Streetcar To Heaven
by Norman Cristofoli
Wake up!
A quick look around.
I find myself in the sleeping compartment of an old train, the kind that were commonly used in the 1920's and 30's, sort of like Pullman cars with bunk beds and curtains.
Listen.
I hear the sound of the wheels, the whine of metal riding on metal, clickety-clack, clickety-clack, clickety-clack. The rocking and rolling of a train ride is unmistakable, comfortable, and reassuring.
I'm glad. I like trains.
To my relief, this journey seems to be starting out just fine. I lay back and wonder if everyone travels by train. Perhaps everyone is transported by the mode of travel they most enjoy, to make them feel secure, to make the transition easy.
I am lying on the top bunk. The one below me is empty. Across from me, another man lies on his back, asleep. He is large and his feet stick out of the blanket at the end of the bed. His immense belly has the appearance of a small hill.
I begin to chuckle to myself.
I realise it was his snoring that woke me. He sort of sounds like all the Three Stooges put together:
"Arrrk, phew, me me me me me me. Arrrk, phew, me me me me me me."
I lay in the half dark and contemplate my destination.
Paradise. Could it be all I had imagined?
The train gears down slowly. I hear the familiar screech of the brakes. The man with the hill-sized belly keeps on snoring. I guess this isn't his stop. I climb off my bunk, stumble around in the half-dark, and find an exit.
The train blows a gust of wind and dust in my face as it leaves the station. It wasn't an old steam engine or a modern locomotive.
Standing on the subway platform imparts an uneasy and suspicious feeling to me. The dim, fluorescent lights create a yellowish stain in the air. The tiled walls are a neutral beige colour, about two shades darker than urine, and the terrazzo floor is cracked and chipped. The platform is as cold and lifeless as a tomb. At the far end, someone has spray- painted their message on the wall:
"Why does living have to crush the life out of people?”
I walk towards the other end of the platform. A man stands with his back leaning against a pillar, his thumbs hooked into the belt loops of his jeans, a smouldering, hand-rolled cigarette dangling from his mouth.
The man looks familiar… I think it's James Dean.
He doesn’t even notice me as I walk by. He just stares at the advertisement on the opposite wall: A poster from the 1940’s, a drawing by the famous illustrator, Dan Gregory. The poster depicts a distraught housewife lying on the kitchen floor while her husband threatens her with his leather belt. The man is upset because his wife could not remove the bloodstains from his work shirt. From the crest on his shirt, it is apparent that he is employed by a major financial institution, perhaps a bank.
I walk past the James Dean impersonator and wonder what his fascination is with the poster. Further along, an old woman sits alone on a red, plastic bench, her dirty clothes somewhat tattered. Even though she is sitting by herself, she loudly scolds her sister, Thelma.
I pick up my pace and hurriedly walk to the end of the platform and stand before a moving stairway. Black, steel steps appear from beneath the floor. Each step the exact size as the previous one, all joined together by a series of interlocking, vertical lines. A constant, uniformed motion of upward mobility.
"Just like Yuppies,” I think to myself.
I step onto the moving stairway, leery as to where it may lead, but rationalising that anything is better than this subway platform. The metallic sides of the stairway are dirty, spotty, like a glass window with a million sticky fingerprints on it. The black, rubber handrail moves slightly faster than the stairway itself, pulling you off balance. At the top, the black, steel steps shrink and disappear into the floor.
I step off the escalator into a bright, unimpressive foyer . . . and just like all of those times that happened when I was alive, I stand at the top of the stairwell and wonder what I came upstairs for. A middle-aged woman bumps into me from behind, mumbling as she walks past.
"Friggin’ asshole shouldn't stop at the top of an escalator." She carries a cake box wrapped in string and three bulging shopping bags.
"She's not taking any chances," says another voice from behind me.
I turn to see a man in his early fifties. He wears faded, worn-out blue jeans, patches at the knees, running shoes, a white T-shirt, and a red baseball cap bearing the emblem of the St. Louis Cardinals.
