The Admissions Committee on Reincarnated Souls (ACORS)

Alan shuffled papers back into a manila folder and placed it atop the tall stack next to him on the table. “Alright, how many more are there?” he asked, removing his glasses and massaging the bridge of his nose.

Rodney briefly picked through the messy pile of papers scattered in front of him. “A handful.”

“I have to be out of here by four today,” Susan reminded. “Not sure if I mentioned that before, but—”

“You heard Rodney,” Alan said gruffly. “Let’s press through these last few souls.” He put his glasses back on. “Who’s next on the list?”

“Jim Hodges,” Rodney said, glancing down at an oversized chart written in blue ballpoint pen and littered with coffee stains and streaks of red, yellow, and green highlighter. “Owned a small house-painting business in Indiana. Drinking problem. Threatened his wife a few times, but never any more than that.”

Susan exhaled contemplatively. “I don’t like the sound of the wife-threatening. What do you say we put him someplace where he’ll really have no control? Someone whose entire existence is just to be a human wastebin for others’ misplaced aggression?”

“I see we have an opening for an Associate Marketing Manager in Kentucky,” Rodney said, flipping through a Rolodex.

“Fine,” Susan said, rapping her nails on the table. “Next soul.”

“Amanda Desantis,” Rodney answered. “Born middle class. Died….” he trailed off, skimming the rest of the page he held in front of him, “middle class.” He flipped through pink and yellow carbon-copy pages stapled to the back of the page. “Gave good birthday presents. Dropped out of community college. Never moved to another car when a homeless person got on the subway.”

“Any extracurriculars?” Alan asked.

Rodney looked through the files. “Above-average at drawing 3-D cubes, according to her optional supplement. Here are some samples.” He handed a pad of Post-It notes to Alan.

Alan peered over the rims of his glasses. “I’ve seen better.” He passed the Post-Its to Susan. “She sounds decent, but I’m not seeing that she took advantage of her opportunities, which, of course, is what we’d need to see to consider a promotion.”

“I see she has two girls,” Susan remarked. “Single mother? She could be eligible for our FastTrack to Universal Oneness Jump-Start Initiative.”

 

Alan shook his head no. “Section 10-9840.2(b), remember. The cycle of death and rebirth can only be completed by the achievement of pure divinity, or by minority students with an unweighted GPA above 3.75.”

 

“Well, maybe she’s there?” Rodney suggested. “I’m not seeing anything bad in this file.”

 

Alan tsked. “Really? Amanda Desantis is our standard-bearer for pure divinity now? It’s says here she’d post a ton of stories to Instagram.”

 

“How many stories are we talking?” Susan asked.

 

“Fifteen. Like everyday.” He squinted at the page. “And she preferred Michael McDonald’s versions of Motown songs.”

 

Susan whistled through her teeth.

 

Alan shrugged. “I say we reincarnate her as Amanda Desantis.”

 

“Alrighty, Amanda’s taking a mulligan.” Susan grabbed a rubber stamp from the table, pressed it down firmly on the top page of the stack in front of her, and then tossed the entire file over her shoulder. “Next?”

 

Rodney thrust his hand into the pile of manila folders in the center of the table and pulled one out. “Sparky. Labrador Retriever. Liked to lay in the sun for a while and then move into the shade. Killed a squirrel once.”

 

“I always like it when dogs have people names,” Susan commented. “Like George. George the dog.”

 

“There’s a note in the file that Sparky is a potential candidate for our First Generation Human Adult Fellowship.”

 

“Do we think he’s ready for that?” Rodney asked.

 

“Says here he was early acceptance to stillborn in his previous life.” Alan flipped through the pages in the file. “Obviously, not a lot he could do to prove himself at that time, but he built on that experience to come back as a Lab this time.” He pointed to the top line of the page before him. “Before that, he was a poodle.”

 

Susan removed a sheet of heavy cream-colored stationary from her folder. “He does have a letter of recommendation,” she interjected. “I’m sure we all remember Bowser, the seeing-eye dog who’s now a state senator in California.” Rodney and Alan murmured solemnly. “Bowser and Sparky were apparently in the same doggy day center for many summers. Bowser learned a great deal from Sparky about sitting, staying, and looking adorably sad to get behind-the-ear-scratches.”

