HEAVEN? by Maxine Flam, Coca-Cola with a splash of Bourbon

 

            ‘Where the hell am I?’ I blurted out.

            Numerous people turned around and stared angrily.  One woman said, ‘Shhhhh,’ and pointed to a sign ahead which hung over a long, endless, wrought-iron white fence.

HEAVEN, CHECK IN HERE.

This must be some kind of bad joke the guys from work are playing on me. I glanced all around. A pretty elaborate gag if it’s one. Maybe this is the entrance to heaven. I don’t remember seeing any bright light or walking down a corridor showing me the way here. It’s probably because I don’t remember much of anything. 

Let me think for a minute. Maybe this is a figment of my imagination or some kind of hallucination. I still haven’t ruled out a practical joke that the gang from work has played on me because I told them the firm is making me a partner tomorrow.

‘Okay you guys, enough with the games. I’m on to you,’ I shouted.

‘Shut up,’ said the man with the woman. ‘This isn’t a game, you big oaf. This is real. You’re dead and you’re about to go before St. Peter.  Show some respect.’

‘Whoa, people.  You’ve got to be kidding.’

‘Neither one of us is kidding so you better get your act together before you get to the front,’ the woman replied.

‘Shit, what was I doing before I received this one-way ticket to stand in the presence of St. Peter?’

            ‘Think…Damn it,’ I muttered under my breath. ‘Oops, sorry,’ I said when the man turned around.  

‘Swearing is not a good thing to do before entering the Pearly Gates.  Better keep your remarks to yourself,’ he said.

But it’s just that I need to know. Um, I wasn’t ill or dying of cancer. Heart attack? No. Stroke? No. I am – er – was 45 and in the prime of my life. Was I at a party? No. Outside in a storm and got hit by lightning? No. Driving somewhere? Yes, that must be it! I was driving. I must have been on my way to a late dinner date. So where was I before that? Oh, yeah, I was probably with the guys from work at the White Horse Pub having a couple of beers discussing the Newman case. Sure, that’s it. I left the pub and headed down the Old Road when…’

‘NEXT,’ shouted the angel at the gate. I could see white wings tucked in behind his thin body and a halo on top of his head.  This place looked like it was from a story my parents told me.

‘NAME,’ he yelled abruptly.  He probably didn’t like his job.

‘Peterson, John Peterson.’

‘Is that with an o or an e?’

‘I thought you knew these things.’

‘Look, kid, I’m just the greeting angel. Upper management doesn’t let me in on sudden new arrivals.’

So, I wasn’t supposed to be here yet.  Um, that’s interesting.

‘Well, is Peterson with an o or an e?’

‘O.’

‘Fine. Any middle name?’

‘Francis.’

‘John Francis Peterson.’

‘Yes.’

‘Okay, move along to the next station…. NEXT!’

I walked about 100 yards following the line to the processing section. There were millions of people here. Some looked horrible with blood all over them and others had their guts hanging out. There were gunshot wounds, and knife lacerations, and one fellow had an electrical cord wrapped around his neck, but everyone was nice and sociable. I waited about thirty minutes. It reminded me of the Department of Motor Vehicles except there weren’t any chairs to sit on.

‘John Francis Peterson,’ shouted a deep male voice.

‘Here.’

‘Approach the desk. I am the processing angel. Here are your clothes.  Please follow the white line to the last cloud, and go left. You will come to the men’s showers. We provided all the items you will need to make yourself presentable.’

‘For what reason?’

Looking up toward heaven, the angel said, ‘Dear God, why must they all ask?’ He turned to me and said, ‘In case you need to appear before the Almighty. As He always says, ‘Cleanliness is next to Godliness.’ Besides, He hates messes so you certainly can’t go looking like this.’ He frowned in disgust.

‘Like what?’

‘Here’s a mirror.’ Turning toward God, he said, ‘Why doesn’t anyone believe me?’

I took the mirror from the angel’s hand and did a double-take. I blurted out, ‘Holy shit.’ I looked sheepishly back at the angel and said, ‘Sorry.’

I took the clothes and other items and headed toward the men’s showers all the while thinking what could have happened. I think I was driving up 5 toward the restaurant and then I saw headlights that shouldn’t have been there. Jesus Christ, this guy is going the wrong way on the freeway! The next thing I knew, I was here. So I guess this is no joke. I’m really dead.

I showered and put on my white robe. I was ready to have my audience with the Almighty if that was what He decreed.  I guess since I wasn’t a regular churchgoer, I’d probably have to talk to God to get into Heaven. Heck, I’m an attorney – er – was an attorney. I can charm anyone.

