One

     “I'm afraid we have a small problem. You aren't dead yet."
     The angel standing in front of me smiles apologetically and glances at the flatscreen console in front of him.  Well, I'm assuming this is an angel.  Who else would be waiting for me after I die?  A demon?  Not a path I want to explore.
     "So what do I do?" I ask. "I mean, I've been in line here for a long time. I think."
     "I know, um..." he checks his screen. "Alex…" He glances back up at me. "…and I'm very sorry," the angel says. "We don't like to postpone anyone's eternal destiny but you simply can't be allowed on this side. We apologize for any inconvenience this delay may cause."
     I glance around. The ferry which brought me and a crowd of other newly dead people across the river remains tied up at the dock. Water laps quietly up onto the shore. There's a park bench near the dock with someone sitting staring out at the beige sky. The other newcomers either wait in line or at one of a row of desks with, again, I'm assuming here, angels sitting at flatscreen consoles.
     "So I get to go back, then?"
     "You aren't dead. So you can't be here."  The angel sits back and taps his pen on the desk. "That's all I can help you with. Sorry."
     I jog back to the ferry as they untie it.  The what-I-hope-are angels look at me funny but they let me aboard.
     The dock warden on the other side is pretty gruff.
     "You can't come back here," he says.  "No dead souls without a permit."
     "But the angel on the other side said I wasn't dead yet."
     "Hand."
     "What?" I ask.
     "Hand. Give me your hand."
     The angel waves a pen or something over the back of my hand, then looks at a screen. As the pen crosses my hand, some kind of hologram tattoo lights up in my skin. I look at the angel to ask about this. He speaks first.
     "Yeah. If you were alive you'd be in my system. You're not. Who's working over there?"
     "I didn't catch his name."
     "Tall, blond, blue eyes? Big white fluffy wings hangin' off his shoulders? White robe?"
     "Yeah."
     "That's Frank."
     "But you all have white..."
     "He's kind of slow. Try him again."
     I didn't expect this kind of runaround in the afterlife. 'Course, I didn't expect an afterlife.
     "When can I go home?"
     "It's not your home anymore, friend. You're dead. Next!"
     I pace on the deck of the ferry with small, quick steps. The angels and other souls keep a distance between us. I guess I'm making them nervous but I don't care. Surely angels didn't play practical jokes on people.  They can't be mean, right? So that means this "Frank" must be a...
     Great. I'm going to Hell. I don't even believe in Hell and now I'm going there. I am so mad right now.
     As I approach him Frank looks surprised to see me.
     "You look surprised to see me," I tell him. "You are a heartless, petty little angel if you think telling a dead man he isn't really dead is funny."
     Frank looks down at me from his tallness. He's probably six-three or four to my five-ten. He looks down and - you've got to be kidding me - he looks like he's going to cry.
     "I didn't...," he starts. "I don't... I don't know what you're talking about!"
     "You said I wasn't dead..."
     "I said you aren't dead yet - yet! I said yet! Please, please don't file a complaint. It'd be my third this month. I can't get a third."
     A single tear rolls down his cheek and I'm totally at a loss. He can't be a demon. But surely angels don't break down like this, either.
     "So am I going to Hell or not?"
     "What are you talking about?" Frank's nose runs just a bit and he snorts, then wipes his nose on his robe sleeve. "Oh, I'm so stupid. I can't get in trouble again."
     He looks so pathetic. I can't help but feel for the guy.
     "Look, hey, man, or... whatever you are... I don't want to get you in trouble. I just want to know what's going on."
     Frank looks hopeful. "Hand, please."
     I give him my hand. He waves a pen-thing. The tat on my hand does its Fourth of July impression again.
     "Ok," Frank says, wiping his eyes and reading the screen. He squints a bit then tells me I'm half dead. "Your body lives but your brain is dead. That's why you can't go back, but you can't be here either."
     Memory: Tulsa, Oklahoma. The State Fair. I just won a stuffed Driller for Lola, my date. It's a replica of a giant statue of an oil driller at the front of the fairgrounds, Tulsa's famous Golden Driller. Lola and I have only been out twice before this and I feel good that I can win the doll for her. We walk over to get a pic in front of the actual Driller statue. She poses, the beautiful contrast of her deep black skin and unearthly blue eyes distracting me for a moment. Then a Mini Cooper flies into me, slamming me into the base of the statue. I land face up, staring up the Driller's nose. The combined impact of me and the Mini Cooper hitting the statue sends tremors through it and a piece of the nostril falls off, or out, of the statue. It hits me just above the eyes. I see the Driller statue look down at me. He smiles.
     The next thing I remember I'm in line to get on the ferry.
     Frank says the problem is that I'm not quite dead yet.
