The Best Night of Our Lives

The Best Night of Our Lives
by
Gary L. Quay

         “There’s that slut, Jenny Weaver,” Kristen glared across the dance floor. “I wish she would just die."
         “You don’t really?” Tom put his arm around her and turned her toward the band, now finishing up their sound check.
         “No matter what she says,” Kristin made sure that his eyes met hers. “You’re mine now, not Jenny’s."
         “Of course,” he said without blinking, but his eyes seemed to be focused somewhere else.
Not satisfied, she nevertheless declined to press the point. She had worked hard to become his Prom Queen, so the night had to be perfect.
Outside, the gas company’s trucks’ lights whirled through the windows, and pulsed off Tom’s face like ill timed strobes.
         The Band launched into “Oops, I Did It Again,” by Britney Spears.
         “Oooooo, an oldie.” Kristin put her arms over he head and swiveled her hips snake-like before him. Despite the usual teenage body angst, she knew that she had been blessed with a figure that sent the boys’ hormones into overdrive. Tom’s eyes blazed at her. Perfect. He slid his arms around her waist and pulled her close. He would be hers alone. All she had to do was dance.
         She had every reason to reel him in like a prize trout--not that he looked like one. He had a deliciously square chin, wavy blond hair, a mischievous smile, and well-sculpted muscles--kind of like Michelangelo’s “David,” only slightly softer in an I-work-out-five-times-a-week way. Best of all, when he started at Harvard in the fall he would have an allowance bigger that her family’s income.
         The band soon began a slow song. It sounded like her parents’ music. Tom clasped her even tighter. She knew what he was thinking.
Kristin's parents had always told her to save herself for marriage. Her mother had said: "Sex is always better when you have emotional commitment." Her father's advice was: "I'll kill the first punk who tries anything."
         She had no moral objection to sex before marriage. It just was not romantic. If Robin Hood and Maid Marion would not do it, neither would she. But, the animal in his eyes and the insistent press of his body against hers told her that it was soon time to hint for an engagement ring.
         Something in the air smelled funny. She vaguely remembered that it had something to do with cooking, but the dance was so ecstatic that nothing seemed to matter. She held Tom closely, moving with his body.
         Two caterers wheeled a cart of food to the long tables under the banner that read ‘Senior Prom 2004.’ They set out pans of vegetables, salad, breads and desserts. A man in a tall chef's hat wheeled out a roast of some sort and parked it at the end of the tables. The orange glow of heat lamps cast an eerie shadow onto the wall while he sharpened his knives. The last item brought out was an ornate dessert pan on a metal pedestal decorated with glass cherries.
         "I'm hungry," Kristin said suddenly as the song ended.
         Tom said nothing. He just held her. She laid her head on his shoulder and watched the caterers while her stomach growled. After a few moments she looked up at him. His eyes were elsewhere as well.
         “Who ya lookin’ at?” She asked him pleasantly.
         "Nobody" Tom said, but his momentary pause told her otherwise.
         She knew that she was jumping to conclusions, but she felt the familiar jealousy flare. She tried to control it. “You’re mine now, kiddy,” She grabbed his lapels and pulled him closer for a kiss.
         “Of course,” he said, “Why?”
         “Promise me you’ll stay away from her.”
         “Who?”
         Kristin did not think he looked confused enough for that question. “Jenny!” She gritted her teeth, and looked away.
         "I don’t love her anymore," Tom said flatly.
         "Tell me you'll stay away from her," she said, ignoring his assertion.
         "Sure," he said.
         She was not satisfied with the tone his answer, but she changed the subject anyway.
         "What's in that pan over there?" She pointed so Tom could see.
         "Which one?"
         "The fancy one," she said, and tried to guide his eyes with her finger.
         "I think it’s a flambé," he said. "Cherries Jubilee."
         "What’s a flambé?"
         "They set it on fire."
         "Mmmmmmmmm, sounds like fun," she said sleepily.
         Tom ran his hands over her hips again. When this school year was over, they would both be far away from Jenny. That thought made her extremely happy.
         A caterer poured some liquid over the contents of the ornate pan. Yells and screams erupted from outside where the gas trucks were. The caterer struck a match.
