The Punchline

Caleb Sarvis

You say, What did Death do?

Death did three things. It wiped my memory of before, though it preserved my sense of self. It dropped me off in front of a set of swinging doors that read SAL and OON respectively. It dressed me in a tailored suit, three pieces, a raven’s sort of black that might’ve been purple if you were desperate enough. 

The Boy says, Where did the doors lead?

A saloon, which surprised me. I was never one to take things at face value — at least, the sense of self Death had retained for me informed that impression. The doors swung slowly, as if the atmosphere were gelatin. Since I was now dead, and I understood this, I stepped through, saw an empty bar, and took a seat.

You say, Was anyone else in the saloon?

Not at first. The swinging doors fused shut behind me. The saloon appeared to be composed of two rooms. Across from the bar was a small stage and a single microphone. To the left of that was an opening into another room, where a large round table took up most of the space. A chandelier hung above the table and a turtle shell was used as a centerpiece. 

The Girl says, What did you do first?

I drummed the bar with my knuckles and waited for someone to take my order. 

You say, What was your order?

I was easy. Old fashioned. Though, I would’ve preferred Basil Hayden on a rock. I was a heavy pour, for no other reason than I liked a big ice cube and I found pleasure in the liquor resting at even height of the rock. 

The Boy says, How long did it take for someone to join you?

Hard to say. What is time in the afterlife?

The Girl says, What did the bartender look like?

She was a worn woman, thin because she was malnourished, and her hair was thick in a way to make her look like a sapling.

The Boy says, Did she have a name?

Sapling.

You say, Did Sapling say anything to you?

She said: You’re a little early. The doctors don’t arrive for a few eons. There are six of them: Dr. P; Dr. Q; Dr. S; Dr. T; Dr. N; and Dr. Cowabunga. They meet at the round table and discuss the meaning of the Door. The Door is against the wall nearest the round table. It’s a permanent exit. You may open it, others have. You may choose not to, though no one stays here forever — even the doctors will pass through eventually. There used to be a Dr. C but he exited rather quickly, uninterested in asking questions, let alone discussion. The important thing to know is once someone passes through, there’s no returning to the saloon. The doctors will have plenty to say about why you should or should not open the Door. Their reasoning is limited to their own speculation, their own philosophical appetites, but in the end, nothing matters other than your sense of when.

The Girl says, What’s on the other side of the Door?

Only those who pass through have that answer.

You say, Did you talk to the doctors?

Eventually. They arrived later, after the NASCAR man romanced Sapling.

The Boy says, Who’s the NASCAR man?

He was a slim man who wore a NASCAR helmet over his head. The visor was reflective, shielding us from his eyes and watercoloring our perceptions of ourselves. Sapling was surprised to see him — much more than she had been to greet me — because while I was early, he wasn’t scheduled to appear at all.

The Girl says, What does a schedule have to do with it?

I meant to ask that myself, but the NASCAR man was quick to romance Sapling. He focused his visor on her, tilting his head this way and that as she meandered behind the bar. If I were still alive, I’d have felt uncomfortable, something of a third wheel, but I was content to watch it all unfold since I had nowhere else to be. Eventually, Sapling asked the NASCAR man to lift his visor so she could get a look at him, but the NASCAR man refused. 

The Boy says, What does romance mean?

It means he wanted to engage in love-adjacent shenanigans with Sapling. Sometimes that meant possession. Sometimes it meant mutual recognition. Sometimes it meant submission. Romance was a word people used to soften biochemical warfare.

You say, Was the NASCAR man successful?

He was successful in that he captured Sapling’s attention. My drinks arrived in eras, and in between servings, the NASCAR man managed to inspire violence from Sapling.

The Girl says, Violence?

Yes. Sapling slapped the sides of his helmet hoping he would speak. She demanded to know what he wanted, why he had joined us in the saloon, and how he intended to leave, since one opening was an entrance, the other an exit, and he couldn’t possibly know what awaited him on the other side of the Door.

The Boy says, What did he want?

The NASCAR man did not respond with words. He wiped his visor with a cocktail napkin, then he rested his elbows on the bar, pressed his hands together, and prayed.

You say, How do you know it was prayer?

Because Sapling said: We’ll see what Mr. D has to say about this.

You say, Who is Mr. D?

Owner of the saloon, supposedly.

The Girl says, What is prayer?

