The Soul Deployment Agency

"I've been a janitor, a road-kill collector, an indicted sleaze-ball politician, a homeless junkie in New York, an African dictator, a Japanese prostitute, a career telemarketer—which is why I'm here again because I couldn't take it one more day! Why do I put up with this, Monty? When do I get my E.L.O.A. papers?"

The office was silent.

Monty's desk chair made a loud squeak that overpowered the quiet of the office floor. He pulled a manila file folder from a large, disheveled pile of others just like it. The accumulation of paper was getting out of hand, and he was somewhat ashamed of this disorganization. The R.R.S's (Registered Recurring Souls) hardly took him seriously as it is, even though he wore fresh-pressed, tailored button-down shirts with a tie. It was a put-together look. It was professional. But was it any use? Just look at Gene pushing his case again for the billionth time—presuming that Monty would eventually cave in to his complaints. Although he was sure a pressed collared shirt garnered special powers only the office devotee would understand, it was going to take more to put that weasel in his place. Monty slicked his hand over his bald spot and adjusted his red eyeglasses. His five-o'clock shadow was closer to six, his bleary eyes drooped from exhaustion, and his brow furrowed from impatience.

"That's your own fault, Gene. You make an absolutely terrible human being, and as long as you keep it up, you won't get your E.L.O.A.'s. Next time you terminate early, I'm transferring you to the A.I.O.C. department--you remember what that is? Animals, Insects, and Other Creatures? We'll see you perform as cockroach."

"You wouldn't! You--you would never! I've been through rotation over forty times and I have progress to show for it! Progress!"

"Progress, Gene?"

Gene adjusted himself and scratched at his bedraggled grey hair. His white bathrobe was no longer a lustering pearl as it was in his first rotation, but was instead jaundiced and stained in yellows and coffee spills that were unsuccessfully washed out. Gene looked the part of his prescribed position at the S.D.A. His eyes were close together, his face drawn and sunken, and his smile was clearly up to no good.

"Well, yeah, progress," Gene repeated, clearing his throat, "I once had a Master's Degree and I volunteered at an electronics recycling center," 

"You know what, I think I remember something like that. Why don't we take a look at your file..."

"Well, I don't think that's really necessary..."

Monty looked a little pleased with himself and opened the file to the right page on the first turn.

"--Rotation Seven, Americas District, Female, active from A.D. years 1964 to 2001...Oh, here we go: Master's Degree in Microeconomics attempted after completion of Bachelor's in the same major. It is noted that the subject dropped out after accepting a position in underground human trafficking, which sold kidnapped persons to an electronics recycling plant in China as slaves. Surprisingly enough, I'm not impressed," Monty closed the folder and crossed his arms on the desk, waiting enthusiastically for whatever terrible excuses Gene would most definitely use.

"It benefitted the economy. I was a business woman."

"Gene," Monty turned to his computer and began to click and type, completing the usual protocol of redeploying an R.R.S., "You electively make up the small percentage of assholes we have to keep the world populated with. It's a dirty job, somebody has to do it, and look at you: you're great at it. But as long as you keep leading bad—evil—existences you won't get any long-term rewards. The Big Boss promotes from within--you know how it works. Get your act together. Save kittens. Have kids. Clean a beach. Win a Nobel Peace Prize. And quit acting like it's not your fault you make these choices."

Monty pulled a yellow paper from his printer titled REASSIGNMENT, marked it with a red rubber "APPROVED" stamp and stapled it into Gene's folder, and then handed it to the reluctant client.

"No good, lousy bureaucrat..." old Gene muttered.

Monty smiled and tilted his chin, "Thank you for choosing the Soul Deployment Agency for your existential needs. We hope to have your business again."

Gene looked as if he wanted to say something else, but instead grumbled and stomped out of the cubicle. Monty chuckled to himself proudly, and then crossed Gene142955937573's name off of the schedule.

It was four-thirty in the afternoon, and his next appointment would be here any moment: Gene 142955999743. The name was unfamiliar. He scratched his head and opened an unwrinkled, pristine looking file with only white paper on the inside. The file was thin, compared to the many other files behind him that were chocked full of yellow REASSIGNMENT papers. On the inside, the white paper was titled "ROTATION 1: DEPLOYMENT."