         The world went white. Waves of force and fire swept the Dance hall. It was the loudest noise Kristin had ever heard.
         Moments later, her eyes focused. The roof was gone, and the stars twinkled in the clear night sly. Burning timbers lay among the bodies of her classmates but Kristin felt no heat. Near the caterers, a plume of fire still shot into the air. The gas trucks lay scattered and on fire.
         She looked down at two badly burned bodies on the floor. They looked surprisingly like her and Tom. The hall was littered with corpses, and out of each one stood a translucent copy, all doing exactly what they had been before the explosion. Kristin felt only a kind of numb shock, like she had just been told the cat had been sleeping in the trash compactor when someone brushed against the button. "What was that?"
         "Uuuuhhhh," Tom stammered, "I think we just died."
         The ghostly band now played an astonished funeral dirge on smoldering instruments.
         "Like, shouldn't we be screaming or something?" She asked, certain that there should be more emotion involved...
         "I think we did," he said.
         She looked down again. Her feet disappeared into what still appeared to be her body, dead, and still smoking on the floor. The "her" that still remained upright seemed to mingle with Tom’s insubstantial form around their edges. Tom looked really bad. His hair was gone, and his clothing hung from him in singed rags. She did not want to know how she looked. "This is too weird," she said. "Why are we still dancing?"
         Tom shrugged and said, "Can you think of anything else to do?"
         She could not. "Can we at least step out of our bodies?" She did not like the way that sounded. It reminded her of the New Age tapes her mother listened to. “That is... if that’s what they are.”
         She scanned the rest of the departed students for Jenny, just for the assurance that she had also died. It would have been horrible if she had lived. Kristin saw her and Joel Fischer (apparently her date) still over by the caterers, completely charred.
         The dirge ended. Three men and a woman appeared on the stage. One of the men was oddly familiar. He wore a nineteenth century cavalry uniform with a saber hung from his belt. His long blonde hair fell straight from a high brow above a dashing mustache. Next to him stood a short, oriental looking gentleman in a suit of leather armor. He had close cropped black hair and squinted menacingly over the crowd. The last man was clean shaven, and wore a blue military coat, tall black boots and white tights like he had just stepped out of the French Revolution. The woman took the microphone. Silence fell over the hall.
         “Dearly departed,” she began, with an enthusiastic smile. She was short, with medium length blond hair and a round face. She wore a floral patterned dress and black pumps. She looked like the proverbial girl next door twenty years on and thirty pounds heavier.
         "Dearly WHAT?" Kristin gripped Tom's shoulder.
         "I was Gail Steadman," the woman continued. "In life, I was a personnel consultant. Now, as representative of the Dimensional Transition Team, I welcome you to the afterlife.”
         "Oh my god!" Kristin cried out. "We’re dead!”
         The hall erupted in screams and shouts. Some attempted to flee, but Gail raised her hands and a wave of calm washed over them. Kristin felt it as well--like a mother’s warm touch to a frightened child. The students fell silent. The building still burned around them, but nobody seemed to care.
         Kristin, however, found new questions. “We’re supposed to be Prom King and Queen,” she whispered to Tom. “My parents were taking me to Hawaii this summer. And, what about us?"
         "I don't know," Tom said.
         “You’re a big help,” she said.
He shrugged his shoulders, “This never happened to me before, either.”
         "We at the D.T.T.," Gail continued, her white toothy smile visible even to the middle of the long dance hall where Kristin and Tom stood, "wish to make your deaths as meaningful as possible. We have a wide array of services available. These include: counseling, religious services, and tours of the best vacation dimensions. For those of you who died instantly, and did not see your lives pass before your eyes, we have that service available on VHS, DVD, and CD ROM. ‘Super-8’ has been discontinued for those under 50.
         “My assistants are: to my right, Ghengis Khan and Napoleon Bonaparte. To my left is General George Custer. They are here as part of their penance for their unspeakable crimes against humanity, and will help in tonight's program: ‘Twelve Steps To A Fulfilling Afterlife.’”
         Kristin’s mouth fell open. “What?”
         Tom put a finger over his lips.
         She lowered her voice. “This is not at all what I expected.”
         The smile never left Gail’s face. “I am now going to turn the program over to Ghengis Khan.”