Nothing to us, but everything to some. The NASCAR man was one of the some, it seemed, and he stayed like that for close to eternity. I was ready for another drink, a worsening thirst gripping me tight around the throat, but I couldn’t get Sapling’s attention. She was transfixed, perhaps hypnotized, and when I tried to reach across the bar myself, a warm, invisible force propelled me back to my stool.

The Boy says, Did the force hurt you?

No. There was no pain in the saloon, only thirst.

The Girl says, Did Mr. D come get the NASCAR man?

I waited for that to happen, so I could get another drink, and a soft hand patted me on the shoulder. It was not Mr. D — it was one of the doctors. She invited me to join them at the round table to discuss the Door. She said they needed fresh ears to weigh the merits of their arguments for passing through the Door or not. She asked if I held any philosophical allegiances.

You say, What did you believe, anyway?

I was never wholly committed to one belief, except that I thought answers were a fiction. I’m comfortable without meaning and humble enough to accept we may never know the Truth. Therefore, any school of thought or congregation of spirit that sold themselves as a means to an answer — or, even the answer themselves — was always suspicious to me. But I liked the idea of rhetorical pursuits, of open-ended musings, so I accepted the doctor’s invitation to join them.

The Boy says, What happened to the NASCAR man?

He remained steeped in prayer and Sapling remained imprisoned by those prayers as I stepped away from the bar. I briefly considered my responsibility in the matter, determined I shared none, and stepped into the room with the roundtable. Then I saw the Door.

The Girl says, What’s so special about a door?

Doors open. Doors transport. Doors are opportunities, of course.

You say, The doctors.

There were six of them, just as Sapling said, and they all looked the same: bald, frail, androgynous people clad in different color robes with their initials stitched to their chest like varsity athletes. Dr. P in pink; Dr. Q in red; Dr. S in silver; Dr. T in teal; Dr. N in blue; and Dr. Cowabunga in a sunrise gold. She was the one who invited me to join.

You say, What did they say?

Dr. Cowabunga gave a preamble about coming to order and explaining — to me, but also the doctors — that each of them would have an opportunity to make opening arguments regarding the Door. Then they’d open the arguments to cross-examination, in which each doctor would have the opportunity to introduce their disagreements and respond to counters made against their beliefs. They would proceed in reverse alphabetical order and after the cross-examination period, I was free to introduce my thoughts, philosophy, and judgments.

The Boy says, That means Dr. T went first.

Yes. Dr. T began by saying: The Door is not and cannot be a bad thing. Therefore, passing through the Door is not inherently a bad thing — unless of course the person passing through the Door is doing so with ill intent. The person passing through the Door must prioritize owning their motivations. If they are not honest with themselves about why they are passing through the Door, then yes, it would be ill-advised to do so, and the greater forces at play will hold them accountable for their actions. The known and unknown sides of the Door are equal in value, a value that is unmalleable and static and free from good or bad. Whatever the Door means is whatever meaning the person passing through brings with them. Thus, the merits of passing through the Door are undefined, indefinitely.

The Girl says, What did the Door look like?

It was a standard, pre-hung bedroom door. A dull shade of green inside a black frame with a black knob and matching black hinges. It swung outward, toward the unknown. I watched it to see if it had anything to say in response to Dr. T’s position, but it was as brainless as any other door.

You say, Did Dr. S respond to Dr. T?

No, not yet. The doctors were a respectful bunch. While they differed philosophically, they were aligned in their sense of decorum. Ritual and routine appeared tantamount to a sacrament — though, Dr. C was no longer around to offer his thoughts on that.

The Girl says, What did Dr. S believe?

Dr. S said: The Door is a gateway to our own subconscious. Whatever is on the other side is likely filled with our unconscious fears, our deepest desires, and our truest nature. If the person passing through is comfortable with the shadows of their heart, then they should feel comfortable passing through. However, if they prefer wakefulness to sleep and lucidity to dream, then perhaps passing through the Door isn’t right for them. Not every person is capable of passing through the Door successfully. To assume so would be to limit the unique potential awaiting us on the other side. The Door could open to stairs that have no end. It could open to a sky in which the stars have been replaced with apples. It could open to a world in which the atmosphere is nothing but Jell-O. It is dependent on the voracity of the individual’s dreams. 

The Boy says, What did you dream about?

