Month: October 2024

Thank you for calling the Reincarnation Hotline. We are currently experiencing a higher than usual call volume, which may result in a longer wait time. Please stay on the line and a representative will assist you as soon as possible. Be assured that your call is very important to us. This call may be monitored or recorded for quality control.

Calvin Holloway – or at least the soul occupying Calvin Holloway – was nothing if not patient. It had done this dance many, many times before, although this was the first time reincarnation business was being conducted over the telephone. A lift music version of Tina Turner’s  I Might Have Been Queen played on a continuous loop, and the Soul found itself mindlessly humming the tune as it awaited the chance to talk with an agent.

Holloway, 32, would die in a workplace accident on Halloween. He’d leave behind a wife and young daughter, and plenty of family and friends who’d miss him. All in all, he was a kind human being. The soul made it so, working from Holloway’s first moment to mold him into the person he would ultimately become. Souls could chase the light or wallow in darkness, and this soul had always wanted to shine. That being the case, the spirit about to exit Holloway was confident it would find a happy – albeit temporary – home once Holloway was gone.

Finally, the recorded music stopped and there was a slight delay.

“Thank you for calling the Reincarnation Hotline, this is Shanti, how may I help you?”

“Hi, Shanti, I’m the soul of Calvin Holloway … he’s scheduled for transition tomorrow at 10:16 a.m., Central Daylight Time, in Lake County, Illinois, United States. My ID number is 65309827630987156242470.”

The soul heard the rapid clacking of a keyboard.

“Just looking that up for your right now, 65309827630987156242470, and thank you so much for having that information handy,” Shanti said. “The transitioner is Calvin, C-A-L-V-I-N, Holloway, H-O-L-L-O-W-A-Y, reborn March 16, 1992, in Des Moines, Iowa, United States. Is that correct?”

“It is. He’s a lineman for the county, and tomorrow he’s going to be electrocuted while performing maintenance from his bucket truck.”

“Oh,” Shanti said. “Like that Glen Campbell song.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“You said he’s a lineman for the county … it reminded me of that song Wichita Lineman by Glen Campbell. You know … I am a lineman for the county, and I drive the main road, searchin’ in the sun for …”

“Oh, OK … gotcha,” the soul said. “Never really thought about it before.”

The clacking resumed.

“Just for our records, could you name the past three vessels you’ve inhabited, along with the years of inhabitation?”

“Sure,” said the soul. “There was Rita Showalter from 1933-1992; Atrem Boyko, 1874-1933; and Hattie Grant, 1837-1874. I’ve memorized almost all of them if you need more, of course we’d be here a while.”

“Oh, no, 65309827630987156242470,” Shanti said with a chuckle. “Just needed the three most recent and again, thank you for having that information ready. Now, how may I help you today?”

This soul had been, well, a good soul, so it always wound up helping humans be the best versions of themselves. It wondered, though, what it would be like to inhabit an animal again.

Instead of dealing with all that entails functioning in an industrial society, a simpler existence might be welcome – at least for a while.

“I realize you guys have these things lined up already, but I was wondering if maybe it would be possible to be a dog on my next occupancy,” it said. “Not that I’m complaining about any of my assignments – they’ve all been rewarding – but I was just hoping maybe after all these eons I could try it again. That’s where I started, and I kinda miss it.”

There was a brief pause followed by furious clacking.

Then there was another pause.

Then more clacking.

“OK, 65309827630987156242470,” Shanti said, “You have been a terrific soul from the outset and you’ve never received anything but exemplary marks. I’m looking at your record now and it’s quite impressive. But I have to tell you, it’s really, really hard to get matched with a dog in this particular era. We get that request quite a bit as I’m sure you can imagine, and we turn down thousands more than we accept.”

The soul sighed.

“I don’t know if this is your area of expertise, but is there any advice you can give me … I mean, is there something in particular I need to do to get a dog gig again?”

“I wish I knew what to tell you,” Shanti said, a hint of sadness in her voice. “I’d say just keep doing what you’re doing, and your odds will get better each time. As you know, there’s no higher honor than being a canine’s soul. Once you begin that journey, you also learn about the souls of humans. And unfortunately, you don’t always like what you learn, which is why we try to place the souls of very good dogs into people in an effort to make them very good … or as good as possible. You and souls like you are desperately needed in that capacity. But at some point, I’m sure you’ll go back in the canine rotation.

“Now, according to our records, Nori Yoshida, who will be born at 12:16 p.m., November 1, in Tokyo, Japan, is your next stop. You’ll guide her as she becomes a childhood educator and I know you’ll do a wonderful job, as always.”

“OK,” the soul said. “I appreciate the opportunity. One last question… I met this great dog about 40,000 years ago and its soul was the personification of good. I think the ID was 11786340086391205348529. Any idea where it might be today?”

Shanti did a quick search on her computer.

