Dr. Amaz's Gateway to Immortality

Image by Nhia Moua, Unsplash

In Round 3 of the 2021 NYC Midnight Short Story Challenge, I had 48 hours to write a 1,500-word story with the surprise topics of comedy, immortality, and a statistician. Comments from judges include, “The writer is a commanding storyteller” and “I thoroughly enjoyed this fun, outrageous comedy…"

Dr. Amaz’s Gateway to Immortality

by Meghan Robins

Day one of Jacklyn’s internship was typical: Here’s the coffee machine, printer. Are you good with printers? These are rows of human preservation canisters… Dr. Amaz was tall. He wore loafers without socks, Levis uncuffed, pristine lab coat, stoic frown. His smooth dark skin and drooping eyes gave him a young-but-wise appearance. The sign out front read “Dr. Amaz Life Insurance Company.” The sign in back read “Cryonic Preservation Foundation.” Something about this internship wasn’t right, but Jacklyn needed the credits, and this was the address Professor Tudor had given her.

“Sit here,” Dr. Amaz said, tapping a desk with two fingers. “Have clients fill this out, then buzz me. Whatever you do, don’t answer their questions.”

At 8:30am, Benjamin rushed in. “Sorry I’m late. You must be the intern.” He held out his hand. His olive skin and almond eyes sent Jacklyn’s heart aflutter. Sweat pooled between their palms. “I’m Benjamin, lead statistician.”

Benjamin explained their systems, operations, her daily tasks. “Mostly, we need you to record whose insurance funds will run out before their liquid nitrogen does.”

“I’m sorry,” Jacklyn said. “The internship form said—"

Benjamin shushed her and pointed to his embroidered lapel: “The gateway to immortality.” As if that answered everything.

Rows of silver tanks lined the backroom. They could’ve been brewing beer for all she knew—the college student’s gateway to immortality. But each tank had a name, policy number, digital screen, and a tiny window at the top, too tall for her to see through.

“Shouldn’t medical staff be doing this?” Jacklyn asked. Standing beside Benjamin, she felt warm and cool all at once.

“Oh, these people are dead,” Benjamin said. “We’re like high-tech storage facilitators.”

Dr. Amaz cleared his throat. “We’re life insurance brokers.”

“Who’ve found a way to keep on collecting.” Benjamin grinned.

“Who are these people?” Jacklyn peered across a row of severed heads.

“Politicians mostly. People who altruistically chose the ‘for humanity’s sake’ checkbox. We try not to judge.” Benjamin winked.

“And these?” Jacklyn blushed, pushing her glasses up her freckled nose.

“Divorcees mostly. No better way to spite a loved one than redirecting funds to your own impossible re-animation. Take Number Five here, Mr. Bradigan. He took the liquid nitrogen plunge to ensure his fortune is spent preserving his own body, indefinitely. He’s just one of many clients looking for final ways to screw their spouse.”

Dr. Amaz, who never seemed to stop checking thermostats, called from another row, “The odds of science catching up is low. But the moment I added Cryonic Preservation to our life insurance forms, policy sales skyrocketed. It was only a matter of time before I had enough to purchase human-sized tanks and do the storing myself.”

That afternoon, an elderly man shuffled in. “I’m here for my procedure,” he announced, arms wide open.

“Certainly,” Jacklyn said. “Please fill out this form.”

The man beckoned her over with curled knuckles. He read the form aloud: “Reasons for choosing cryonic tissue preservation: a) to benefit society b) to seek immortality c) to avoid death. I’d like to add another option ‘to avoid know-nothing millennials and other dumb questions.’”

“Excuse me?” Jacklyn brushed the pleats of her skirt.

“There, like that,” he said. “I’m ready for immortality already.”

Benjamin turned the corner, coffee filled to the brim. “Good morning, Mr. Johnson. You’re looking alive and well.”

“Screw you.”

Jacklyn handed back the clipboard.

“Do you want me to kill myself?” Mr. Johnson asked.

“We’d rather you didn’t, sir.” Benjamin took a sip.

Jacklyn smiled longingly at Benjamin. She startled when Dr. Amaz emerged from the backroom. “Mr. Johnson, you know the drill. No de-animation till you kick the bucket…naturally.” Dr. Amaz wagged a finger. “It doesn’t work if you kill yourself. That sort of abuse just can’t be undone.”

Mr. Johnson grumbled and handed Jacklyn a check for ten thousand dollars.

***

For weeks, Jacklyn scrolled through files, recording phrases like ‘catastrophic tissue failure,’ ‘organ obliteration,’ ‘literal cracking of the heart’ in her spreadsheet.

Under reasons for procedure, she noted that most clients checked the box for ‘benefits associated with avoiding death.’

“What are the benefits of avoiding death?” she asked Benjamin one day.

“Not being dead,” he said. “That’s literally the only benefit.”

