Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are in the Good Place
“Ah - um - Alfred?” Rosencrantz’s arm jerks up and down as if he’s jostling for a word in edgewise in the middle of a crowd, even though he’s alone.
Alfred chimes into the space with the music made by two coins together, wearing only the gauziest suggestion of a dress: “How can I help?”
“Yes - ah - now when the Player said ‘private viewing’ at the orientation, does that mean… that is to say… look, do you want to get married?”
“Rosencrantz!”
“No, don’t you discriminate?”
“Guildenstern, then. I have something to show you! I think I’ve discovered something new about how this neighborhood works.”
“It’s not another sinister rock, is it? I’m telling you, it didn’t slow down and float at the same speed as that feather. Because that makes no sense.”
“No, better. And infinitely more compelling.”
“I don’t think you fully grasp the breadth of infinity, but why not? Lay on, Macduff.”
“Oh, is that my name?”
-/-/-
Guildenstern tilts his head and squints, then tilts his head the other way. “Okay, I’m looking at your shutters. So?”
“Now you actually have to be watching the whole time. I don’t want to do a whole demonstration and then find out you’ve been running syllables in your head the whole time.”
“Syllogisms,” he corrects automatically, but then he has to laugh at Rosencrantz’s face. “Okay, fine, fine. No theories, theorums, or otherwise, except for yours, until you’ve finished.”
Rosencrantz beams and runs outside. He doesn’t know what to expect but he doesn’t expect a rattling at the window or a voice calling, “Hey you, whatsyourname, come out of there!” and he certainly doesn’t expect to freeze when he hears it. The voice is different and the words are very different, but the basic thrust of the motion stirs something…
The shutters almost hit Rosencrantz in the face when he flings them open, but he’s too focused to notice. He has a brief moment of satisfaction that for once he’s the taller one, and then he grasps his friend’s arm. “What do you remember?” he demands.
-/-/-
Next thing he knows they’re in a field next to a pond, where Rosencrantz is happily skipping stones. He can’t say he’s gotten used to the dream logic of the Good Place, but it doesn’t throw him like it used to however many weeks ago. For the moment he just sits there and lets this be a nice moment. It doesn’t matter when he learned there’s no point in pushing for answers, because that knowledge lives right in his bones.
“I don’t remember much…” This stone skips three times. “But when the wind woke me up this morning I knew I remembered you.” He fumbles the next rock, which sinks immediately. “And not just from the day before, either. We knew each other before we died.” Two skips this time. “Must have.”
Guildenstern rubs his chin and feels stubble where before there was none. A rope drops from the sky into his imagination and then vanishes. “We were sent for,” he mutters.
“We were sent for!” Rosencrantz answers as he spins round to face him, finger pointing meaningfully at nothing in particular. And then: “Why?”
“What?”
“Why were we sent for? What were we meant to do? And who preferred us for the job? Why?” he says again.
“Well we-” He frowns. “I suppose we must have been important once. Maybe we still are, even in death.”
“Or we were nobodies, and our only job was to die.”
“Why would you say that?”
“Well, I don’t know! You throw me the ball; I pass it back, that’s how it’s always been.” He sniffles and says, “I never know what I’ll say until I’ve said it, and by then it’s too late to take it back.” The man looks lost as he scans the ground, and Guildenstern wonders if he’s forgotten what a skipping stone should look like, and then his shoulders slump forward, pulling his whole body down. “We’re out of our depths!” he wails. “I just wanted to help because you were so upset not to remember our deaths, and what have I gotten us, really?”
“Oh no…” Guil inches closer and wraps his arms around Ros, gingerly until he gets a signal that it’s okay, and then as tight as if both their lives depend on it, as if their deaths depend on it too. “No, you’ve done very well here, and found us clues I couldn’t have gotten on my own.”
“Like what?”
“We know we were sent for, even if we don’t know why, and we have-” (a rope he can’t place, and a row of bayonets glinting in the sun) “-Shutters!” he gasps. “Yes, we have shutters, and the early morning sky in the cracks between them. It was blue, like smoke.”
When he says that, the day browns at the edges around them. The neighborhood crumples like a leaf and he wakes up in his own bed in the middle of the night.
“Bad Alfred, can you come here a moment?”
“Please, my name is Reynaldo!” The young man clutches a clipboard to his chest like it’s a shield, and is unable to maintain eye contact with anyone for more than a few seconds. “I don’t like how you lump us all together.”
“I mean, you are all walking databases, just extras and props.”
Bad Alfred makes a massive effort and forces out, “If we’re using the theater metaphor for this neighborhood I’d prefer to think of myself as a dramaturge. Staying true to the story and all.”
“Nah, the story doesn’t need facts to be true. Ugh, this is boring, go back to your void.”
“Yessir!” he stammers, and Laertes vaguely notices that he’s cute when he blushes. “Thank you, sir.” And then he’s gone.
“That’s Bad Alfred!?” he demands. “With the vest and the sleeves rolled to exactly three quarters down the arm and - my g-d - he had a pocket protector, didn’t he?” He massages his forehead. “Meanwhile our Alfred - Good Alfred, Regular Alfred, whatever - keeps asking people to renact the Sabine Women or Titus Andronicus or something equally gruesome. Are you sure you didn’t mix them up somehow?”
“Oh yeah,” the Player laughs as he drops his feet on the desk. “Don’t let that little ‘look at me, I’m a helpless intern lost in the big scary world of data management’ act fool you, because he’s the worst possible thing in the multiverse.”
“What’s that?” he asks, prepared to be unimpressed.
“A corporate spy! See, with Alfred you can rest assured that your search history is secure, no matter how depraved your taste in pornography.”
“Why is everything about porn with you people?”
“And Bad Alfred records all your conversations and sells them to the highest bidder. He’s basically Alexa, only insufferably whiny.”
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