The afterlife was nothing like Ayrton had imagined. In no way did it resemble either the Garden of Eden, or the fiery depths of hell. The place looked more like a CIA call centre. Aryton only had a few seconds to take in the surroundings before a short man in a suit approached. “Ah, Mr. Senna, we’ve been expecting you,” said the man. He held out his hand and smiled.
Ayrton swapped the bulky helmet to his left hand and accepted the greeting with his right. “Where am I?” he asked, with obvious confusion.
“The afterlife,” replied the man, enthusiastically. “I’m Philip; come through and I’ll show you your desk.” He set off down a walkway that divided the office cubicles and gestured for Ayrton to follow. The formula one champion began pursuit, looking around the endless room of open workspaces as he marched. “You’re going to enjoy you time here,” assured Philip. “Some of your co-workers have been looking forward to your arrival.” He stopped abruptly; Aryton, gazing into the distance, failed to react in time. “Not the first collision of the day,” Philip smiled. “This is your desk.” He pointed to a vacant cubicle. “Coffee breaks are at ten and three; lunch a twelve.”
“Um, what am I supposed to do?” Aryton stammered.
“Your job is to listen in on people’s superstitions and alter reality accordingly; Cindy will run you through the details.”
“Superstitions?” asked Aryton.
Philip nodded. “You know when people believe that a random ritual, like wearing a certain pair of socks, or sleeping with a baseball bat, can affect the outcome of a sporting event?”
“Yeah.”
“We make that come true.”
“Really? What other departments are there?”
“That’s it,” said Philip. “Black cats, ladders, the number 13; they’re all very important.”
“So everything in the world occurs according to superstition?”
Philip smiled. “It’s as good a reason as any, isn’t it?”
Ayrton swapped the bulky helmet to his left hand and accepted the greeting with his right. “Where am I?” he asked, with obvious confusion.
“The afterlife,” replied the man, enthusiastically. “I’m Philip; come through and I’ll show you your desk.” He set off down a walkway that divided the office cubicles and gestured for Ayrton to follow. The formula one champion began pursuit, looking around the endless room of open workspaces as he marched. “You’re going to enjoy you time here,” assured Philip. “Some of your co-workers have been looking forward to your arrival.” He stopped abruptly; Aryton, gazing into the distance, failed to react in time. “Not the first collision of the day,” Philip smiled. “This is your desk.” He pointed to a vacant cubicle. “Coffee breaks are at ten and three; lunch a twelve.”
“Um, what am I supposed to do?” Aryton stammered.
“Your job is to listen in on people’s superstitions and alter reality accordingly; Cindy will run you through the details.”
“Superstitions?” asked Aryton.
Philip nodded. “You know when people believe that a random ritual, like wearing a certain pair of socks, or sleeping with a baseball bat, can affect the outcome of a sporting event?”
“Yeah.”
“We make that come true.”
“Really? What other departments are there?”
“That’s it,” said Philip. “Black cats, ladders, the number 13; they’re all very important.”
“So everything in the world occurs according to superstition?”
Philip smiled. “It’s as good a reason as any, isn’t it?”