"She's bringing her own food,” Baseball Cap continues. "Probably has to keep on some special diet. Personally, I always wondered what kind of food they have up there. I wonder if we'll be able to choose how spicy we can have our meals. Mind you, they probably have a multitude of people to serve, so the food might be like that bland, cafeteria crap they serve in prisons. You know the kind, nothing tasty, but digestible. Then again, who knows, maybe there'll be an international restaurant section so you can partake in a different, exotic delicacy at every meal. That would be something, wouldn't it? Falafels for breakfast, haggis and headcheese for lunch, and eggplant lasagne for supper. Sure does make my mouth water just thinking about it. I wonder if they'll have fresh fish and lobster. I'm really fond of lobster, especially in a nice, rich, butter sauce. Do you think they'll have fresh lobster up there?"
I stare at this strange stranger for a few moments, then hesitantly reply, "I don't know. I'm not sure if there'll be any oceans or rivers or lakes."
"Yeah, but they should be able to import fresh lobsters. I mean they can do anything up there, can't they?"
I shyly nod and smile and excuse myself to the man with the red baseball cap. I walk a few feet to the stairway marked "Down." My hope is that I somehow got off at the wrong station and that I will be able to find a comfortable bunk bed like the one I had left. I reason that another millennium of sleep and disembarking at another station probably won’t do me any harm.
The Down stairway is the exact same as the one that elevated me to this level, and the ride is uneventful, but as I get off at the bottom, I find myself in the same bright foyer. Baseball Cap is waiting for me and giggling.
With nothing to lose, I summon up the last bit of my courage, which I keep stored away on the right side of my brain for just such an emergency. Once more, I get on the Down stairway. Once again, I end up in the same bright foyer.
"Sorry bud," says Baseball Cap, "but you got no choice. Follow me, I know which streetcar we have to take."
The experience with the moving staircase has left me in a state of vague uncertainty, and I follow Baseball Cap down a short corridor to a doorway leading onto an outdoor platform. A black, backlit sign above the doorway states “33AD." On the platform, we sit upon a cold, tiled bench the same colour of dark urine as the subway walls.
"What do we do now?" I ask.
"Wait for the streetcar," Baseball Cap says.
In an awkward daze, I survey these new surroundings. The streetcar platform is enclosed within a large masonry structure and resembles an enormous, man-made cave. Streetcar tracks lead in from a long, dark tunnel on the left and exit through another dark tunnel on the right. On the wall directly behind us is a telephone box. Two old, tattered phone books hang by a chain.
I am tempted to glance through them, curious to see who might be listed. This thought slowly causes my depressed mood to wane, and my warped sense of humour is intrigued by the idea of calling a friend or relative and saying, "Hi, it's Norman, guess where I'm calling from?”
Thinking again, I reject the idea as the person on the other end of the line could end up having a stroke or a mental seizure, and they would get pissed off and yell at me when they got to heaven. Unless of course, they weren't destined for heaven. Then they would be really pissed off with me, so I decide it would be wiser not to make any calls.
Then again, I could always make an anonymous call, but I wouldn't know what to say, unless I was obscene. However, I logically reason that the phone line is probably monitored by some angelic operator who'd surely report me to the higher-ups. I conclude that any phone call is definitely out of the question.
Baseball Cap notices me looking at it. "Don't bother with the phone," he says, "The only number you can reach is with a clairvoyant in Omaha. I've heard a rumour that she's got some sort of deal worked out with the management. Pay-offs under the table, that sort of thing."
I hear a distant rumbling that continues to grow louder until an old, battered, yellow and red streetcar emerges from the dark tunnel to our left. It slows and stops at the platform in front of us. Then it lurches forward again, stops, backs up slightly, and stops once more. On a small sign at the front of the streetcar are the route numbers, 501.
The doors open with a hiss and a squeak. We board through the back doors, which immediately close behind us with another hiss of air. A strong odour bites at my nose. It is the pungent smell of too many people riding on a streetcar on a hot summer’s day.
I take a seat in the rear and Baseball Cap sits beside me. After a few moments, the streetcar starts with another lurch. It leaves the station through the darkened tunnel that was on our right, and after a few minutes we emerge onto the main thoroughfare of a large, ugly, dirty, grey, over-industrialised city.
Baseball Cap stares out of the window and doesn’t say anything. Out of shyness, I stare at the floor by my feet.
Cigarette butts lie lazily about. A piece of gum, black with dirt, has become a permanent fixture. An empty, cellophane chip-bag lies gaping open, as if it were about to start an argument.