This must have been a mistake. Monty was a representative of the S.D.A.'s redeployment center and exclusively worked with R.R.S.'s. In fact, he had never even seen a first-timer. But there on the white paper was Monty's name, listed as the main representative for this new Gene 142955999743. He stopped for a moment and leaned back in his chair, which squeaked unhappily at the weight.  He noticed an ambient ringing of telephones, and muffled voices behind the other grey-upholstered cubicles, that he had never really noticed before. Usually he was too busy to notice them. He hadn’t even noticed the distorted, softly played jazz music that came from the wood-encased speaker in the nearest ceiling corner. He was very confused. It had been many years since Monty was confused.

A very young-looking Gene sheepishly peered around the corner into Monty's cubicle. His bathrobe was a clean bright white, and his skin was bright, unflawed. He seemed anxious, nervous, and maybe even scared.

"Please, have a seat," beckoned Monty. He observed the young blonde-haired Gene and suddenly felt a little out of his comfort zone. Perhaps he should ring the department supervisor and have this Gene sent to First Deployments. This was really not his job, not his forte, and just not normal for him. 

"Gene 1-4-2-9-5-5-9-9-9-7-4-3?" Monty confirmed.

Gene thought about it for a moment, and clearly couldn't remember if that was his name or not. He retrieved a small identity card in his pocket, and he nodded when he found that the number matched. Gene bit his bottom lip and smiled enthusiastically.

"Okay then," said Monty. He looked down at the file, and read that there was a required introductory statement he was supposed to spiel off to the client. Well, here went nothing: "Welcome to the Soul Deployment Office. We'd first like to begin by thanking you for using our services for all your existential needs,"

"--what am I?" interrupted Gene.

Monty had never been asked this before. Wasn't the answer painfully obvious? Gene's eyes were wide, and his expression was excited with a childlike curiosity Monty had never ever seen. R.R.S.'s were tired, unhappy, bored, or occasionally rushed and business-like. They only asked questions regarding their long-term benefits and tended to complain a lot. 

"Well," he began, interlacing his fingers and resting his elbows onto the desk, "You're a soul."

Gene considered this answer for a moment, and eagerly licked his lips before turning to Monty again, "What's a soul?"

Monty could not believe he was having this conversation.

"Well, it's…uh, a you," he motioned his hands towards Gene, "You're a spirit who has commissioned us, the Soul Deployment Agency, to send you into the world to live as a person and be, well, a life. The life you become is kind of up to you; we just get you there and then see how you did when you come back. Some people just don't really put a lot into it and end up getting redeployed over and over again, and maybe never even stop, and either way you become an R.R.S.. Other's, well, they really make it special. And if the big boss likes the progress you've made, then you are awarded your E.L.O.A. papers--Eternal Leave of Absence. It means you never have to go back again. But you have to really work towards that, and you don't always earn it on a first try. Being a person is really hard work, and you'll make a lot of mistakes. But it's the effort that counts."

"Oh," said Gene, "What's a person?"

"You know," Monty shook his head, "I really don't know if I'm qualified to really tell you any of this. I work in Redeployment, you see, and I've been doing it since... forever. But you must understand, what you're asking isn't what I do. I should really call my supervisor."

Monty reached for the shiny black telephone handset.

"Oh, don't do that, please!" said Gene, shaking his head. He scooted forward to the edge of his seat, "I don't mean to be annoying, and I just don't understand why I'm here. I just don't understand--that's all. You're the only guy I've talked to, please help me?"

Monty put the phone back, and sighed, "All right."

Gene was pleased and was ever so ready for his answer, "A person, looks kind of like you, but could be male or female. You won't know your issued background information or gender until you get there. But you'll arrive, er—naturally… into the world—you'll be born, that is. You eventually become an adult person and do things. You'll give yourself a purpose and you'll meet other souls--people like yourself."

"Okay, well, this sounds very interesting. I suppose I'd like to try it."

"You'll experience things like...happiness. You'll like that one the best, and you can find it many different ways. Sometimes other people even give it to you intentionally. And then there's sadness which isn't really all it's cracked up to be, but it can be educational."

"I see,"

"And then there's another thing called love, and some R.R.S.'s just can't get enough of the stuff—they say it's a little like crack cocaine."

"What's that?" asked Gene excitedly.

"I think that conversation is better left for another time, but try to avoid drugs while you're down there. Anyhow, other R.R.S.'s say to avoid love at all costs because it has both happiness and sadness and you never know which you'll end up with more of—it's a little uncertain."

