Short Story - Michael and the Very Drab Office

While making a cup of coffee today, a line and a voice came to mind and I felt like I had to make it something. So I sat down and wrote this over the course of about an hour. I also forgot about my coffee. I don't think I've written anything in years, so forgive any errors or shitty writing

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Michael found himself sitting in a small, drab, windowless office. The type of place one might find if they visited a doctor or a therapist who could afford his or her own office in an office building in a city of middling expense. Not quite one who could afford a ground level office in an upper-middle-class suburb, perhaps, unless it was going cheaply. Perhaps one that had only had street-side parking.

On the wall to his left sat a bland painting of a sailboat on a river - the type one might find in the office of a doctor or therapist who could not afford good art, but rather what could be found at a website, such as cheap-doctor-office-art-dot-com, or perhaps officeartwholesalers-dot-net, or some equally low-priced doctors office art wholesaler.

To his right sat a poster featuring a forest scene, with the words "DON'T PANIC" in bold, white lettering. An odd thing to have in an office. Were he the type of man to panic easily, Michael might have taken that as a sign to begin panicking.

On the wall facing him, there was another poster of a glorious canyon at sunset, with the words "EVERYTHING WILL BE OKAY" in similar white lettering. Again, Michael noticed, an odd choice of thing to display in a room where one was supposed to think everything would be okay.

Michael glanced behind him, to see if there was anything on that wall, noting a cheap doctor's office photo of what seemed to be an Italian or Greek town. Perhaps Positano. Or Manarola. Or Porto Ercole. Not quite Portofino. Or Ponza. Definitely not Sperlonga. He reached for his mobile phone in his left pocket, but was surprised to find that it was not there. Very odd, he thought. He must have left it somewhere.

Well, he was fairly sure the painting had no relation to Sperlonga, if the Buzzfeed quiz on 'Which Pretty Italian Town Are You?' he took was to be trusted. For the record, he was Portofino, which he strongly disagreed with.

Michael turned back on his chair, vaguely irritated that the posters and paintings were on perpendicular walls, and not parallel walls. This threw out the feng shui of the room. He made a note to bring this to the attention of whoever came to see him.

In the middle of the room was a plain, but solid looking desk. A single unit computer slash screen sat to one side, and on the other side sat a metallic sphere - some kind of corporate desk art, he supposed - and a framed photo. His chair wasn't overly comfortable, nor uncomfortable. Michael supposed it could be described as medium comfortable. The type of chair that the British Physiology Association might recommend for a short visit in an office environment, but not one to sit in all day.

He looked at his hands, briefly, and as he looked back to the desk, he was surprised to find the desk now occupied with what he could describe as 'a person.' He was dressed rather drably in a white business shirt with a brown, white-striped tie, a brown waistcoat, and a rather ordinary face that could best be described as 'a face a person might have.' A brown jacket hung on a previously nonexistent coat rack.

"Oh!" exclaimed Michael. He immediately regretted his outburst, but perhaps it was justified for when a person who was not previously there was suddenly there.

"Hello.. mister..?" Michael asked, promptingly. The gentlemen gestured down towards an also previously nonexistent nameplate on the desk. It read 'Nigel.'

".. Nigel. Right," confirmed Michael, as if that solved everything. It did not. "Hello, Nigel. My name is Michael. Michael Suttridge." Perhaps introducing himself would help.

It didn't.

Nigel did not break his gaze, but looked on rather ordinarily and devoid of any form of emotion or interest.

"I know who you are, Michael Suttridge," advised Nigel, in a very plain voice, that could best be described as 'a voice that a person may have.' "You have an appointment." Michael was surprised to note he had an appointment. He wasn't entirely sure he remembered booking one. Nor what the appointment was for. Nor where. Nor for what.

"Erm.. Nigel? Would you be so kind as to tell me where I am? You see I know I was not here, and now all of a sudden I was here. Wherever here is." Nigel continued to stare patiently at Michael as he spoke. Once done, he folded his fingers on the desk in front of him.

"Welcome, Michael, to the afterlife. You are dead. This is where you come to be processed to your next destination." Nigel paused, seemingly awaiting some kind of reaction.

"Oh," said Michael. "And your name is.. Nigel? I would have expected something more.. exotic, in the afterlife. Perhaps Gabriel, or Raphael, or Uriel, or.." he squinted, and tried to remember the others. "Or Donatello."

Nigel's brows raised slightly.

"That last one was most definitely a Ninja Turtle, Michael, but Nigel is not my real name," he said, Michael thought a little defensively, though couldn't tell throigh the plain ordinariness of his voice. "It's just that my name can't be pronounced by mortal tongues."

Michael was rather a dab hand at pronouncing names. He could, quite proudly, pronounce the names of his Muslim colleague in his workplace, rather to the respect of his colleagues, who often could not. It was a toughy, too. Had a bunch of al and ibn and at least one glottal stop in it.

"Oh, go on. I bet I could pronounce it." Michael leaned forward to better listen, quietly confident with his abilities.

"Very well," said Nigel, who opened his mouth and spoke the song of time, the feeling of joy when a soldier returns safely to his loving wife, and the enjoyment of the first gulp from a crisp, freshly poured pint of a mid-strength, sessionable beer, with the smell of sausages cooking, friends bantering away, and kids playing out on the backyard.

"Ah," said Michael. "Yes. I suppose Nigel will do." He leaned in closer to Nigel, pulling his chair slightly forward in the process.

"Were you aware that your wall art throws off your office feng shui?"