For a Limited Time Only

by Laurel DiGangi

Nathan was restless. He’d been waiting far too long with nothing to occupy his mind. No phones, zines, or screens. No landscape either: just an endless grassy knoll and sluggish queues of naked people extending to the horizon. The sun, or some other glowing orb, had not budged since he arrived an hour, week, or year ago.

He stared down at his bare feet, remembering how Selma used to bitch about those sharp toenails that scraped her ankles when he flailed in his sleep. Now he could have real talons—if only he could survive this unbearable wait. He imagined himself a red-tailed hawk, soaring over Philly to see if they scrubbed the blood off the concrete after he jogged up those steps like Rocky Balboa and fell down like an old geezer. But his first choice, his dream, was the African crowned eagle: a fierce predator that dined on monkeys and baby antelopes for breakfast. How fucking cool was that?!

The other bodies in line bored him. Most were old and saggy, and even the young well-toned ones didn’t spark his libido. Several tattooed backs lingered in the distance but weren’t close enough to supply adequate reading material.

In the adjacent line, an old man loudly asked his queue-mates, “What do you want to be?” Without waiting for a response, he announced, “I want to be a dog!” and looked like one too: A scroungy mutt with enough grey chest hair to suffocate his droopy nipples.

Under normal circumstances, Nathan wouldn’t bother, but his boredom was relentless. “What kind of dog?”

“Something small, a chihuahua or pug maybe.”

Nathan imagined himself snatching up a chubby pug for a midnight snack. “Why small?”

“My wife’s still alive,” said the man. “I could sleep on her lap and comfort her.”

“That’s sweet, but every time you’d step outside to piss, you’d risk being some coyote’s lunch.”

“I’m not worried. I just hope I have enough coupons.”

Nathan suppressed a chuckle. “I’m sure you have enough.”

Earlier at orientation, strands of perforated coupons, like raffle tickets, had been distributed for random acts of kindness, self-sacrifice, and “tough lives,” whatever that meant, and could be cashed in for your chosen creature. The exact rules, however, were never explained. He would have appreciated a guidebook or tablet to scroll through as he waited. You’d think that here, of all places, they’d have their shit together.

In the far distance stood a row of carnival booths, each for a different animal type: birds, mammals, reptiles, amphibians, fish, and “other.” He assumed the “other” was for nimrods who didn’t know what invertebrates were. If Nathan had to be an invertebrate, he’d be a coconut crab, a massive tree-climbing crustacean with no natural enemies.

Translucent beings in long blue robes now glided down the queue, speaking English with some weird angelic accent. The closest one shouted, “For a limited time only! A special deal on mourning doves! Only six coupons each!”

In front of Nathan stood a 40-ish woman with well-groomed pubic hair that matched her short pixie haircut. While other interested queuers jumped up and down maniacally like wannabe contestants on Let’s Make a Deal, she raised her hand like a polite schoolgirl.

Nathan decided to help her. Perhaps the powers-that-be would consider it a random act of kindness. He tapped her shoulder. “You do know that mourning doves are easy prey. One moment you’ll be pecking on seeds, the next some hawk will be ripping the flesh from your bones—if it doesn’t get you while you’re still curled up in your shell.”

“I’ll manage,” she said. “It’s the circle of life, right?”

Her stoicism unnerved him. “Not my thing,” Nathan said and as the Blue Robe approached her, he blocked its path. “Excuse me! What if I want to be a different bird?”

“Unless there’s a limited time offer, you’ll have to wait in line,” it said, a bit curtly for a spirit. Then it turned to the woman and said sweetly, “Mourning doves are only six coupons. But you’ve got enough for a yellow-rumped warbler if you’d like to wait.”

“No thanks. I’m ready for the sky. What would you like me to do with these extras?”

“I’ll take them!” snapped Nathan and managed to grab the coupons from her tiny claw before she flew away on whistling wings.

Nathan turned to the Blue Robe. “So, exactly how many of these do I need to be a bird of prey?”

“A lot more than you’ve got now,” it said.

*

During his short life Nathan had developed a reputation as a minor asshole, which he never understood. He was neither a rapist, wife beater, Ponzi schemer, sex trafficker, nor catalytic converter thief.

Seriously, what was wrong with asking waitstaff to replace a substandard entrée once or even twice? Better than pouting throughout the entire meal, right? And when he gave Selma his honest opinion on her saddlebag thighs, peasant French cooking, pickleball skills, mismatched lingerie, and inappropriate orgasm noises, it was only because he’d wanted her to be the best Selma she could be.

And now he was hoping his best Selma was suing the Philadelphia Museum of Art since there was no way he could have fallen on his own. He was only 34, worked out religiously, and had just nine percent body fat. There must have been a spilled smoothie or splattered boba that sent him tumbling. Perhaps he could send her a message from the beyond—“Lawsuit, lawsuit, lawsuit.”

But then again why bother? A settlement for Selma couldn’t benefit him. His only hope for the future was collecting more coupons before he reached the head of the line.

He devised an ingenious strategy. First he made a deal with the dude behind him— a towering albino, probably six-foot-six in his bare feet, who claimed his name was “Whitey”—to hold his place in line in exchange for two extra coupons. Nathan knew he was taking a risk, but was fairly certain he could scroll down the queue and scarf up extra coupons by extolling the virtues of less popular birds.

His planned worked. When the Blue Robes touted deals on crows, Nathan declared, “According to avian neuroscience, they’re extremely intelligent, with the highest brain to body ratio of all birds,” an idea that resonated with the overly educated who always remarked, “Of course I already knew that,” before handing over their extra tickets.