 

“He sounds like a strong candidate. But I see here he was only in the middle of his obedience school class,” Rodney cautioned. “We don’t want another Carter Page situation on our hands.”

 

“Everyone knows those obedience school tests favor German Shepherds,” Susan grumbled, glancing at her watch.

 

“I’m sold,” Alan declared. “That doctor we like in Maine is expecting a boy soon. Sparky will love growing up to become an adult ultimate frisbee coach.”

 

Rodney nodded in assent. “His strengths will come in handy there.” He glanced down at his sheet. “Next, we have Hank Thomas. African-American. Ninety-two. Drove a cab in Manhattan for fifty-seven years. Loved jazz. Devoted husband, father, and grandfather. Apparently wrote some poetry on the side. Penned a song in his twenties, but some guy downtown stole the rights and made a mint on it.”

 

Alan chewed the inside of his lip. “We can bring him back as a white guy,” he decided.

 

“Sounds good.” Rodney made a sweeping check mark next to Hank’s name and dropped the paper onto a pile to his left.

 

“And then one item of outstanding business,” Susan said briskly, as she pulled a banker’s box out from under the table, blew a thin layer of dust off the lid, and removed a stack of yellowed pages. “We still have some undecided celebrity files that have to be dealt with by the end of the month, per the guidance issued on April 14. As you know, we’ve been unsure how to resolve the many contradictions in the John Lennon file for decades now.”

 

“Oh, I was thinking about this on the train the other day,” Rodney said. “How about we bring him back as the only child of that lady who’s been dying to have a son, Alana Finkelstein?”

 

“She’ll eat him alive,” Alan chuckled. “You know what we always say, be careful what you wish for.”

 

Susan nodded and made a small notation on the page. Then she rolled up the paper, secured it in a plastic canister, and sent it zipping up a pneumatic tube mounted in the corner of the room. “Is that it, then?”

 

“I’m afraid we still have the Associate Messiah matter to wrap up.”

 

Susan slumped down in her seat and groaned.

 

“We’ve had virtually no one in the Upper Great Lakes since our last messiah was beat to death outside of that strip club in Duluth,” Rodney said emotionlessly, thumbing through a banker’s box to his right.

 

 “Does it even matter?” Susan complained. “We still have our District Manager of Messianic Operations in Chicago, and he seems to be holding down the fort alright.”

 

Alan shook his head. “We really need boots on the ground. Reports out of the area are showing increased levels of theft and masturbation.”

 

Susan sighed. “Who are our top candidates, then?”

 

“Well, we’ve got Sam Riley,” Rodney said. “The guy who volunteered at the soup kitchen once a week and recycled. He sent a check to the ACLU last January after the travel ban.”

 

Alan inclined his head slightly. “Bachelor’s from Vassar, right? We’re familiar with the Rileys, I believe. Fine family.”

 

Rodney nodded in agreement. “Of course, we’re all appreciative of the Riley Multimedia Center.” Susan rolled her eyes. “Or we have Valencia Rodriguez. Activist and community organizer based out of Detroit, so she would be somewhat local. Vegan. Lent her boyfriend $3000 once and never got it back.”

 

“Well, she sounds promising,” Susan said, brightening. “It sounds like she has a propensity for leadership. Strong empathy levels.”

 

Alan wrinkled his nose. “It says here she participated in slam poetry readings from 1988 to 2015.” He tsked. “Bearing in mind the clarifying regulations issued by the Board after the Martin Luther King, Jr. assassination, we try to avoid promoting potentially divisive individuals to this position.” He glanced at Susan. “Also, we could really use a small fitness center for some of the diabetics we’re reincarnating as lacrosse players.”

 

“So Sam, then?” Rodney asked.

 

Alan nodded. “We’ll start him off as Associate Messiah on a three-month probationary period, pending review and permanent installment.”

 

“Sure,” Rodney agreed, “although there’s going to be pretty fierce competition for this guy from the South American branch. He did spend a summer backpacking in Patagonia after his sophomore year.”

 

“We’ll throw him a Magdalene,” Alan shrugged. “Besides, if he has any interest in transcending the physical world and becoming pure energy, we offer much more substantive opportunities, anyway.”

 

“Terrific,” Susan said, standing and slapping the tabletop definitively. “I gotta skate. I made plans to play dominos with the Buddha at six.”