A Letter from Paul

Jenna, Charlie, Mom and Friends:

     The last thing I remembered was texting a message to my boss from the Interstate and, suddenly, I found myself standing in a long line of strangers, young and old, stretching down a darkened hallway toward a backlit door.  Everyone was dressed in the same drab tunic and sandals and all, including myself, were perfectly content to wait in the slow moving line. 

     When I finally stepped through the door, I encountered a well-dressed older gentleman with closely cropped gray hair and a neatly trimmed goatee.  Frankly, he looked a bit like Sean Connery.  He was sitting behind a computer and on his desk was a gold-plated plaque with the words St. Peter, PC.  Needless to say, a chill ran down my spine as I suddenly realized that the Evangelical Christians had been right and that I was in big trouble.

     “You look a bit surprised, young man.  What did you expect, a long beard and flowing robes?  For Christ’s sake, this is the Twenty First Century.  No pearly gates around here either, just that stairway to your right.”

     He asked me to take a seat next to his desk.  Squinting at the screen and raising what appeared to be rather stylish bifocals, St. Peter seemed to be reading a capsulized summary of my life.  An occasional “hmm” and one brief gasp caused me to break out in a cold sweat.

     “Mr. Paul Davis, date of birth 8-10-71, correct?”

     “Yes sir,” I said with some trepidation.

     “It appears that you were not a religious man, Mr. Davis.  Is that correct?”

     “Well, sir, I tried to live my life as Jesus would.”  I prayed that my shaky voice did not suggest insincerity.

     “I guess that explains the sandals and tunic,” he said, chuckling to himself.  “It seems that you were actually an agnostic. Is that a fair assessment, Mr. Davis?”

     “With all due respect, St. Peter, I think one’s actions say more about an individual than his professed beliefs.”

     “Perhaps so.  But we can’ t accept you into Heaven until you demonstrate a clear and honest faith in God the Father and his Son, Our Lord Jesus Christ.”

     “You’re not saying I deserve to go to Hell, are you sir?”  I was near collapse at that point.

     “No, Mr. Davis.  You haven’t exactly earned that assignment either.  You’ll be sent to Purgatory.”

     “Purgatory?  What…where is that, sir? “  I envisioned some sort of prison with forced labor and evening Bible study.

     “There you go again,” he said.  “More confirmation of your secular lifestyle.”

     “Could you fill me in on what to expect, St. Peter?” I asked, starting to hyperventilate.

     “You’ll be sent back to Earth for another life and that cycle will continue until you earn a place in Heaven or, God forbid, Hell.  In fact, looking at my calendar here, you are set to be born to a young couple in New Zealand nine months from today.”

     “Wow, “ I said a bit too enthusiastically.  I immediately thought of Shirley MacLaine. In a way, she was right and my fear of Purgatory quickly evaporated.  Sensing that St. Peter was about to send me on my way, I decided to seek more information.

     “May I assume, sir, that I have had other lives before this last one?”

     “Well, since you’re neither in Heaven nor Hell, that’s a reasonable conclusion.” 

     “Would it be out of bounds to ask for the details?” I asked, shifting in my chair.

     “Yes it would, Mr. Davis.  Besides, that information is in our paper files and could take ages to track down.  As I’m sure you know, these computers haven’t been available for very long.  I have assistants but this is Heaven and they only work when they feel like it.”

     “Of course, “ I said but decided to push my luck.  “Sir.  Could you tell me what goes on in Heaven?  Is it some kind of endless orgy?  You know, great food, booze, sex, rock music, the works?”

     “Spoken like a true Purgatorian, bordering on Hellian.”  St. Peter gave a sigh and continued.  “We have no need for food or sex or sports or any other Earthly delight in Heaven.  If you had listened to Christian music during your self-centered life you would know that our only desire is to sing endless praise to Our Lord.  Except for me, of course.  I’m stuck at this desk most of the time.”

     “And Hell, sir.  Is it really fire and brimstone down there?  Endless suffering?”

     “That image is a bit dramatic to be honest,” he said.  "But it’s kept a lot of Christians on the straight and narrow.” 

