He was in the afterlife and didn’t know what to expect, when he found himself in what seemed to be a restaurant talking to a maitre d’. He soon figured out he was at the entrance to a large room where writers go when they pass on.
“Welcome,” the maitre d’ said. “You’re entering what we call the writers’ aftermath.”
“I didn’t know what to expect,” he said. “Who all’s inside?”
“Writers,” the maitre d’ said. “James Joyce is in there, Faulkner, Dostoevsky, and any other writer, known or unknown, who wrote honestly, and to the best of their ability.”
“I’ve tried to do the best that I can,” he said. “Are you telling me I’ve been selected to go in?”
The maitre d’ checked the list, and said,” Your name’s on the list.”
He was stunned by the honor and he heard a song playing, coming from far away, but he knew that song and slowly the alarm clock became visible across the room, on the dresser, and it was morning, and time to go to work.