’t quit your job like I said?’ it scowled. I replied, ‘How do I know you’re real?’ The head rolled its gigantic eyes and said, ‘Look, you need more proof? Adventronics’ stock is going to go through the roof tomorrow. Call your broker first thing and buy as many shares as you can, then sell in the afternoon for an over 200 percent profit. I’m not yanking your chain. And once this occurs I expect you to devote yourself to your duties as my ambassador.’

“So the following morning I did as instructed, and made a killing that day trading the stock of a company that made electronic Advent calendars. I do believe I made over $90,000. And yet I still didn’t have the heart to quit my job. That night as I lay in bed, drifting to sleep, I was jolted awake by the celestial head screaming my name. I hurried to the balcony in my pajamas and gazed up to find the face red with rage. ‘So you take my advice when you can pocket a fortune, but you still don’t have the balls to devote yourself to the responsibilities of an ambassador. I’m starting to wonder if I picked the wrong guy altogether.’ And with that, the head spat at me, a gigantic volume of garlic-scented saliva that coated me completely and took over an hour to shower off.

“That night I drafted my resignation letter and began getting my finances in order. I also settled upon the design of my scepter, constructed of a toilet brush symbolizing cleanliness through abrasive methods, and a plunger handle to symbolize getting situations unstuck and moving.

“I looked in amazement at all I had written down. The next day I purchased and staffed this embassy. And now I await further instructions.”

Woo-jin said, “Do you know where I could catch a bus to get to Il Italian Joint? My shift starts soon.”

The Ambassador rose grunting from his chair. “I’ll have my driver transport you. Pierre!”

Pierre appeared: short guy, pasty complexion, snappy outfit. He looked like someone who’d been convinced erroneously that he was a chauffeur when he was actually hired to kind of pretend to be one. He bowed deeply and waved his gloved hand in the direction of the front door. Woo-jin thanked his host for the shower and the new clothes and the food. He ached to get back to the steam and suds of his wash station.

After a short ride in a comedian’s idea of a limousine, Woo-jin was dumped in front of Il Italian Joint. The place was packed with drunken idiots and their significant others spilling food all over the floor, screaming at the waitstaff, sending entrées back to the kitchen, and selecting the most cloying, earwormy tunes from the juke. Sandford Deane wore a tux with tie askew, disheveled hair, eyes looking like they’d recently shed tears. Woo-jin was early and Sandford accepted this turn of events with biblical-quality gratitude. “Oh thank you dear God, we need you in the kitchen asap, Woo-jin. Our savior!” Sandford clung to the champion dishwasher’s shoulders for a moment like he was hanging on to a piece of buoyant jetsam in the midst of a hurricane. “By the way, I have a special treat for you.” Sandford reached into his tux jacket and withdrew something fuzzy and shiny. “It’s the diamond-encrusted steel wool you requested. I had it flown in from Berlin.”

“Excellent!” Woo-jin said, bursting into the kitchen where the dishes were piled literally to the ceiling. Pontoon, Bahn Kan, and Ben O’Winn has started removing ceiling tiles to make room for the growing mound. Upon entering the kitchen the harried sauciers and waitresses paused a moment then erupted in cheers. Sally called out, “Mike! You’re just in time!” The three dishwashers who’d so thoroughly proved their incompetence hugged one another and buried their heads in each other’s shoulders with relieved weeping. Woo-jin cartwheeled past the fry station, popped into a midair somersault, and landed with scissoring double splits in front of the wash station. It pretty much helped the whole look of the performance that he was wearing a tracksuit embroidered with the words “Official Delegate.”