     He stopped for a minute to collect his thoughts.  “No, Mr. Davis.  It’s more like that movie.  What was it called?  That weatherman, the guy from Saturday Night Live, gets stuck in an endless cycle of boring days.  Oh, what is his name?  Bill…..Bill Murphy, that’s it.”

     “Murray, sir.  Bill Murray.”  I was reluctant to correct him, fearing a sudden change in assignment.

     “Whatever.  How can anyone expect me to remember names with the crowd that I face everyday? Well, anyway, Hell is pretty much like that.  An endless chain of bad days…everything goes wrong, the car won’t start, the weather’s crappy, you hate your job, your spouse is a nag.  You get my drift?”

     “Sounds like a hell of a way to go, sir.”

     One final request was to use his computer to send this email.  St. Peter was glad to take a break and wished me well in New Zealand.  I’m thinking Purgatory is something the rest of you might want to consider.  See you in the next life!

            Love, Paul

A Simple Request

   My cell phone rang as I stepped from the taxi.

   “Hello.”

   “Jack?”

   “Speaking.”

   “This is Maggie.” 

   A chubby face below a sixties beehive came into focus.

   “Maggie Thompson?”

   The only Maggie I knew was one of my neighbors back in Omaha.

   “Of course, Jack.  No need to be formal.  Where are you?”

   “I’m in New York.”

   “New York City?”

   “Yes.  I’m here on business.”

   “My goodness.  I had no idea your business took you to such exotic places.  I’m very impressed.”

   Not knowing how to take that comment, I waited for her to continue.  I could almost smell her flowery perfume.

   “How long will you be there?”

   “A few days, as usual.”

   “I’m sorry to hear that, Jack.  I was hoping you might drop by this afternoon.”

   Another confusing comment.  To my recollection, I had never set foot in her home, a modest brick ranch at the end of our block guarded by a pair of pink flamingos.

   “When will you get back in town?” she asked in her husky smoker’s voice.

   “I fly back on Tuesday.  Should be in Omaha about seven or so.”

   “Can you come over Wednesday evening then?” she asked.

   “Sure.  I guess so.”

   “Great.  I’ll have dinner ready.  Say about six thirty?”

   “That should work,” I said, glancing at my watch.

   I had no idea what prompted such an invitation but I didn’t want to be rude by asking for an explanation.  Perhaps she was just being nice since my wife and I had split.  Then again, that was six months ago.

   “I’ll fix my tuna casserole.  I know how much you like it.”

   Stumped again.  Had I offered a comment at some neighborhood party in the past?  To be honest, I’m not very fond of tuna.

   “That sounds great,” I lied.

   “Can I ask you a favor, Jack?”

   “Sure, Maggie.”

   “Could you dress up like a plumber this time?”

   “Did I hear you correctly, Maggie? A plumber?” 

   Could this be a dream?  I gave myself a mild pinch on the cheek.

   “Yeah, you know.  A flannel work shirt, overalls, rubber boots.”

   Did she have a psychotic break?  Perhaps a brain tumor?   Maybe a head injury?  I thought she might need to see a doctor.

   “I’m not sure I have any overalls or rubber boots.”

   “Could you get some cheap ones then?  Like at K-Mart or someplace?”

   “I suppose I could try,” I said, checking the time once again.

   “And bring one of those gadgets that plumbers use.  You know, the pole with that rubber cup on the bottom.”

   “A plunger?”

   “That’s it.  And remember, like last time, nothing under those overalls!”

   “Nothing what?”  Now I knew she had lost it.

   “Who knows what might happen after dinner and wine, lover boy!” she giggled. 

   “Lover boy?  Is this Maggie Thompson on Clark Lane?”

   “Yes.  And you’re Jack Wilson on Taylor Hill Road.”

   “No, Maggie.  This is Jack Walters.”

   “Oh, no.  I’m so sorry, Jack.  I must have pushed the wrong bar on my I-phone.  Just forget I called.”