Death is a dreamless sleep, or a sleepless dream. I’m not sure which is appropriate, but the saloon was the totality of my experience.

You say, Dr. Q?

Dr. Q first turned his back to the Door and asked us all to rotate our chairs so that our backs were to the Door as well. Then Dr. Q said: The Door only exists because we are here to observe it and give it credence. If the six — seven — of us were not sitting here, the Door would cease to be. Now, as we all have our backs turned, the Door does not exist. It cannot until it is observed. That is the simple argument. The other thing to consider is, we have yet to establish where we currently sit. Does this saloon reside in its own galaxy or universe? Are we somewhere on the dark side of a moon? Or, perhaps more likely, are we somewhere so small time could not possibly exist? For a second to pass, half a second would have to pass first. But for half a second to pass, a quarter of a second would have to pass first. Are we someplace in which time never finds its foot—

The Boy says, But time passed. A doctor spoke before. A doctor spoke after. 

Stories are told in sequential order so our minds don’t fold in on themselves and liquify our consciousness.

The Girl says, Electrolytes.

The Boy says, Jamba Juice.

You say, Did Dr. Q ever finish?

He concluded by suggesting Dr. C was the only qualified doctor of the bunch, because he made the Door real by passing through.

The Girl says, P comes before Q.

Dr. P finished rolling his eyes and pointed at the Door. He said: The Door is right there. It is quantifiable. It is a rectangle, formed by three-hundred-sixty degrees dispersed across four ninety-degree corners. The Door is approximately eighty inches or two-hundred-three centimeters tall. It exists. Because it exists, it has meaning, because a meaningless door does not align with the inherent meaning of our present existence. Whether or not we open the Door is moot because we are not the center of the universe. Why else do we sit at this round table — which also exists — ornated by this turtle shell — which also exists — if not to discuss the very real and present Door? Whatever awaits on the other side is exactly as it would be if we were to open the Door or not.

The Girl says, Dr. P sounds like a buzzkill.

He had little patience for differing points of view, but he relished the opportunity to engage in fierce debate. 

You say, Dr. P doesn’t sound all bad.

He wasn’t. There was no good or bad at the round table — a Dr. T observation, but one that felt true. There was only space for thought. It was a crock pot for ideas, and I managed to taste them all, even as they blended together.

The Boy says, I don’t like the doctors.

Don’t hide yourself.

You say, Be gentle with him.

The Boy will have to crack himself open before the world breaks him all its own.

The Girl says, I’m not broken.

We’re born broken. Then we adapt. That’s why we have the doctors. They can identify our ailments — though they are as likely as any of us to get it wrong. Then we die broken.

You say, They’re not ready for this.

They will adapt.

You say, Let’s talk about Dr. N.

Dr. N shrugged. She blew a raspberry on her palm. She said: Why are we talking about the Door instead of opening the Door? Your answer may fall somewhere close to these doctors’ lips, but it doesn’t matter. The answers are whatever you want them to be. The aims of these discussions are also whatever you want them to be. The Door has a knob. Turn it, or don’t. Listen to us, or don’t. Grab yourself another drink, or don’t. Pretend any of this has merit or meaning, or don’t. The Door — and I — couldn’t care less.

You say, Why did Dr. N sit at the table?

No reason.

The Girl says, Dr. N is worse than Dr. P.

At the round table, subjectivity was all we had. Better or worse was why the discussion persisted. Of course, Dr. N would disagree, and with her, I would agree.

The Boy says, What about the Door?

The Door is the subject.

You say, He’ll need time to understand.

Tell that to Dr. Q.

You say, One more doctor.

Dr. Cowabunga. She presented a jar of pickles, removed one, and got to snacking. She said: The perfect treat has a little bit of everything. Crunchy. Juicy. Salty. Flavor. There is a population of people who don’t care for pickles, hate them, really, but I think those people chose a side a long time ago and are too afraid to consider what the opposition has to offer. 

The Girl says, I love pickles.

That’s right.

The Boy says, Pickles are disgusting.

We know this about you.

You say, What do pickles have to do with the Door?

Dr. Cowabunga said: The merits of opening the Door or not opening the Door are ultimately uninteresting. Rather, we should consider the mechanics of opening the Door. The how as opposed to the why. Opening the Door should be done so with the gusto of a dill pickle. Without it, how can we be certain the Door will cooperate with our will? Whatever a person chooses, they must do so with the conviction and audacity of the dill pickle. With the undeniable fortitude of this here turtle shell. That’s why Dr. C passed through successfully.

