The Day George Danvers Bought The Farm

It was quarter past ten in the morning on March 7th when George Danvers realized he was on his deathbed.

He knew he was dying, of course. He was 97, and had been feeling it coming for weeks. Still, this was the first time he’d connected the idiomatic term “deathbed” to the actual location he was. The bed that he had slept in the night before, the spot he’d recently finished his breakfast, and where he was currently under the covers was his deathbed. He was literally on his deathbed. The realization was surprisingly comforting. Honestly, George thought with a smile, the term “deathbed” really wasn’t so bad, once you factored in the “bed” part.

Fabienne, one of George's home health aides, had come through about 30 minutes ago to clear away his breakfast, make sure he was clean and dry and had taken his meds. Fabienne was a wiry black woman in her mid-fifties with a Creole accent. George’s first thought was that he wished Fabienne was here right now, so he could share his realization about the deathbed to her, then immediately thought that maybe it would be better if he didn’t. She radiated pure kindness, and even though it seemed a clever observation to George, perhaps she might not take it that way.

Through the window of his empty room, he could see a small pond with an elm tree next to it. It had been frozen over all winter, but was thawing now, a thin coating of meltwater covering the few dark, patchy floes of soft ice that remained, obscuring the murky depths.

George arched his ankles back and wriggled his toes under the tight sheets. It felt good. The recent visit from his daughter Barbara and his grandchildren had also been good, as were the scrambled eggs he’d had for breakfast, with a little bit of sharp cheddar mixed in. He quietly thanked Fabienne for adding the cheddar, which he’d once mentioned might be good, and then had just appeared one morning. Fabienne was good. The morning was good. His mood was good. The 2004 World Series Run of the Boston Red Sox was good. George’s thoughts had a tendency to bounce around through the years these days, and it wasn’t uncommon for him to drop into a memory, long past. But that was good, too. He didn’t mind being transported to his boyhood New Hampshire home, or to feel his late wife Mary’s lips on his neck as a young man again, or to once again smell, and hear, his grandmother’s fried chicken crackling in her giant cast iron skillet. When he was a boy, George's grandmother would serve it with mashed potatoes and a biscuit, and would press a well into the potatoes with the back of the gravy ladle before filling it with homemade giblet gravy. He hadn’t had chicken that good in decades, and even though he never would again, George Danvers was still happy. He had done it. Suddenly snapping back to the present, and the bed he was in, he was filled with a deep gratitude. He was lucky. “If this is my deathbed” George Danvers said aloud to the empty room, “I can live with that.” He smiled, and closed his eyes.

“GEORGE CAMERON DANVERS. BORN JUNE 16, 1928, DIED MARCH 7th, 2025, 10:31 AM.”

George blinked his eyes open in response to the voice. He was standing outdoors at dawn, barefoot, on dusty ground, clothed only in a loose-fitting but extremely comfortable body-length garment. The air was heavy with a blanket of heat, and a cool breeze blew through his...hair! With a start, George realized he had a full head of hair, something he hadn’t had in over 60 years. He spread his fingers through it, the familiar but long-lost sensation flooding his senses. He looked at his hands, and saw his fingers were no longer old and gnarled. A slow smile spread across his face as the voice boomed out again.

“DAMU MOSI ODERA. BORN MARCH 5th 1959, DIED MARCH 7th 2025, 10:32 AM”

An African man materialized to George’s left, dressed in an identical garment to the one George was wearing. He was of a similar height and weight, his dark skin the only obvious contrast to George’s Irish-American complexion. The man appeared to be in his mid thirties, as George also appeared to be, to his surprise. Damu blinked his eyes open, and looked quizzically at George, who returned his baffled stare. The voice boomed out a third time.

“NADIA SVETLANA BAKALAV. BORN SEPTEMBER 23, 1939, DIED MARCH 7th 2025 10:33 AM.”

A sturdy Slavic woman appeared between George and Damu, also clothed in an identical body garment. Despite her large build and strong legs, she wavered on her feet before taking a few staggering steps to steady herself. The unlikely trio, standing three abreast on what appeared to be a sub-Saharan plain, dotted by spiny shrubs and the occasional low growing, drought-resistant tree, stared at each other with incredulous eyes.

“GROUPING COMPLETE” boomed the voice. “GREETINGS INCOMING PROSPECTS. YOUR CONFUSION IS NORMAL AND EXPECTED. PREPARE FOR INTAKE PROCEDURES.”

Struck silent by the enormity of what they were going through, George, Damu and Nadia stood silently. Their minds flooded with questions, but had no energy to put voice to them. George’s body felt amazing. There were no aches. No pains. The sun had begun to rise in front of them, sending orange light across the dusty plain, and temporarily blinding the trio.

“BEFORE MOVING FORWARD INTO THE NEXT PHASE, PREPARE FOR YOUR RESPONSIBILITY ASSESSMENT OF YOUR PERSONAL IMPACT, NEGATIVE AND POSITIVE, UPON THE EARTH’S MOST POPULOUS COMPARABLY SIZED LIFE FORMS.”

On the horizon, a shimmering, weaving cloud came into view, dropped to the ground and leapt up again. George squinted. But it wasn’t a cloud. It moved more like a school of fish than a dust storm, but what was it? It pulsed along the ground and darted up again. He placed it. Birds. Thousands of them, in tight flocks, undulating and moving through the morning light, approaching like a swarm of locusts. As they approached, the thrumming of their wings and the combined chirps from thousands of beaks filled the air in an otherworldly hum.