Looking up, I take note of the other passengers.
A young man sits across the aisle from us, totally enraptured by the book he is reading. He notices me staring, smiles, and holds the book up for me to see. It is entitled "Real Messiahs Don’t Eat Quiche." The author was Norman Mailer.
I sigh and look away. The young man shrugs his shoulders and continues reading.
Three teenage youths sit in the very back of the streetcar, smoking, swearing, laughing, and writing obscenities on the "No Smoking" sign.
A young lad sitting with his mother has his head out of the window and is making animal noises at the pedestrians. His mother pulls him back in, cuffs him on the side of the head, and tells him to behave. She then continues to search with her finger for a buried treasure up her nose. The lad sticks his head out of the window once more and starts calling for a taxi.
A middle-aged couple sits near the front and converses in discreet, whispered tones. Their barely audible conversation is obviously about sex.
Sex.
I wonder if they have sex up there. And if so, is it just straight sex, or would you be allowed to get kinky? I begin to speculate if they would let you get into a little bondage. They would probably allow you to use feathers, you know, angel wings and all. Butter and whipped cream? Maybe, maybe not?
Ahhh, I begin to ruminate on sex. I wonder if it will be just like it was when I was alive. One thousand, two hundred and thirty-eight times, not including the two thousand-odd times I was by myself.
One wife, a handful of lovers, a few dozen one-night stands, six hookers, and that one old babe in Vienna who actually paid me thirty bucks.
Suddenly, a pungent smell enters through the cracked windows as the streetcar passes a sewage plant.
The young man reading Mailer sneezes at the smell, then holds his nose while breathing through his mouth. The couple sitting up front hold each other’s noses. The three teenage youths curse the smell then continue telling stories about their numerous sexual exploits. The young lad is now spitting out of the window. His mother claps him once more on the side of the head, then retreats back to the exploration up her nose.
I look around and a sense of anxiety begins to take hold. The realisation comes to me that I could possibly be on the wrong streetcar. Excusing myself to Baseball Cap, I walk up to the driver.
"Where does this streetcar go?" I ask him.
"To Heaven,” he responds without looking.
"I'm confused. I always thought that the trip to Heaven would be some sort of spiritual voyage where your soul would travel through a long, ethereal tunnel leading to a bright, white light, or maybe with angels singing and blowing golden trumpets."
He looks at me and replies with a familiar, deep, nasal voice that could only be his. "What do you think this is, a Hollywood movie? Now go away, you're bothering me."
I walk back to my seat in dazed amazement. The driver was W.C. Fields.
"Are we on the right streetcar?" Baseball Cap asks.
"Yeah, I guess we are."
The streetcar pulls into another station, stopping with its usual lurch. One man ascends the front steps and stands looking at his fellow passengers.
"No dawdling up front, move on back,” says W.C.
The new passenger is an older man, somewhere in his seventies. He is wearing a blue bathing-cap and carrying a small, red, plastic toy shovel and pail. His only other garments are a beach robe and blue and white, polka-dotted swimming trunks. Spotting me and Baseball Cap, he decides we are his best bet for a conversation.
"I hear the beaches up there are real nice,” he states with a sense of joy while taking the seat directly behind us.
"If there's water up there, then they must surely have fresh lobsters,” replies Baseball Cap.
"You can't go swimming with lobsters around," says Blue Bathing Cap. "They like to pinch your toes and bum. They think your toes are little mollusks and that's the staple of their diet."
"Why do they pinch bums?" asks Baseball Cap.
"Well, they either think it's the head of an ugly octopus or they're getting revenge for all their relatives that have been boiled alive and had their tails and legs ripped off."
Baseball Cap looks quizzical for a moment, then replies, "I don't think lobsters have the capacity for an abstract thought like revenge."
"True, true," replies Blue Bathing Cap, "But can you imagine what would happen if animals did have the intelligence and capacity for an abstract thought like revenge. Why, every spider, cockroach, and termite you ever tread upon would have hundreds of relatives plotting fiendish little plans against you. Just think, every time you bit into a hamburger, some other cow would be in the bushes outside your door, waiting for you to bend over to pick up the morning paper."
"I never used to get the morning paper delivered," says Baseball Cap."My second cousin owned the corner store and I used to get it from him at a discount."