‘Excuse me,’ I said to the angel outside the showers.  ‘Where do I go now?’

‘Follow the green arrow and take a right at the last cloud. Then walk straight to the Pearly Gates. You can’t miss it. Have you been summoned to appear before The Boss?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Good luck.’

 Somehow I wish he hadn’t said that. As I turned right at the last cloud, I could see how grand Heaven was. I assumed the places before were just holding areas to prepare a person for their final destination. I’m almost there. There were two lines. Maybe that was to speed things up. Or maybe they split them off according to religion. But that doesn’t make sense because there are many religions. Maybe one line is for those who believe and one line is for those who didn’t believe?

Or maybe one line is for those people who went to church and the other line is for those who didn’t. Whatever the reason, the lines were moving.

A directing angel asked me, ‘Are you John Francis Peterson?’

‘Yes.’

 ’Please go to the line marked ‘Other.’’

‘Why?’

‘It will all be explained.’

What the hell! I was born and baptized a Christian. Sure, I haven’t been to church in a while, but I think I belong in the main line.

‘Keep moving. Come on, keep it moving,’ said a big, burly, tall, muscular angel. He looked more like a bouncer. He probably used to be one, so I guess God must have hired him to do the same work.

‘Can you tell me why I am in this line?’

‘You’ll have to ask the head angel. I’m just the line-moving angel.’

‘Sorry I bothered you.’

‘Come on. Don’t block the line.’

I kept moving. It looked like chaos, but it was well-organized. The line moving angels kept it from descending into disarray.

As I approached what looked like another check-in station, I didn’t see anyone who even remotely looked like St. Peter. Every joke, every sermon, I ever heard said St. Peter greets you at the gate, checks off your name, and lets you into Heaven. I can’t say I felt good about my situation. I mean, I’m dead, and I’m in a line marked ‘Other.’ That’s not the way I was told it would be.

‘Name?’

‘John Francis Peterson…with an o.’

‘Hmm, Peterson, Peterson, can’t seem to find you with the rest. Excuse me for a moment.’ The check-in angel shouted to some runner guy, ‘Hey Rodney, can you check and see if there is an updated printout available?’

‘Yes, give me a second,’ the angel said while Rodney left the station.

They use printouts here in Heaven? Don’t they have laptops or tablets or the internet?

Rodney returned. ‘Here it is.’

‘Peterson is not here.’

‘What does that mean?’ I said in a perturbed tone of voice.

‘We weren’t expecting you yet. That’s why you were sent to the Other line. All problems come to me.’

‘Rodney, run a computer check on Peterson with an o, first name John, middle name Francis, and let me know what comes back.’

‘Yes sir.’

Rodney left and was back in a matter of seconds.

These guys don’t mess around. His face was hard to read. He would have made a good lawyer or poker player...

He handed the paper to the check-in angel.

            ‘Well, we can’t find you because you’re thirty years early.’

            ‘ Uh?...So now what?’

            ‘We can’t send you back so… the Almighty needs to decide what to do. Rodney, please phone the Almighty’s assistant and ask if we can send Mr. Peterson up for an audience with The Boss?’

            ‘I’m going to see God?’

            ‘I wouldn’t call it see. No one actually sees The Boss. We put you in the crevice of a rock and you will have your hearing before the King of Kings, the Lord of Lords.’

            ‘No way.’

            ‘Way! Please wait off to the side until you’re called.’

            ‘What if the Lord won’t see me?’

            ‘Then we will pretend this is your real date of entry, pass sentence on you, and send you to one of four places: Heaven, Hell, Purgatory, or Limbo.’

            ‘What?’

            ‘It’s similar to your justice system: Guilty, Not Guilty, or No Lo Contendre. Being a lawyer, Mr. Peterson, you can appreciate the scales of justice have been put in motion.’

            ‘But that’s not fair.’

            ‘That’s not for you to decide. That’s the Almighty’s decision.’

            ‘Mr. Angel, do you realize I’m so screwed. As a high-paid attorney with a Wall Street law firm, I have gotten off murderers, rapists, drug dealers, bank robbers, money launderers, and extortionists in my twenty-year career. I’ve had a 96% success rate, the best at the firm. God’s going to crucify me. Oh, nuts, now I just added blasphemy to the list of sins. Sorry, Jesus.’ I put my head in my hands.  ‘JESUS CHRIST! Oh Lord, I did it again.’

            ‘There’s nothing you can do about that now except wait and see if The Boss will see you and then you can plead your case to Him.’

Rodney returned.

‘Well?’ said the angel.