You say, How did the doctors respond to Dr. Cowabunga’s preoccupation with pickles?

Dr. T cleared his throat, prepped himself for rebuttal, but was interrupted by the arrival of the NASCAR man. 

The Boy says, Does the whole thing start over now?

No. The NASCAR man did not come to engage with philosophical appetizers.

The Girl says, What did the NASCAR man want?

He wanted to leave.

You say, Did he free Sapling from his prayer?

Sapling wasn’t visible from my seat at the round table, from which I could only observe half of the bar and project suggestions of shadows. For a moment, or perhaps an era, or an eon, I ached for her to return. Her absence was an omen. It was a signal that a cosmological screw had rattled loose. The NASCAR man held his palms against the side of his helmet and twisted his head back and forth, as if he were releasing the cork of a wine bottle. He’d turn his head one way, hold it there for ten seconds or so, then turn it the other way and hold it for another ten seconds. The doctors showed no concern, a few maybe took notes on their palms, and the NASCAR man stumbled past us, aimless as he worked to remove his head. I longed for Sapling to reveal herself. If she did, the NASCAR man wouldn’t behead himself.

The Boy says, My stomach hurts.

It’s okay to be afraid. Sit with it.

The Girl says, If the NASCAR man dies, does he go anywhere?

That’s a good question with an imaginary answer.

You say, This is becoming something we didn’t care to know. What was a curiosity, an ache for closure, has only added to the awesome weight we’ve been left to carry. The Boy is incapable of comprehending it. The Girl is punctured in dormant fashion, vulnerable to spontaneous devastation at any given moment. I am transformed into a function. I am microwaved into a life net. Death took who I used to be and dropped me off at those swinging doors. Who I used to be is up for adoption. I should’ve answered my own question. What did Death do? Death fucked us.

Death is a motherfucker.

The Girl says, These are bad words.

Let me return to the round table.

The Boy says, Did the NASCAR man remove his head?

No. He twisted with increasing frequency until he threw himself against the Door, landing with a crack of thunder and entrapping the doctors in a spell not unlike what had ensnared Sapling. The NASCAR man fell to his knees, engaged in prayer once more, and a flicker of static infected the Door.

You say, Static?

Like television snow. The visual phase of orphaned radio waves. 

The Girl says, What is television snow?

A problem from before your time.

The Boy says, Is it bad?

I’m sure most of, if not all, the doctors would agree there is no badness associated with television static — unless of course you’re trying to catch a live event in a world without internet.

You say, What did it mean?

This is why the doctors sit at the round table.

You say, Okay.

The static crashed and retreated, eating away the green in waves until only the edges remained. The NASCAR man was stupefied. He stood, catatonic, while his visor reflected the flicker from the Door. I continued my search for Sapling, hoping she’d stepped away to alert Mr. D, to appeal to a higher authority and restore stability to what felt like an impending collapse. I strained myself willing shadows to appear, but nothing revealed itself. No Sapling. No Mr. D. No avatar for omnipotence. We were stranded, victim to the NASCAR man’s agency, and absent of our own.

You say, Okay.

The NASCAR man placed his hand on the knob and the turtle shell began to spin. The static waves turned tidal, and the NASCAR man flipped his visor up. We craned our necks to get a view, but we were blinded from seeing his face. The turtle shell spun faster, the NASCAR man turned the knob, then he pushed the Door open. 

The Boy says, Where did he go?

I don’t know.

The Girl says, What did you see?

Only the NASCAR man, until I didn’t anymore.

You say, Is this how you come back to us?

No. I won’t be opening the Door. I’m happy to sit and drink, to hear the doctors search for a Truth I don’t believe exists.

The Girl says, What happened when the Door opened?

The NASCAR man stepped through the Door and slammed it shut behind him. The turtle shell fell still. The doctors turned their attention back to Dr. T. Dr Cowabunga said: Would you like to offer your rebuttal? Dr. T nodded and cleared his throat, but a loud bit of microphone feedback squealed through the saloon.

You say, What now?

It was Sapling. She was on stage in the other room. I could see her shadow stretch towards the bar. She tapped the mic twice more and said: Does anybody want to hear a joke?