         The Khan took the microphone and bowed to the crowd. "Good evening," he said. "I am sorry this happened to you so young, and on your prom night. It could have been worse.” His voice began to rise slowly in volume and intensity. “You could have been cowering in mud huts when you heard the sound of many hooves and swords clashing in glorious battle. You clutch your children to your bosom, while your husbands and fathers die on our spears....
         "But I digress," he caught himself. "Mr. Custer will pass to you a pamphlet about our twelve step program. I will go over the main points and try to conquer any lingering doubts. I will also kill the first one who falls asleep."
He broke into laughter, which faded nervously when no one joined him. "Do you not get it?" he said. "You cannot sleep, and you are already dead."
         Silence.
         "Tough crowd." He opened his pamphlet.
         Kristin took Tom's hand. "This is a dream, right?"
         "Or a bad joke," Tom said.
         The Khan adjusted the microphone stand. “Turn to page three,” he said. “Step one: Getting Over Denial. Permit me a moment of observation. You people look like my hoard just finished you off. Denial should not a problem.”
         Two flaming beams fell into the crowd.
         Gail Steadman gave the Khan a sour glare. "Be nice!" She then turned back to her audience and smiled broadly.
         "If we're dead," Tom said suddenly to Kristin, "saving yourself for marriage seems kind of stupid, now. Doesn't it?"
         "Hey!" Kristin shot back, somewhat hurt. "That's not fair. How was I supposed to know this was gonna happen?"
         "I wish you'd let me do it when we had the chance," Tom said.
         "I just wasn't that kind of girl," she said.
         "You! Back there!" The Khan shouted, pointing his finger menacingly at her and Tom. All heads swiveled their way. "Shut up, or I will crush you like Nepal on a Sunday morning!"
         “Be firm, but nice," Gail scolded him, still beaming.
         “Step two,” the Khan growled through a forced smile. “Getting Over Grief. Do not cry; you cannot. The only thing that helps is time.
         "Step three:” The Khan continued, “Picking Up the Pieces. For some, this can be quite literal. You must, in any case, decide what parts of your lives you wish to carry across with you, and what you wish to discard."
         Kristin gripped Tom’s arm, still miffed about his remark about saving herself for marriage. "Did you ever do it?" She whispered.
         Tom looked at her strangely. "Do what?"
         "You know," she said. "IT."
         He hesitated. "No."
         "You're lying," she said. His pause had been about eight and a half months pregnant. "I can tell when you're lying."
         "I am not," Tom lied.
         "Step four: Spiritual Healing," The Khan said calmly, but a glance in Kristin’s direction. "As you have noticed, your souls mirror the trauma of your deaths. This is not a permanent condition. You can heal your souls with a strict regimen of yoga and transcendental moaning."
         "Now," The Khan motioned for Napoleon Bonaparte to step forward, "this pitiful excuse for a conqueror will demonstrate."
         "Not until you apologize for that remark," Napoleon said.
         "I do not apologize for truth," The Khan said. "Nor do I care for your fragile little ego. You will do what I say."
         "Never!"
         In a single, fluid motion, the Khan unsheathed a long curved sword from a scabbard at his side and neatly shaved Napoleon’s head from his shoulders.
         Gail happily / sternly scolded the Khan. “Put his head back on. Now!”
         “Forgive me, lady,” the Khan took a slight bow, “but this is part of my demonstration.”
         Gail looked hard at him. “If you’re lying, I'll send for the Ghoul Squad,"
         The Khan’s eyes widened slightly.
         Kristin had become impatient with Tom's stalling. "Who was it? Tell me."
         "Nobody," he said, "I swear."
         Suddenly Kristin heard the most baleful moan arise from the stage. It was horrible, and filled with inconsolable sadness and loss, but somehow, it resonated deep within her. She found herself unable to resist, and responded the way a wolf answers another's call across a moonlit mountain range. Everyone in the hall united in an altogether creepy, but fulfilling group moan.
         "This isn’t happening," Kristin said when it ended.
         Napoleon bowed, his head firmly healed to his shoulders, then sat on a stool next to Gail. He eyed the Khan suspiciously.