“I got that information right here,” she said. “It’s inhabiting Dolly Parton. Is there anything else I can help you with, 65309827630987156242470?”

“Do you hear that?”

“Yeah … it sounds like a tornado siren. That doesn’t make any sense, though, because the sky’s perfectly clear. And it’s Sunday, not Wednesday when they run the test sirens. You think maybe it malfunctioned?”

Glen Franklin and Frieda Kimmelman were no strangers to taking cover during ominous weather. And while they always feared the damage it might do, they actually looked forward to spending time in the “Falldown Shelter.”

The pair moved into a 1950s-era fixer-upper on the outskirts of Asheville, North Carolina, several years earlier. It was a two bedroom, one bath model, with a screened-in back porch that offered a view of the woods. It also had an old-fashioned fallout shelter, which Glen jokingly called the “Falldown Shelter” because of all the liquor he stored there.

Fortunately for both, Glen did more than stock the dull grey bunker with booze. Frieda frequently got product samples from work – she was a regional manager with Gas N’ Grits, a high-end convenience store chain – and the shelter seemed as good a place as any to store them.

And Glen always left the monthly trip to the Discount Superstore with more than he needed, so there was plenty of bottled water, cereal and canned goods to put on the metal shelves.

Throw in a generator, portable radio, three lawn chairs, two bunk beds, an RV toilet (which had – thankfully – never been used), a dartboard and pop lights in case the generator failed, and the Falldown Shelter was a useful little hideaway in an area often plagued by tornadoes.

And considering the cacophony created by all the alerts, this one must be an F-5.

“We better head down to be on the safe side,” Frieda said. “I still think maybe there’s just some kind of screw-up with the warning system, though. Either way, you and me will make the best of it. I’ve lost count of how many tornado retreats we’ve gone on down here. Best part is, I get to kick your butt at darts again.”

Glen majored in computer programming at King’s College in Charlotte. After graduation, he was hired on at Carolina CyberTech in Asheville, where he would be sent to various businesses to troubleshoot their IT woes.

He enjoyed what he did well enough.

“A job is a job is a job,” he liked to say. “Especially when it leads directly to direct deposit.”

And he got along well with people he worked with, most who enjoyed his offbeat sense of humor.

And it was that job that allowed him to meet Frieda, a couple years younger than him and a Knoxville transplant with an associate’s degree from Pellissippi State Community College. A former high school basketball player, she was ambitious and took her working life very, very seriously.

She had a “hard” look – her face was weathered beyond her years and she sported an almost constant expression of concern. And she was always very “business-like” – smart suits, smart shoes and closely cropped hair.

But despite her conservative appearance, she loved to laugh, and Glen was always able to make her chortle during his trips to Gas N’ Grits. And when she did, she’d turn slightly red, cover her mouth as she cackled and say, “You’re terrible!”

On the outside looking in, they were an odd match.

While she was big and somewhat intimidating, Glen had thinning, ginger hair and a scraggly beard that refused to fill out. He stood just under 5-7 and sported a beer gut that made him look about three months pregnant.

But he was a huge basketball fan, and his style of flirting often involved talking up the South Carolina women’s dynasty or impressing her with his better than casual knowledge of the WNBA.

And after flirting became dating and dating became serious, they got married. A Hollywood glamor couple they were not, but they loved each other passionately and completely.

They had a low-key wedding at the courthouse (their store-bought wedding cake said “Congradulations Glenn and Freeda,” so it cost only $3 because of all the typos) and the couple was headed for a textbook middle class life.

But that life was occasionally interrupted by civil defense sirens, and this was one of those times.

Alerts that set off every alarm in greater Asheville – and specifically the ones on their phones – convinced the couple to head underground despite blue skies.

After the pair were settled in, Glen looked down at the darts.

“I assume you’ll be throwing the green ones again,” he said.

“You know it,” Frieda replied with a smile. “You’ve never beaten me when I used the greenies. Come to think of it, I’m not sure you’ve ever beaten me, period. You’re really, really not good.”

Glen laughed.

“Well, you’re the athlete, not me,” he said. “Remember, I’m the guy who threw my back out farting that one time.”

Glen gave Frieda a quick peck on the check, poured a generous splash of Wild Turkey into two plastic cups, and handed her one.

“Lemme turn the radio on and check the news and see what the sirens are about,” Glen said.

DEFCON1 … I repeat, the United States is at DEFCON 1 … there are unconfirmed reports that nuclear explosions have occurred in Moscow, Washington, Pyongyang and Beijing and that engagement is ongoing. Take shelter immediately. This is not a test. This is not a test. Please stay tuned for official updates.

Freida and Glen stared at each other in disbelief.

“What do we do?” he asked.

Frieda sipped her whiskey, took aim at the board, and promptly threw a triple 20.

“We’ll do what we always do, my love,” she said. “Enjoy each other’s company.”