“What are you drinking?” He asked.
 I looked around not really hearing the question. The bar was beautiful. Hard wood floor to ceiling, with those old brassy mirrors that gave everything a bit of a rose tint. Myself and a weathered old barkeep seemed to be the only ones present. He had a somewhat…grizzled look. 
 He cleared his throat.
 “I’m sorry?” I asked.
 “What,” he said more slowly. “Are you drinking?”
 “Just a water,” I replied, showing my keychain. “Thiry-nine months now.”
 “Good for you,” he grunted, filling a glass from a handheld spicket.
 “How did I get here?” I asked, still looking around the room.
 The barkeep chuckled. “Give it a moment, it’ll come back to you.”
 I tried to think through an unfamiliar haze in my thoughts. A sudden flash of headlights, and the din of crashing metal and shattering glass filled my head. I slipped from the chair slightly before catching myself on the counter. In the polished surface I saw my face, a large laceration on my left forehead had left most of it a ruin of blood. No blood was dripping from me, though there was certainly enough on my face and clothing to indicate the severity.
 I looked around the pristine bar again. “Maybe I need a whiskey.”
 He nodded, but placed the water next to me first. At first I thought he wasn’t going to serve me, but soon there was a tumbler of golden brown bourbon in my hands. I just stared at it and neither of us spoke.
 “Am I dead?” I finally asked.
 “Yes.”
 “Awfully small for heaven,” I remarked. I’d never thought much about the afterlife. Never really believed it in it.
 “This ain’t heaven, son.”
 “Awfully friendly for hell.” I ventured. Then returned to staring at my drink waiting for…well, hell if I knew.
 “Relax son, it ain’t hell either. You’re in purgatory. Powers that be want me to talk with you for a while.”
 “Why?” I asked.
 “Because you’re a son of bitch,” he answered. “But when we put you on the scale, you balanced.”
 “Balanced?”
 “Balanced.” He said the word like it was distasteful to him. “Happens every now and then,” he added. “Some mediocre fool floats through and I’m the schmuck they get to sort out what to you with you.”
 “What do you normally do?” The man seemed friendly enough, but hard too, like he’d have no problem pulling the trigger on someone if it needed to be done.
 “I normally send them down. The folks upstairs want the righteous to be rewarded and wicked to be punished. I say there’s no worse sin than mediocrity.”
 “I…please don’t.” It was a stupid response. Childish. I knew he was right. My whole life I’d always focused on getting by. On doing just enough. I lived for myself, but begrudgingly helped others when it wasn't out of my way. My whole morale scheme was that I was ok because I was better than most. Well, at least better then some. What was that if not mediocre?
 I never abandoned my wife, but I cheated plenty and kept it quiet. I’d been promising her I’d be ready to have kids soon for four years now. I even got sober. But there was something so final about kids. Something that felt like you were giving up on all of your opportunities. I wasn't ready.
 I was selfish. And worse, I dragged her along.
 The barkeeper was looking at me, really watching. I got the distinct feeling my thoughts weren't private.
 “You’d be right in that,” he answered.
 “I should have done it all differently,” I said, my head sinking further toward my chest.
 “Not all of it, just half it would seem.”
 Looking into the bourbon, I saw her face. I remembered when I’d really loved her. What had happened?
 “I’m sorry,” I told her.
 More silence.
 “What to do with you indeed,” the barkeep wondered aloud.
 I looked up, meeting his eyes with tears in my own. “There’s no worse sin than mediocrity,” I agreed.
 He looked genuinely surprised. “Well, that makes my decision easier.”
 I put down the tumbler and sat upright. Ready for some cartoonish trapdoor to open beneath me. The bar vanished into smoke and I had the sensation of falling. The ground was at my back and there was a thump to my chest. It felt as though every rib was broken.
 I screamed in agony.
 “Stop compressions!” shouted a voice.
 “Holy shit!” cried a man kneeling just over me.

I tried to talk but words weren’t coming through the pain in my chest and head. “Good BP,” called the first voice a moment later. “Damn, dude,” said the man over my face. “Welcome back.” Don’t waste this, The barkeep’s voice threatened.