         "Step five,” Genghis Khan announced. “Shuffle Off Your Mortal Coil. In short, this means you must stop thinking of things in relation to the expiration of your mortal body. The soul is eternal, so, with the exception of people who believe in reincarnation, you will be in this state for a long time."
         "C'mon," Kristin demanded, "Who was it? Tracy?"
         "No," Tom said.
         "Megan?" She guessed a little too loudly.
         The Khan again glanced angrily in her direction.
         "No."
         "Step six: Unfinished Business," The Khan growled. "The movie ‘Ghost’ is a fraud. Never try to avenge or correct a past injustice. It ties you to a single moment in your life, and can make eternity entirely anticlimactic. You also take the chance of ending up as a miserable banshee or poltergeist, and you will be no fun at all."
         “Like yourself,” Napoleon muttered.
         The Khan’s sword again sang out of its sheath, but Gail stood between them. Grumbling, he put it away.
         By the tenth step Kristin was furious. "I know you slept with someone! I want to know who it was. What difference does it make now?"
         "Step ten, Love in the hereafter," The Khan growled, now casting a menacing glare in Kristin’s direction.
         "Do you love me?" Kristin asked Tom.
         "Of course," he said; though he looked somewhat confused.
         "Then why won't you tell me?"
         "Because you don't want to know," Tom said.
         "So," Kristin said, " You're not denying you did it."
         The Khan threw his pamphlet down. "You! Back there again!" He shouted at Kristin and Tom, "Shut up, or I will have you flayed, drawn and quartered, and fed to the pigs!"
         "You may discipline them," Gail chirped, "but no threats. Got it?"
         "But I am The Khan!” He shouted. “They must listen."
         "Ghoul Squad."
         "Step ten." His voice oozed anger. "Love. The soul is capable of love. The physical expression of love is also possible, though the soul reacts in a different way. The soul is as substantial to one of its kind as is the physical body to another. Reach out and touch one another. You will see."
         Kristin and Tom had never let go. Their contact had a soft, almost electric sensation. But something was still missing. She allowed herself to look down at their bodies on the floor. The horror came back like a suddenly snapped rubber band on a slingshot. She was certain that she should have been crying. She held Tom closer, and utterly failed to close her eyes.
         "As you can see," The Khan addressed his audience, "the astral form is quite substantial to its own kind, but allow me the indulgence of a demonstration of a different aspect." He turned and beckoned to General Custer.
         The dashing General tossed aside his long, blonde hair, adjusted his saber and wide brimmed hat, and then stood next to Ghengis Khan. "I still don't know why I am here," he said. "I never invaded another country. I was no vile conqueror."
         The Khan put two fingers over his head like feathers and did a mock Native American war dance while patting his hand over his mouth to make the “O O O O O” sound.
         "You little, yellow creep," Custer growled, and tried to land a punch. The Khan stepped aside and caught the general with a chop to the jaw, then a forearm to his back. Custer toppled from the stage and hit the dance floor with a thud.
         The Khan gloated over the General. "One more ice bridge and America would have been ours.”
         Gail’s smile faded momentarily. The Khan saw it and straightened up. “Objects,” he took the microphone from its stand, “such as the ground or a tree are solid in our minds and conform to our expectations. If we think we will fall, we will. If we think it will hurt when we hit the ground, it will. We can learn to avoid these things, but even the most seasoned ghost can still be caught off guard. As for love, expectations are likewise everything.
         “Now, please everyone,” he replaced the microphone, “a round of applause for the General.”
Kristin clapped weakly. She was still not satisfied with Tom’s answers.
         "Step eleven:" the Khan continued with an almost paternal tone, "Visit Your Grave. This provides closure for most souls. Perhaps the General would care to show you around Little Big Horn, or perhaps Wounded Knee later on."
         “You twit," the General spat, getting to his feet with Napoleon’s help. “Why don't you show them Tibet, or China for that matter."
         "How little you understand." The Khan said. "We Asians desire a strong leader. I did all of my lands a favor by uniting them."
         He turned back to the dearly departed. The wall behind the stage collapsed in flames. "Step twelve: Happy Hunting Grounds. You will be routed off by religion to your final destination. Take your time--hang around as long as you want, but, sooner or later, you will want to go. The routing is as follows:
         “Christians, Muslims, Jews: judgment. Tough luck.