     "So what am I, if I'm not quite dead yet?"
     "You're In Between. Life and death, that is."
     "In between?"
     "No, no. In Between. You have to say it with capital letters so it sounds important," says Frank.
     "Is there someone else I can talk to?"
     Frank's eyes begin to tear up so I backpedal. I'm such a softy.
     "Or I can ask you. What do I do? Do I wander the earth, a lost soul searching for a home? Do I haunt a house?"
     Frank brightens. "You could haunt a house! I'll personally make sure you get the first one that comes open. For now, though, you stay Someplace Special."
     Frank leaves his desk and escorts me to the river. He looks around and then waves at a boat out on the water with a lone angel in it.
     "Michael!" Frank calls.  "Michael, row the boat ashore!"
     "…?" I nearly ask.
     "You'll enjoy this," Frank says. "Or that's what I'm told. I haven't been."
     Michael and his boat arrive.
     "Michael," Frank says, "would you be so kind as to take this one to the Barge?"
     "Yes, sir," Michael mumbles.
     We climb aboard the small boat and drift off into the mist hiding most of the river from view. Part of me feels I should be scared, but then again, either this is a dream or I'm dead. Either way I'm pretty safe, right?
     Michael is weird. Frumpy. His hair is a mess. His robe needs an iron. There's dirt under his nails. He's even got some stubble.
     "Michael?"
     "Hm."
     "How can I not be either dead or alive?"
     He looks at me. "Hm," he says.
     "Thanks for the help."
     "You don't have the vocabulary to discuss it, yet."
     "Oh, really, Mr. Spock?"
     Michael turns away from me and stares into the mist. "Really."
     He rows a bit. The angel I'm in a boat with is named Michael...
     "Michael?"
     "Hm."
     "Wow, here I am in the presence of the Archangel Michael! That's cool."
     "I'm not Michael the Archangel. I'm his cousin, Michael the ferryangel. Thank you for bringing him up."
     "Um...," I start.
     I’m distracted from a second attempt by a looming shape in the mist ahead. It resolves into an enormous party barge in the middle of the river. I get on board, thank Michael and look around. There are several groups of people, souls, I suppose. Some are alone huddled over drinks at the bar or at a table. Some look depressed. Some are more lively. As I step onto the barge one couple finishes dancing to Cheeseburger in Paradise and heads for a table. The man sees me and waves. He's wearing a black t-shirt, jeans and sandals. She's in a sun dress and boots. She's really, really beautiful.
     "Hello, Alex, and welcome to the Barge."
     I turn at the voice and see a bartender, rag in hand, stopped in mid bar-wipe to greet me.
     "How do you know who I am?"
     "I was told you were on the way. I'm Barry. This is my barge." He smiles. "What's your poison?"
     I can't keep the smile from creeping onto my face. This is all too silly.
     "I must be dreaming," I say.
     "Right," the bartender says. "So?"
     I look around the bar. Bamboo and straw roof. Barry in a flowery shirt. Still, I'm not an umbrella drink kind of guy. I decide to compromise. "Margarita," I say. "rocks, not frozen." 
     "Of course not. Slushies are for children," Barry replies. He begins the drink and I glance at the man who waved at me. He and the brunette sitting beside him look my way. Waiting. They seem friendly, but then again, they're dead, so I'm a little creeped out. Then again, I'm kind of dead, so maybe I shouldn't feel that way.
     Ah, dammit. This is going to take some getting used to.
     The margarita is good. I walk over to meet my new friends. The brunette pushes a chair out with her foot. I sit.
     "Hi. I'm Alex. I'm only just dead."
     "Tim." We shake hands. "I'm glad you're friendly. Most of these goofballs are so morose."
     "Marie," the woman says. She looks me over like I'm on sale. Tim doesn't seem to mind. I don't either.
     "C'mon," Tim says, standing. I follow his gaze and see most of the others gathering at the other end of the barge. They're forming up in a semi-circle around a man at a microphone. I don't like him. He licks his lips and sighs a lot.
     Marie and I follow Tim to a table at the far end of the boat from the gathering. Barry, too, finds his way to the far end of the barge from the group.
     "So you aren't quite dead, either?" I ask as we sit at our new table. Tim and Marie take seats which face out over the water. Mine provides a view of the rest of the barge as well as the water and mist.
     "Oh, we're dead, but we altered our IDs." Tim shows me the back of his hand. He's got a hologram on his hand, too.
     "ID?"
     "Look," Marie says, taking my hand. Wow, her skin is soft. Wait, why would a ghost have soft skin? I'm so confused.
     "There," she says and I look at my hand. She points at the holographic tattoo.
     "That is your ID. We got ours changed so we do not have to cross over."
     "Doesn't Barry figure it out?" I ask.
     "Barry likes us," Tim says. "We're not like the others."
     Voices drift across the barge and it turns out the gathering is a poetry reading.

