Free The Pedestal by Daniel Wimberley Page B

has already been transferred to a nearby recycling facility. Not a funeral home, where he might actually get an ounce of the respect he deserves, but a wretched compost plant—a meat grinder for human souls. Apparently, this was in motion before I even left the racks. I learn this halfway to the hospital, my fingers wringing each other into nervous taffy. If I was alone in this tram, I’d scream at the top of my lungs.
    I just can’t seem to catch a break.
    Upon redirecting my tram, my NanoPrint bursts a notification to the nexus. I wish I could rip it right out of my body. A few stops down the road, and suddenly I have the tram completely to myself. The availability beacon changes from green to red, yet I hardly notice. By now, the compulsion to scream has passed, but it’s still nice to be alone with my grief. Oddly, traffic seems to part before me, clearing a distinct path through Chicago’s bustling arteries like death itself. It might be my imagination, I suppose. Much of today has felt a little like this, though I haven’t realized it until this very moment—like I’m passing between the clockworks of time, the minutes rasping away faster than I can experience them. Like I’m allowed to watch and to disapprove, to throw fits and wail like an angry toddler if I choose to. But I’m prohibited to participate, to interfere. To influence the course of fate.
    Then, as I glance out my window at the pedestrians outside, noting their curious, sympathetic expressions, I realize what’s happened. I don’t know what triggered it—the implication of my destination? A rogue thought? Some hidden functionality in my daygrid? I can’t even imagine. One way or the other, though, thanks to the nexus, my tram has become a funeral procession of one.
    I’m not even sure how to feel about this. Normally, I’d be angry. Indignant, at the very least. Rather, I’m embarrassed—and maybe a little grateful, too.
    I’ve never been to a human disposal plant before, though I have an image in my mind of what one should be like: cold and dismal, tightly clad in concrete, streaked gray by the perpetual duress of rain and sadness. Inside: pale linoleum, drably painted cinderblock, tarnished fixtures, industrial steel everywhere. When I step inside the real thing, I discover that my preconceptions couldn’t have been more inaccurate. This place is plush and tastefully nouveau, from the serene garden in the foyer right down to the warm, inviting carpet.
    A matronly woman greets me at the front desk and explains that this facility—for all intents and purposes—really is a funeral home, meaning that the business end of human disposal lies elsewhere. When my questions stall, the woman politely offers to help me navigate the facility. It’s a large building, octagonal with a large fountain situated at its center. My escort leads me through an endless corridor which skirts its perimeter—the figurative circle of life, I guess. We pass a series of thematic viewing rooms along the way, most of which are not currently in use. I’ve lost count of them when the woman deposits me at an open door and, with a tidy bow, leaves me to my devices. From the hall, I hear soft music within.
    I poke my head in bashfully, peering around the strange space, afraid to commit my body to its unexplored belly just yet. My nostrils are pleasantly teased with a faint waft of peppermint and jasmine. The music is ethereal, calming.
    It’s nice. So I ease inside.
    The room is unoccupied, save for Arthur’s casket and a few rows of padded chairs. The casket is constructed from some sort of translucent, glowing resin. I step forward and notice tiny fossils suspended in the resin, trapped like insects in ancient amber. I suppose this is supposed to be symbolic of something—and it truly makes for a beautiful effect—but I’m too emotionally impaired to give it my full appreciation.
    But I have no doubt the nexus has taken note.
    Arthur looks good for a dead guy.