The three recently deceased humans stared forwards, transfixed. It was impossible to single out any individual bird in the massive flock. It rose upwards in the sky, rolling and reacting to the air around it in a massive, humming, flying carpet of life.

A small bird with a red beak alighted on a baobab tree next to them. It was wearing reading glasses. George and Nadia smiled.

“Hello, George Danvers, Damu Odera and Nadia Bakalav” said the bird. “I trust your transition was smooth.”

George looked at Nadia and smiled. She cautiously returned his smile.

The bird continued. “The Red Billed Quelea, as I now appear to you, is the world’s most populous comparatively sized life form to you. More than 10 billion of them lived on the earth alongside you all, your impact upon them must be evaluated. George Danvers and Nadia Backalav” said the bird, “I am pleased to report that over the course of your lives, your impact on the most populous equitably sized life form remained neutral to positive. You may progress.”

Damu gasped in terror.

"Damu Odera, over the course of your life, your repeated use of and financial support for the use of organophosphate pesticides and firebombing personally implicates you in to the widespread, painful extermination of thousands of Red Billed Quelea, a harm for which you must atone before moving on. The pain of the Quelea must be felt personally by you. The instigator of this retribution will come from the Quelea themselves.”

The thrumming sound of the wings came harder now. The flock rose up, blocking the sun. Damu screamed, and they were upon him. George and Nadia dove to the ground as Damu vanished under a thick writhing blanket of hundreds of birds, who were pecking, pecking, pecking. The dust rose in a red cloud. George kept his eyes closed tight.

When he opened them, he was seated next to Nadia, in the middle of the long side of a dining room table in what appeared to be a Southern-style antebellum-era mansion. Across the table was an empty chair. On the table in front of the chair was a pearl-handled pistol. The door opened, and an elderly gentleman with kind eyes and a white beard emerged. Nadia gasped. The man nodded politely, removed his reading glasses and placed them on the table next to the pistol. He sat down across from them. George looked over at Nadia. She was staring at the man with her mouth agape. George’s mind was swimming, as he looked away from Nadia, down to the pistol, than back to the man, who he realized was attempting to address them.

“Hello, George Danvers and Nadia Bakalav,” said the man.

The Human Being, as I now appear to you, is the world’s third most populous comparatively sized lifeform to you. More than 8 billion of them lived on the earth alongside you both, and your impact upon them must be evaluated.”

“George Danvers” said the man, “Over the course of your life, you did not always behave perfectly toward your fellow humans. The business of human relations is challenging. However, I am pleased to report that as a loving and devoted husband, caring father, and thoughtful member of your community, your impact upon other humans remained neutral to positive. You may progress.”

George smiled.

“Nadia Bakalav” said the man, “surely you recognize both the form I have taken and the weapon on the table before you-”

“Wait,” said George, leaping to his feet. “What’s going to happen to Nadia? I won’t just stand here while you- Agggggggggh!”

A searing pain shot through every nerve of George’s body,  forcing him back into his chair.  His head struck the table, hard, and he saw stars. He heard the man continue. “Your regard for, and defense of your fellow humans is admirable, and has been noted. But the trial must continue.”

“Nadia, over the course of your life, your premeditated thoughts and actions with this weapon personally implicate you in a murder. You must atone for this before moving on. The pain this man felt, from this weapon, must be felt personally by you. The instigator of this retribution will come from this man, himself.”

Several gunshots rang out. George heard Nadia’s body collapse.

George couldn’t move. This couldn’t be what the afterlife was, he thought, this was madness. He clinched his eyes tight. The voice returned. “George Danvers. In order to move past your current situation and into a more lasting paradise of the soul, your fitness must be determined by how you treated others during the time of your life. You have passed two trials. Only one remains.”

George kept his head down, his thoughts racing. He knew he wasn't perfect, but where could this be leading? He'd made it this far hadn't he? "I haven't hurt people!" George shouted down at the table, his eyes still closed. "I'm aware of my global footprint! I've made a positive impact on my family and my community! If I have caused harm, I have, I believe, atoned to the best of my ability! I have nothing to fear! I can do this. I. CAN. DO. THIS."

He opened his eyes and looked up.

The man, the pistol, and Nadia were gone.

Standing on the table across from him was a live chicken. A waiter, dressed in classic black and white, strolled purposely into the room holding a covered dish, which he placed on the table. With a flourish, the waiter removed the cover, revealing a plate of George’s grandmother’s fried chicken. Another waiter arrived, with a plate of scrambled eggs. More waiters arrived, one after the other, with tureens of chicken soup, Roast Chicken, Chinese Chicken and Broccoli, Buffalo Wings, and more. The table started to get very crowded. George felt a sharp pain in his ankle. He looked down. Dozens of live chickens were under the table, pecking at him.

“Well, George,” said the chicken on the table, peering up at him over its tiny reading glasses, “during your life, you shared the globe with approximately 25 billion chickens. You ate more than 2,000 of them. Not including eggs."

George winced as he felt more pecking on his legs, which were already bleeding.

"I'm sorry" said the chicken. "You almost made it.”

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