Despite herself, Jacklyn flushed. Maybe it was her lame college dating scene but there was something about him, his enthusiasm, his passion. The way his chest swelled under his shirt.

“Do you want to get drinks?” she asked.

Benjamin’s eyes dropped, but he smiled. Before answering, he stole a glance at Dr. Amaz. Jacklyn understood right away. The odds of finding happiness with a bisexual statistician were low, but she didn’t care. She’d intended to invite them both.

Over drinks, Benjamin gave her the run down. “Full-body clients pay twenty thousand a year. Severed heads, fifteen. Living policy holders pay up to eight-hundred a month. Mr. Johnson for example, has been paying into his policy for twenty-seven years.”

Dr. Amaz chuckled. “His problem is he just won’t die.”

Jacklyn laughed too loudly and touched Dr. Amaz’s arm. He flinched.

“I’m sorry,” Jacklyn said.

“No, I am.” Dr. Amaz gripped his mouth and rushed to the bathroom.

“What have you done?” Benjamin said, knocking his chair back to watch Dr. Amaz go. “Don’t you know warm tissue makes him queasy!”

In afterthought, he sat back down and grabbed Jacklyn’s hand. “What did he feel like?”

***

The next day, Jacklyn wished she’d feigned sick. Inexplicably, the backroom was hissing and gray. Shining human canisters were rhythmically spitting puffs of liquid nitrogen.

“What happened?” she asked.

Benjamin rushed at her. “They’re thawing, all of them. Bring your spreadsheets!”

Dr. Amaz was running between canisters, his eyebrows white with sudden freeze. “Someone transposed the readings. The thermostats are set too warm. We’re losing them!”

“Three people work here,” Jacklyn said.

“There’s no time,” Benjamin said, guilt written across his face. “Your analysis. Who should we save first? Who has the most remaining funds?”

“What?”

“We have to keep it cool inside,” Dr. Amaz yelled, sealing the door.

Jacklyn couldn’t process that ‘cool’ meant negative three hundred degrees. With canisters slowly leaking liquid nitrogen, they were both warming their clients too quickly and freezing themselves too slowly.

“What are the odds we should save this one?” Dr. Amaz yelled over hissing pipes. He was standing beside Number Seven.

Jacklyn looked at her notes. “I don’t know,” she screamed over the noise.

Benjamin grabbed Jacklyn’s spreadsheet. Data fields were bursting with lengthy prose.

“What is this?”

“This feels like a bad time to tell you,” Jacklyn paused, “I’m an English major.”

“What?”

Dr. Amaz waved desperately. “The odds, man, tell me the odds!”

“How could you?” Benjamin’s eyes were huge and panicked. Beside him, another hose burst.

“What, be a writer?” Jacklyn cried. “It said data journalist internship. How was I to know. Did you even look at my resume?”

Hoses and pipes pinged and popped. The room was now filling with liquid nitrogen very quickly. Jacklyn’s tear ducts began to crystalize.

“You’re the statistician, Benjamin,” Dr. Amaz yelled, slowing to a crawl. “What about this one? What are the odds we can save this one?”

“Please stop asking that,” Benjamin moaned.

“What about this one?”

“You want data?” Benjamin yelled. “Zero percent. Zero percent chance any of this works. The stats are clear as day. It’s like freezing lettuce. Has no one tried this on lettuce? Even if they do reanimate in one hundred years, they’ll be mush and so outdated they’ll be asking to check their Facebook. Look at this guy!”

The canister beside him had burst open. The client slipped out and cracked on the floor.

“And while we’re admitting things,” Benjamin yelled. “I’m dyslexic!”

The glass on three more canisters exploded. Corpses fell out. Something gray oozed across the floor.

Dr. Amaz gagged. He crawled toward Benjamin, his mobility rapidly de-animating. “What the hell have you been doing these last six years?”

“This was the only job I could get.” Benjamin’s eyelids gave a last flutter. He reached out and Dr. Amaz reached back. Finally, their nitrogen-crisp hands were cool enough to embrace.

Benjamin struggled to his knees. More bodies were slipping from their canisters. Heads were rolling.

“I’m sorry, Benjamin,” Dr. Amaz said. “What a terrible misunderstanding. I’ve forgotten what it’s like to feel.”

At their exact moment of de-animation, when sixty percent of their tissue was more ice than water, Dr. Amaz leaned forward, finally able to stomach a real human kiss.

Jacklyn wallowed her near-frozen body closer just in time to hear Dr. Amaz whisper in Benjamin’s ear, “I have secrets, too. I’ve been frozen once before.”

As their lips touched, Jacklyn joined in. For a brief moment, they all three understood that they’d be frozen like this for eternity. A trio together, forever.

What are the odds? Jacklyn thought. Of finding ourselves in love in one hundred years?

But she knew nobody in that room knew the answer.