"Oh,"

"You can read more about these things at our Emotion Resource Center on the fifth floor, you know. They also have free chocolate and weekly meetings on what can happen if your person ends up a glutton, depressed, schizophrenic, or other things. I'm really not the best one to ask about this stuff--it's really an area for the specialists. I once had a R.R.S. that kept coming back as an attorney. I finally referred him to the fifth floor to talk to the Debased Soul Office, and see if he could start over somehow. The poor guy really got the short end of the stick," Monty laughed.

Gene smiled awkwardly; clearly not understanding most of what Monty was talking about.

"Listen, the point is, it's a job. Just get in there, do your best, and your hard work won't go by unnoticed. Do you understand now?"

"I guess so," said Gene, "It does sound like good work."

"It is," agreed Monty, "It has it ups and downs, and once you're there, you won't really want to end up back at the S.D.A."

         "Then, why will I have to come back?"

         Monty was getting a little impatient with these questions, "Because it's contract-to-contract, and people don't last forever."

"Well, why not? If it's such good work, why can't a soul just stay there as a person forever? Why is it designed that way?"

         "I've never asked—that's just how it is. Don’t worry, the termination process can vary but overall it goes quickly and you'll be back at my desk before you know it."

"But why?"

"Gene, we don't ask why. That's just how it is."

"Have you ever done it?"

"Done what?"

"—been a person? Gone into the world and worked?"

"No, I work here. This is my job. I’m an Employed Soul. Being a Deployed Soul is your job."

"But haven't you ever wanted to try it? Haven't you ever wondered what it was like?"

Monty had never been asked this before. He had never even thought this before. Monty had sat in this cubicle for generations, since he was first created and on top of that, had always worked in Redeployment. Come to think of it he had never left the cubicle. While he pondered upon this, he could hear the hustle of the office and the ambient phone ringing and distorted jazz again. This time he could also hear the stamping of yellow REASSIGNMENT papers and clacking of computer keyboards. He noticed the sterile white walls and the navy paisley carpet beneath his feet. Monty had always been so busy that he had never noticed these things. A clock ticked over his head--just how long had that clock been going? What a question to ask! It was clearly derailing him from his work. Work. Appointments. Stamps. Papers. The little hand on the clock continued to roll over the numbers. The phones rang. 

"Haven't you ever wanted to?" Gene asked again.

"I suppose I have been doing this a long time," said Monty, "But I had never thought about changing careers before. I've always been a part of the S.D.A."

"Do you like it?"

"What does that matter?"

"You said that most R.R.S.'s don't want to come back here, but you work here. If being in the world is such good work, why are you still here?"

Monty's head spun from the noise all around the office, and suddenly felt stagnant and bored. He was restless and confused. He knew of the world and the things inside it, and what was required to be a person and earn E.L.O.A. papers. He had never wondered before what it was like to be born, to become some one: to experience happiness, sadness, love, crack cocaine, or a career as an attorney. He had heard of all these things from the R.R.S.'s he had represented, but never had he thought about becoming one. How many years had he been in this noisy office? How long had that clock been going? What was it like to earn a Master's degree? What was did it feel like to wear a white bathrobe? They looked so comfortable. He placed a hand onto his neglected mid-section and fingered the buttons on his ironed shirt.

Monty shook his head and turned to his computer to complete the rest of Gene's paperwork. A yellow paper came shooting out of his printer, and a red APPROVED stamp was marked onto the upper right corner. Refusing to continue the conversation, Monty handed the file to Gene and said, "Thank you for choosing the Soul Deployment Agency for your existential needs. We hope to have your business again."

Gene said a mild "thank you," accepted the file, and left the cubicle in slow shuffled steps. Monty could hardly hear himself over the deafening noise in the Redeployment office. The ringing of phones hissed in his ear, the pounding of the keyboards made the hairs on his neck stand up, and he could hardly stand the distorted music one more second. All at once, Monty stood up and looked over the acres of grey cubicles in the endless S.D.A. building. It went on forever. And there were hundreds of other representatives, enormous piles of files, and many, many white-robed clients with little green identity cards. How long had these clocks all been going? He had never heard them ticking until today. Monty had never stood up from his desk until today. And it had been so many years since he was confused.

Suddenly the phone at his desk rang, and he promptly answered it: "Soul Deployment Agency--Redeployments--Monty speaking, how may I help you?"

But no one was on the other line; perhaps an accidental call. He placed the handset back on the receiver and crossed off his last appointment: Gene 142955999743. He turned around and looked for his next client in the very disorganized stack of manila folder files. 

And the office was silent.