Folks hesitated about returning as a mallard—perhaps they feared being hunted— so Nathan casually whispered to other men in line, “Only three percent of all male birds have penises, but ducks have whopping wieners that put ours to shame.” Word spread, and Nathan’s coupon numbers swelled.

Common pigeons were probably the least popular of all—until Nathan provided a new angle: “You could easily survive on dropped French fries in Mickey-D parking lots. Or would you prefer worms and spiders?” Of course he knew that once transmigrated, these folks would eat bugs with the same gusto as they did burgers, but he was only helping them fly away that much sooner.

He also convinced fellow queuers to take the limited-time deals on starlings and house sparrows rather than wait in line for more desirable birds. Sure, hummingbirds were precious, but their lifespans were short. Male peacocks were gorgeous, but could only stay airborne for a few short feet. Selma always told him to “quit bird-splaining” but now his knowledge had purpose. And with the coupons he was accumulating through his unofficial role as docent, he was pretty sure he could garner his first choice.

He waited for the next passing Blue Robe. “Excuse me. How many coupons do I need to be an African-crowned eagle?”

“Are you a former resident of sub-Saharan Africa?”

“No, but . . .”

“Sorry. Only former inhabitants of the crowned eagle’s range can transmigrate into their bodies. They deserve to soar over their homelands, don’t you agree?” It smiled smugly without opening its lips.

Nathan bit his tongue. It didn’t hurt but did stop him from commenting on the stupid woke agenda of the afterlife.

A bit later—he couldn’t say how long—he accumulated so many coupons that they were slipping out of his clenched fists. What he really needed now were pockets, but he was naked. He imagined Selma telling him to shove those coupons up his ass. He imagined shitting on her head.

Forget her. Focus. He needed to find Whitey, before he lost his place in line. He spun around and jogged toward the head of the queue, clutching his coupons, looking for a white head poking up from the crowd.

He jogged past a fleshy blur of backs and asses. And just as he’d begun to worry that he might be forced to go back to the end of the line, he saw that snowy head rise from the crowd. Whitey! Seeing Nathan’s bounty, he demanded a dozen more tickets, and Nathan was feeling so stoked that he forked them over without complaint.

There were only three bodies ahead of him now, and he imagined himself soaring at 10,000 feet, then diving down at 75 miles an hour, to capture a spawning salmon in his mighty talons. Freshest sushi ever!

Finally he arrived at the bird booth. He spread his coupons on the counter proudly and addressed a pair of two Blue Robes, a tall slim being and its short, chubby counterpart.

“American bald eagle, please.”

“Guy thinks he’s ordering a hot dog,” muttered the tall one. The pair giggled, then exploded in peals of laughter while Nathan stood there, perplexed.

When they finally regained their angelic composure, the short one said, “Sorry, but you don’t have enough coupons.”

Fortunately, Nathan had a second choice prepared. “Okay, are these enough for a red-tailed hawk?”

“Oh, more than enough,” they said in unison.

Nathan was stoked. He imagined flying over Selma’s head, emitting a terrifying screech.

“But not enough for you,” said the tall one. “Those aren’t yours. Per our records, you earned two coupons, that’s it.”

Nathan couldn’t believe this bullshit. He didn’t want to piss off the Blue Robes but he also deserved fairness. He tried to remain calm. “Excuse me, but I certainly did earn these. I conducted honest business transactions!”

Now they were back to laughing again. How could angels be such douchebags?!”

“Perhaps there’s someone else I could . . . “

“Oh my stars! ‘Karen’ here wants to speak to the manager!” They high-fived each other. “That’s pretty fucking ballsy, dude! You do know who the manager is, right?”

Nathan was confused. Did that angel or whatever just say “fucking”?

“I think he needs to talk to the Big Guy in the Sky,” said the tall one.

“That’s the only manager we got,” said the other. “The Supreme Being, Master of the Universe, Ultimate Judge and Jury of assholes like you.”

Nathan was no longer perplexed—now he was scared shitless. How could he not have considered this possibility? All he wanted now was to fly the hell out of here.

“Never mind! Forget about it! What can I get for two coupons?”

The Blue Robes blinked.

*

Nathan was restless. He’d been curled up in the dark too long, head between his legs, with nothing to occupy his mind. He felt alone, frightened. He pushed his wet beak forward again and again until he finally poked through a slimy membrane and inhaled a deep breath. Yet he wasn’t out yet. A hard wall stood between him and his freedom.

Before he took his next peck, a dark thought entered his tiny brain. What if he emerged as a baby chicken, doomed to spend its short life in a crowded death camp? Even a mourning dove would have been better. Fear curved down his spine as he considered this worst case scenario. Now afraid to move, he held his breath and listened. But thankfully all he heard was silence. No clucking. No cock-a-doodle-doo-ing. Just the sound of rustling leaves. He must be in a nest, not an incubator. He heard something else, too. The faraway cry of a red-tailed hawk. His mother! She’d teach him to fly and soon he’d know what it was like to leave his nest, spread his wings, and soar. No longer afraid, he pecked harder and harder. Soon he’d see a world of light and color sharper than his human eyes could ever have imagined.

Then something sharp pierced his shell and a moment later, scissored into his soft flesh. He opened his beak to scream in agony, but nothing came out.

Then all was dark again.

 

Laurel DiGangi’s fiction and creative nonfiction has appeared in The Chicago Reader, Denver Quarterly, Fourth Genre, Asylum, Atlanta Quarterly, Cottonwood, Two Hawks Quarterly, and Under the Gum Tree, among others. A Chicago-born, former graphic designer and illustrator, she now teaches writing and is coordinator of tutoring services at Woodbury University in Burbank, California. Fun fact: During a short stint as an entertainment journalist, she once cracked a joke that made Joel and Ethan Coen laugh.