I found myself in an elegant white room, standing in line with a lot of people who all looked just as out-of-place as me. At the end of the line, there sat this pious-looking gentleman with snow-white mustache that ran five inches below his chin. He wore a white, silky robe with a golden belt that loosely clung on his waist.
I think I know where I am, I thought.
I spent the next few hours trying to construct the right answers -- if what I'm thinking is correct, and this man is who I think he is, then I have to make sure to earn a spot.
When it was finally my turn, I walked up to the man in a rehearsed manner, one that I've seldom ever used. I actually looked like I'm on my way to a job interview, minus the executive attire. I'm set to make a good impression.
I gave my warmest smile to the gentleman who studied me uncongenially before turning to a case folder that presumably bore all the intricate details of my life. If I'm intimadated by him at this point, I made sure he didn't see it.
"Wallace Turner?" he said after scanning the pages infront of him.
I nodded in silence, the tension swimming its way through my nerves, if I still had any.
"A bank manager, a dutiful husband, responsible father..." he grunts indifferently. Imagine a cashier at a huge department store just a few minutes before closing time -- that's exactly how he looked like, except that the line of people behind me grows longer every hour. Maybe someone will take his place after his shift? Does that how it works even here?
He asked me some questions that were far too irrelevant from what I've prepared for. Like, "How many cars did you own?", "Do you know how to cook?", "Why did you paint your garage red?". And after a couple more of this, he closed my folder and motioned for me to climb up the stairs behind him that I oddly didn't notice before. At the end of the stairs stood a mysterious wooden door. "That must be it," I thought.
I smiled at him. "So, I passed, didn't I?"
"You're here. Of course you passed!" he replied, his hoarse voice echoing all around us. I dismissed his reaction as a sign of aging.
"Aren't we supposed to be celebrating, then? I'm going to heaven, right?" I said, looking at him expectantly.
Upon hearing this, he finally cracked and started laughing hysterically.
"You dumb, son? That's where you came from! You blew it!"
He was still laughing when I was ushered by other men who looked like him. I blankly followed them as we climbed up the stairs, and through the wooden door where I might never see the light again.