     "In time we come,
     In time we go.
     but yet, we did not really go,
     now did we?

     I hate this."

     Fingers snap as the first poet finishes. Tim rolls his eyes. Marie gazes out at the mist.
     "Open mic night?" I ask.
     "Every night is open mic night around here." Tim shakes his head and reaches for his glass. Drains it.
     "Is the poetry always that good?"
     "That was their best," Marie replies.
     Her eyes meet mine and just for a moment I wonder if ghosts can make the beast with two backs. The eye contact sticks for a bit. She looks away. I like this lady. I like Lola, too. Lola, who is still very much alive… What's a boy to do?
     This is going to take some getting used to, I say to myself. Again. More poetry drifts over.

     "My life was a flower:
     a rose, unblemished.
     It's beauty caused all to gaze in awe.
     It's aroma made all things new.
     It's thorns did never draw blood.
     It's sweetness was admired by all.
     Now look at it.
     Trampled.
     Broken.
     Food for rabbit, cow, horse.
     Wet with the vomit of a thousand flies,
     As they devour what remained of my dignity.

     I hate this."

     More snapping.
     "You listen to this all the time?" I ask.
     "Nah," Tim says. "We get out a lot."
     I look around at the water and mist surrounding the barge. "Out where?"
     A third poet slouches her way to the mic.

     "Time has tried.
     In fact, it has succeeded.
     When I was old I did wear purple.
     Now I'm stuck on this damn barge.

     I hate this."

     "We see movies!" Marie exclaims. "I love the IMAX. It's like magic."
     "Fire seems like magic to you, though, so that's not really a compliment."
     "Shut up, Tim." Marie looks at me. "I died in the sixties. Tim likes to make fun but I am not old." The last three words are punctuated with slaps on Tim's arm.
     Tim ignores her and answers my question. "We go haunting sometimes. Find some kids making out or a bunch of campers. Make them wet themselves." He smiles at me. "I figure, hey, we're dead. Can't change it. Might as well enjoy it."
     "Can you show me?" I ask.
     "Sure."
     The fourth poet clears his throat.
     "How about now?"