And next thing he knew, there he was on a bench in an airport. It was a cramped and busy place. The planes parked on the taxiway were all pink and purple. The sun had holes in it. He looked at the man sitting to his left.

“Oh, shit!” he said.

“Hello, little brother,” said Civilai.

“Really?” said Siri. “I don’t hear from you for months and the day I finally get to talk to you is the day I die?”

Auntie Bpoo, the spirit guide, who was dressed as a highly decorated pilot, stepped up to the microphone to announce a departure and read a list of the passengers.

“But first,” she said, “a poem.”

“No,” Siri shouted.

All the passengers looked at him. Most of them were in a sorry state, missing this or that limb. There were one or two conditions that Siri recognized: a poisoning, a garroting, a drowning. Being a coroner would be of no value at all in limbo. Knowing how you died is of no use whatsoever once you’ve gone.

“Not a poem on my last day,” Siri yelled at the top of his voice.

Auntie Bpoo ignored him.

Who are they? she began.

To display themselves

These media elves?

Celebrities

Without a skill

No role to fill.

Famous dull nonentities.

“Rubbish,” said Siri.

“What makes you think it’s your last day, little brother?” said Civilai.

“Are you serious?” said Siri. “Look around. All these obviously dead people are about to step on a flight. The satire is intense. Auntie Bpoo’s symbolic but hairy hand has never been less subtle. I’m on my way. You’re here to see me off.”

Civilai laughed.

“Actually, you’re here to see me off,” he said.

“You’re already departed,” said Siri.

“No, I was just sitting here on standby watching the flights leave. Every day I’d give my ticket to this or that granny in a hurry to join Granddad.”

“So you aren’t dead?”

“Of course I’m dead. Absolutely. Death by alcohol. No more certain way to kill yourself. But I’ve very kindly hung around here in the transit lounge so we could get together from time to time when you crossed over. Tell a few jokes. Reminisce a bit. Solve the problems of the world over glasses of something tasteless that looks like rum. We sit on a one-dimensional log and look over what I remember the Mekong to look like.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“To tell the truth, Siri, I’m not having that many new experiences over here. I’m not padding out my resumé at all. I’ve been living my death vicariously through you. The spirits you can talk to are the ones that refuse, point-blank, to admit we’re not around anymore. Bpoo will never move on. Some of these old farts have been here in the transit lounge forever. Look at that poor bastard.”