The Price of Almost Everything

The invitation arrived on a Tuesday.

It was an elegant envelope, cream-coloured, with my name written in impeccable handwriting. Inside was a single sheet of paper.

Dear Sir,

Following a routine examination of your account, we have identified several outstanding obligations.

Your presence is requested at the Department of Existential Credit.

Please bring identification, a complete record of your regrets, and a pen.

Yours sincerely,

Management.

There was no address.

At the bottom of the page, however, someone had added:

You know where to find us.

I did.

The following morning, I arrived at a building I had passed a thousand times without noticing.

Its entrance was magnificent. Marble columns supported an imposing façade, and above the revolving doors a golden inscription announced:

ALL CHOICES ARE FINAL. TERMS AND CONDITIONS APPLY.

Inside, a receptionist was filing her nails.

"Appointment?"

"I received a letter."

"Everyone receives a letter."

"Mine concerns an outstanding balance."

"Naturally."

She examined my invitation and directed me to the forty-third floor.

"Will this take long?"

"That depends on how you've lived."

I considered asking for clarification, but she had already returned to her nails.

The elevator had no buttons. It began ascending as soon as I entered.

On the forty-third floor, a gentleman in an immaculate charcoal suit was waiting behind a large mahogany desk.

He was remarkably handsome, although there was something unsettling about the perfection of his appearance. His smile possessed the professional warmth of a banker who has just discovered that your grandmother owns property.

"Welcome," he said. "I've been expecting you."

"Who are you?"

"Your account manager."

"May I have your name?"

"Most people call me Satan. Personally, I find it rather theatrical."

He gestured towards a chair.

"Please. Make yourself comfortable."

I remained standing.

"I don't believe in you."

"That is perfectly acceptable. We serve clients of all convictions."

He opened a folder.

"Now, let's examine your account."

"I haven't borrowed anything."

He looked genuinely surprised.

"My dear fellow, you've been borrowing since birth."

He adjusted his spectacles.

"Time, opportunity, affection, forgiveness. You've enjoyed an extensive line of credit."

"Surely those aren't loans."

"That is a common misunderstanding."

He slid a document across the desk.

It contained an extraordinary number of columns.

I recognized certain entries immediately.

Three years spent pursuing a career I had never particularly wanted.

Seven months devoted to a woman who had informed me, with admirable consistency, that she was not interested.

Approximately eleven thousand hours worrying about events that had never occurred.

"Your administrative efficiency is impressive," I admitted.

"We take pride in our records."

"And what exactly am I supposed to pay?"

"That depends on what you'd like to keep."

He pressed a button.

A screen descended from the ceiling.

Two photographs appeared.

In the first, a traveller stood beside an unfamiliar sea. His boots were dusty, his face weather-beaten, and his expression suggested that he had discovered something important without yet deciding what it was.

In the second, a man carried two heavy shopping bags along an ordinary suburban street.

"Two popular investment strategies," Satan explained.

"Freedom and domesticity?"

"An oversimplification, but adequate for our purposes."

He pointed towards the traveller.

"This gentleman has visited forty-three countries, crossed three deserts, and spent several memorable nights in circumstances that would alarm his insurance provider."

"Extraordinary."

"He has also missed seventeen birthdays, several funerals, and the final months of his father's life."

The photograph changed.

The traveller was sitting alone in an airport.

"His account remains active."

Satan turned to the second image.

"This gentleman has spent thirty years in the same house. He has carried approximately sixteen tonnes of groceries, attended school performances of questionable artistic merit, and developed considerable expertise in repairing household appliances."

"And his losses?"

"Several abandoned ambitions, a persistent curiosity about distant countries, and a recurring suspicion that he has mistaken security for happiness."

The man in the photograph stopped outside a familiar door.

Before he could reach for his keys, it opened.

A woman appeared, took one of the shopping bags, and kissed him.

Satan paused the image.

"His account also remains active."

I studied the photographs.

"Which one paid more?"

"An excellent question."

"And?"

"We've never established a reliable method of comparison."

This was the first sensible thing he had said.

"Then why am I here?"

"Because you keep asking for a refund."

He produced another document.

Apparently, I had submitted numerous complaints concerning the general organization of existence.

I objected to missed opportunities, disappointed expectations, the unreasonable passage of time, and the fact that genuine happiness seemed to possess an irritating tendency to arrive without providing advance notice.

There was also a particularly lengthy complaint concerning the weather.

"You're dissatisfied with the terms," Satan observed.

"Naturally."

"And yet you continue to participate."

"What alternative do I have?"

He smiled.

"Exactly."

I leaned forward.

"Who designed this system?"

"That information is confidential."

"I demand to speak to management."