Losing Harold

   As had been his habit for thirty years, Harold left the Ruby Café and walked three blocks to his Sunoco station.  After unlocking the door, he placed his lunch sack in the fridge, turned on the pumps and pulled his cash tray from the floorboard safe.  It was a warm spring morning and he decided to leaf through his Clarkson Tribune on the front stoop.  He had just finished page one when Clarence Dobbers pulled in.

   “Mornin Clarence,” he said as his neighbor climbed from the aging red pickup.

   “Mornin,” replied Clarence.  “Finally got some decent weather, eh?”

   “They say it should last all week.  Maybe you can finally get that corn in.”

   “Yeah, maybe.  Once the old lady stops sending me off to fetch her supplies.”  Clarence leaned against his truck as Harold started the gas pump and then opened the hood to check the oil.

   “How is Mabel doing?  Heard she was in the hospital a while back,” said Harold.

   “She’s fine.  Had gallbladder trouble but she’s back to her usual self.  Has me running into Clarkson to pick up some curtain rods.”  Clarence pulled off his tractor cap and rubbed the top of his balding pate.  “And how’s Margaret?”

   Harold moved out from under the hood, peering at the dipstick.  “You know Margaret.  Doing the books for Reverend Cane, running the church socials, volunteering down at the rest home.  I usually see her at dinner.”

   “Busy woman, that Margaret.  Weren’t you two planning a trip down to the Gulf?”  Clarence reached into his jacket and pulled out a can of Skoals.

   “Yeah, never happened.  Her mom got sick and then there was some kind of church event over in Greene County.  Maybe next year.”

   “Seems you say that every year,” said Clarence, a smile crossing his ruddy face.

   Harold shut the hood, wiped his hands on his belt rag and went around to top off the gas tank.  Clarence was right, of course.  He and Marge hadn’t been out of the State for several years and, with her increasing commitments, it wasn’t likely to happen any time soon.

   “That’ll be sixteen fifty,” he said, accepting a twenty and pulling change from his pocket.  “You have a good trip to Clarkson.”

   Clarence chuckled.  “The highlight of my week, I’m sure.  See you in a few days.  Got to fill up my supply tank.”

   Harold gave a final wave and settled into his chair.  Staring at the Tribune, he recalled the time of his courtship with Marge.  They had big plans back then.  Both wanted to get out of southern Illinois, maybe to Chicago, maybe even Dallas.  She aimed to be an accountant and Harold thought he’d get into sales of some kind.  Then her dad died and Marge’s family asked him to run the service station until it could be sold.  Thirty years later, it had become his life.

   A few more customers drifted in through the morning and, at noon, Harold grabbed his lunch from the fridge, popped open a soda and took a seat in the office, propping his feet on the desk.  Marge had made him a ham salad sandwich, throwing in the usual mix of carrot sticks, chips and homemade cookies.  Switching on the radio, Harold picked up the Cardinals game and enjoyed his lunch amidst the tools and auto supplies of his neatly kept station.

   Business picked up through the afternoon and, just before closing, a young man arrived in his Ford pickup.  Hopping from the cab, he put on his cowboy hat and hustled around the back of the truck to pump the gas.

   “I’ll take care of that,” said Harold, walking from the office.  “We’re a full service station.”

   “OK, sure,” said the young man, backing away to check that his load was tied down properly.

   “Just passing through?” asked Harold, starting the pump.  He had noticed the Montana plates.

   “Yep.  Heading back to the ranch.”

   “Work in the area?”  Harold had moved on to check the oil.

   “Mom died last month,” he said, readjusting the ties.  “Had to come back and fetch some of her stuff before the house sells.”

   “Oh, sorry about your loss,” said Harold, releasing the hood.  “What kind of ranch you got out there?”

   The sheriff’s phone rang at ten that evening.  It was Margaret Winters.  Harold did not return from work.  She was worried and asked if he’d stop by the station to check on him.  Sheriff Riley found the office open with the lights and pumps still on.  The cash register was empty.  Robbery was suspected and, though there were no signs of a struggle, officials feared the worse.  Harold’s wallet was found in a culvert down the road, its cash missing but his driver’s license and credit cards still in place.  His body was never found.