            ‘The Almighty will hear his case.’

‘Take him to the crevice and make sure he removes his shoes. I caught hell the last time someone went up and didn’t follow directions. Matilda had to go up and clean the shoe prints from the ledge.  And you know how He hates shoe prints.’

            This line was the shortest of them all. I guess not many people get an audience with the Almighty. St. Peter and the angels must take care of the majority of the new arrivals.

            ‘Excuse me,’ I said to the man in front of me. ‘Why are you here?’

            ‘I was a poor prosecuting attorney. I lost many cases because I took bribes to throw cases. I got away with it or so I thought. I ended up dropping dead of a heart attack at a family picnic. Next thing I knew I was here about to face God.’

            ‘I’m an attorney too.’

            ‘Yeah, and so is that man over there. There’s a judge, four Congressmen, three Senators, two mayors, a governor and a police commissioner. Yesterday, there was a former Vice President.’

            ‘Oh dear Lord, I’m doomed.’

            ‘The angels say that praying at this late stage won’t help. All we can do is plead our case, ask for mercy, and wait for the Almighty to pass judgment.’

            ‘You look resigned.’

            ‘What else can I be? The heart attack was for me being a shyster attorney. The best I can do is to throw myself on the mercy of the court and take the punishment.’

            ‘Dear Jesus.’

            ‘Uh-Uh. Save it for the Almighty.’

            ‘NEXT,’ shouted the bailiff angel.

            ‘Excuse me, I’m up.’

            There are no clocks at the gate, but I estimated the man was there for twenty minutes.

            ‘Well?’ I said.

            ‘I’m going to Purgatory to repent for one year. Then I will go to Hell for a period of time of not less than five years, but not more than ten years.’

            ‘Oh my God.’

            ‘It could have been worse. The fancy pants lawyer before me got twenty years.’

            I wanted to cry.

            ‘NEXT!’

            I lowered my head contritely as I was escorted to the crevice. I removed my shoes as previously instructed and covered my head with my hands. The Almighty was behind the rock waiting.

            ‘That will be all,’ boomed the voice from above to the Bailiff angel. ‘Come back in ten minutes.’

            ‘Well, come now, plead your case. You’re an attorney. That’s what you people do. I’ll remind you that I know the truth so there will be no bending, sidestepping, twisting, or molding of words to fit what you think I want to hear.’

            ‘Yes, your Honor – err – your Grace, I mean Lord.’

            ‘I have the list of all the cases you have ever tried. It also includes the charges and if you won or lost. A very good record I might say. You represented many dirtbags, slime balls, scum buckets, and you got the majority of them off. What do you have to say for yourself?’

            ‘It was my job?’

            ‘Really? And where was your conscience when all of this was going on…Out to lunch? How about the victims? Did you bother to think about them?’

            ‘But it was my duty to give these people a defense.’
            ‘Right! Even when they did the most heinous crimes and even when one of your clients was a serial killer, you went to trial and got him off on reasonable doubt. He cut up women and disposed of them like garbage. You knew that. He confessed to you, but you didn’t plead guilty. You got him off. That’s disgusting!’ saith the Lord.

            ‘Well…’

            ‘No use in pulling out all the files of the filthy, revolting things your rich clients did. You represented them with a 96% success rate.’

            There was silence.            

‘I’ve made my decision. You weren’t due to be here for another thirty years. Instead of that, I sentence you to thirty years in Hell plus a preparation time of 1 year in Purgatory. Purgatory will allow you to think about how a brilliant attorney who was third in his class could have been bought by the rich to skirt the law when they were guilty and needed to be punished for their crimes.’

            ‘Lord?’

            ‘Yes?’

            ‘Do I have the right of appeal?’

            ‘Funny, now that’s funny. You attorneys are all alike. I’ve heard that joke over five million times and I am still amazed that each of you had the balls to say it.  Even if Jesus himself was your representative to plead on your behalf, I would find you guilty. Bailiff! Take him away.’

            ‘No, Lord, please. I’ll change. I’ll be different.’

‘We can do this the hard way or the easy way,’ said the Bailiff angel.

            ‘Please, no, please. Please…. I’ll change.  I swear it.’

            The Bailiff angel was dragging me off the precipice when everything went dark.

To be continued.

About the author

Since becoming disabled in 2015, Maxine took up her passion for writing. She has been published several times in the Los Angeles Daily News, The Epoch Times, Nail Polish Stories, DarkWinterLit, BrightFlashLiteraryReview, OtherwiseEngagedLit, CafeLit, Maudlin House, and TheMetaworker.com. 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)