"Management is unavailable."

"Since when?"

Satan examined his calendar.

"Opinions differ."

"Is God aware of this arrangement?"

"You're welcome to submit an inquiry."

"And will He answer?"

"Historically, response times have varied."

I began to understand why the receptionist had seemed so relaxed.

"Then it's a casino," I said. "The entire world is a casino."

Satan appeared delighted.

"An excellent analogy. Although casinos generally provide clearer information about the odds."

"And the house always wins?"

"Not necessarily."

"Explain."

He folded his hands.

"The difficulty is that our clients insist on measuring everything in the wrong currency."

I disliked this answer.

It sounded suspiciously like philosophy.

"Suppose I choose freedom," I said. "I travel, avoid obligations, refuse to compromise. What happens?"

"You pay for freedom."

"And if I choose love?"

"You pay for love."

"And if I choose neither?"

"You pay for indecision."

"That's extortion."

"That's existence."

I stood up.

"I refuse to participate."

"Of course."

He opened a drawer and produced a form.

APPLICATION FOR COMPLETE WITHDRAWAL FROM HUMAN AFFAIRS.

It was twenty-seven pages long.

I examined the first question.

Please specify which memories you wish to retain.

"All of them," I said.

"I'm afraid that isn't possible."

"Why?"

"Some of them belong to other people."

I looked at him.

For the first time, his expression had lost its professional cheerfulness.

"You see," he continued, "our accounts are interconnected. Every withdrawal affects another balance."

He turned a page.

"Someone still remembers the first time you made them laugh. Someone else remembers a promise you forgot. There are people whose lives would have been slightly different if you'd arrived five minutes earlier."

He closed the folder.

"And considerably different if you'd never arrived at all."

I returned to my chair.

There was a long silence.

Somewhere beyond the windows, the city continued its ordinary business.

Cars moved through the streets. People hurried towards appointments. A child was crying because someone had refused to purchase an ice cream.

"Is there anything I own outright?" I asked.

Satan considered the question.

"Very little."

"Then what's the point?"

He looked almost sympathetic.

"I'm afraid that particular inquiry falls outside my department."

My telephone rang.

I glanced at the screen.

"Answer it," he said.

"I thought telephones weren't allowed during financial consultations."

"We make exceptions."

It was a woman.

"Where are you?"

"At a meeting."

"An important one?"

"With Satan."

"Of course. Could you get some milk on your way home?"

I looked towards the gentleman behind the desk.

He was pretending not to listen.

"Anything else?"

"Potatoes. And parsley."

"We have parsley."

"No, we don't."

I considered arguing.

Experience suggested that this would be an expensive decision.

"All right."

"And don't buy roses."

"Why would I buy roses?"

"You bought them last time. They died, and you complained for three days."

The line went silent.

Then she added:

"Come home before the tea gets cold."

She hung up.

Satan was smiling.

"An additional obligation?"

"Apparently."

"Shall I calculate its long-term cost?"

I thought about the traveller and his dusty boots. I thought about the man with the shopping bags. I thought about all the roads I had not taken and the extraordinary number of things I still intended to do.

Then I thought about the tea.

"No," I said.

Satan raised an eyebrow.

"You're declining the estimate?"

"Yes."

"That would be financially irresponsible."

"Almost certainly."

He pushed my folder aside.

"Very well. Is there anything else?"

"Actually, yes. I'd like to know how much time I have left."

He studied me for a moment.

"That information is available."

He reached towards another drawer.

I stopped him.

"On second thought, never mind."

For the first time since my arrival, Satan laughed.

It was a surprisingly pleasant laugh.

"Most sensible decision you've made all morning."

He accompanied me to the elevator.

At the door, I hesitated.

"One final question. Do you ever offer discounts?"

"Occasionally."

"For what?"

He straightened his cuffs.

"Things people are willing to do without keeping the receipt."

Downstairs, the receptionist was still filing her nails.

"Everything resolved?"

"Not remotely."

"Wonderful. Have a pleasant day."

Outside, the sun was shining.

I walked to the supermarket.

There was a special offer on milk, although purchasing the second carton appeared to require accepting a contractual obligation of unusual complexity.

I bought one.

The potatoes were easy.

The parsley presented difficulties.

I stood before several varieties, attempting to remember which one she preferred.

My telephone rang again.

"Did you find everything?"

"Almost."

"What's missing?"

I examined the herbs.

"Your instructions."

She laughed.

I bought both kinds.

At the checkout, the cashier asked whether I wanted a receipt.

I considered the question.

"Yes," I said.

After all, I hadn't promised anyone that I'd learned my lesson.

And I still wanted to know how much the parsley cost.