         “Buddhists, Zen: oneness, or nothingness.
         “Hindu: rebirth.
         “Pagans: see Hindu, or Mother Earth.
         “Agnostic: what more proof do you need?"
         The Khan chuckled.
         "Atheists: oblivion.
         "In closing," he said, "you must learn to forget the cares of your life. I have. I rest in peace knowing that I was the greatest conqueror that ever lived."
         "You most certainly were not," Napoleon said.
         "I died with my empire intact, Mister Island Vacation." Then he turned his scorn to General Custer. "And you!" he pointed his finger accusingly, "you died trying to enslave a proud people and steal their land. If you were not so pathetic, I would make you wish you had never died."
         "Big talk from a little man," Custer said, and drew himself up to his full height next to the short Mongol. "I made the West safe for civilization. And, just look what America has become."
         "A nation of weaklings, polyester suited greed mongers, and heart disease," The Khan said. "Not one of you can handle a sword."
         Outside, sirens howled and flashing red lights grew brighter.
         "I'll handle you," Custer said, and lunged at the Khan.
         "Vive La France!" Napoleon shouted and joined in the fray.
         Gail called for the Ghoul Squad.
         Kristin took advantage of the confusion and tugged on Tom¹s shoulder. "Please," she said, "just tell me. Who was it?"
         "Okay," Tom finally relented, "but you'll have to promise not to get mad."
         "I promise," she said.
         He sighed, "Jenny Weaver."
         Kristin shrieked, turning every head in the room toward her. She jostled her way through the crowd, pushing her stunned classmates out of the way until she stood before Jenny and her crispy date. She fought revulsion of the sight for a moment, but her anger soon won. "You bitch!" She shouted, and slugged her rival as hard as she could. Tom quickly pulled Kristin away, but the damage was done. Jenny’s face had a softball size indentation that sparked slightly. Kristin stood there, aghast, seeing what she had done. She was stunned, embarrassed, like being the first member of the Donner Party to belch.
         The Dimensional Transition Team arrived to break up the fight.
         "Stop it this instant!" The Khan shouted in her face. " You must show discipline. How can you expect to rule the world... I mean, how do you expect to adjust to your afterlife unless you show some discipline?"
         Kristin's anger boiled over. She let it erupt like a broken gas main into their faces. "Discipline?" she shouted. "How can you talk about discipline when you're fighting like this? How can we leave our lives behind? They're all we know. We've been dead for less than an hour, and you expect us to deal with what you obviously can't in a thousand years. Well, you can take your twelve steps and shove them up your well adjusted butt."
         "Uppity woman," The Khan said.
         "Despot," she shot back. “Even dead you have bad breath.”
         A moment later, Gail appeared with the Ghoul Squad, whose task, according to page fifteen of the pamphlet, was to end disputes in the way that only ghouls can--not by violence, but by standing between the combatants and looking completely hideous. They take their jobs seriously, and work tirelessly on appearance. The proper placement of a rotting boil or maggot infested gash makes all the difference between mere ugliness and gut emptying repulsiveness.
These ghouls were real pros.
         The argument ended abruptly, and Gail soon sent the Squad away. "Now," her voice swam upon a sea of warmth and harmony, "I want you all to apologize to one another. Now!"
         The Khan grumbled under his breath, but he did as he was told. "I am sorry for the way I acted tonight, even to the wimpy Frenchman."
Napoleon shot an angry glance at the Khan, but Gail did not press the issue. Instead, she looked to Kristin.
         "Okay," she said. "I'm sorry for talking too much, and for putting a hole in Jenny's face."
Jets of water fell into the building from above, and began to put out the last of the flames.

* * * * *

         The prom guests were left in the care of a team of departed psychologists to finish their initial counseling. They each received a booklet entitled “The Northeast’s Best Haunts,” and coupons for Ectoplasmal Yoga at the Y.M.C.A. (Young Manifestation’s Cultural Association).
When they finally found time to be alone again,          Tom turned to Kristin. "Do you forgive me?"
         "Of course I do," she said, managing a smile.
         “You know,” he said. "The Khan said we can still have sex."
         "Even dead, that's all you men think about," she smiled invitingly. "Okay, but only if you dress up like Robin Hood."
         "What?"

The End