"Don't matter. That cow would find you somewhere. Maybe it would be in the bread aisle at the supermarket, disguised as a giant, whole-wheat loaf. Then, when you weren't looking, it would poke your behind as you were trying to reach up for the low-fat, two-percent yogurt."
Baseball and Blue Bathing Cap continue with their conversation. However, my attention is diverted by an intestinal gas pain slowly growing in my bowels which has now decided that it must be set free. As discreetly as a member of the royal family, I raise the left cheek of my derriere and release a small, silent emission. Looking up, I see that no one has noticed, and I act as if nothing has happened.
Behind me, I can hear Blue Bathing Cap sniffing. Then, he takes a deep breath to make sure he is not mistaken.
"Pheee-yewww!" he cries. "Who let that one off?”
I remain silent, but with a look of complete, absolute innocence on my face. An expression that I have practiced and perfected. A look so pure that it has helped me win more than one paternity suit.
"Someone farted and it was a beaut. Smells worse than a barn in winter full of sick cows."
The young lad clutches at his neck, pretending to be choking. His mother, still up her nose, hasn't noticed anything. The three teenage youths in the back open all the windows around them, finding the acrid smell of the city more preferable than my emission.
I turn to Baseball Cap and see a little tear trickling down his cheek.
"Why are you crying?" I ask.
"It reminds me of my boyhood days back in St. Louie. Our house was beside the stockyards. I used to watch the cows being herded past. It smelt something like that. I remember we used to gather all the bones out of the garbage and take them down by the river, where we made little bone houses that we could play in. Them's was the happiest days of my life."
I no longer feel guilty and embarrassed and prepare my bowels to release another trip down memory lane, but the streetcar comes to a sudden halt, lurches forward, then jolts to a stop, three or four more times.
W.C. Fields stands up and announces "Sorry folks, the brakes need a little adjusting, but all the mechanics are on strike and we can't seem to find any parts for this old clunker. We have reached our destination. Please leave by the back doors."
The young man reading Mailer picks up his book and glasses from the floor. The three teenage youths from the back of the bus are now in the front.
The young lad has his head stuck in the window, which closed with the sudden stop. His mother cannot help him, because her finger is stuck up her nose all the way to the knuckle. She struggles in an effort to dislodge it.
Baseball Cap is smiling at me. He is missing a front tooth and the hole in his smile is dripping with blood. He gets up to help the young lad and his mother.
The middle-aged couple up front are nowhere to be seen. They eventually emerge from beneath the driver’s seat and Blue Bathing Cap is now in the seat in front of me, head down, with his feet in the air.
We gather ourselves and slowly descend from the streetcar.
There are two large, rectangular, granite blocks standing upright, a dozen feet apart. Another large block lies horizontally across the top, creating a huge arch. The blocks are rough-hewn and carved out of a dark grey stone. They remind me of Stonehenge.
There are no statues, no angels blaring golden trumpets, and no white clouds upon which everything should float. Just the rough, dark grey, granite archway for the entrance, and a neon sign.
The neon is loosely attached by wire and spikes to the horizontal block that sits on top. The neon sign is purplish-orange and in much need of repair. The "TES" of the second word are not lit and the neon tube of these letters remains dark grey, blending in with the dark granite background which renders them almost invisible. The rest of the letters flash out their message.
"PEARLY GA"
Standing just off to the side of the archway, behind an old wooden podium, holding a clipboard, is Peter Lorre.
"Step this way, step this way,” he calls in his familiar, high-pitched, nasal tone.
"You're Peter Lorre,” I say.
"Yes, what of it?”
"I thought St. Peter the Apostle was supposed to meet us at the gates of Heaven?”
Peter Lorre looks at me indignantly and tersely states, "You can't expect the man to stay out here for all eternity, can you? Checking everyone in, keeping the records straight, making sure everyone has the proper visa and documents."
"Well, I guess that wouldn't be right,” I respond timidly, “I just thought that . . . well, you know."
"Yes, yes, I know. Everyone with the name of Peter has to take a turn out here. This way it is fair for everyone."
"What do people with the name of Norman do?"
"You'll find out during the orientation seminar."
"Why doesn't somebody fix the sign?" I ask. "It would make people feel a whole lot better when they arrive. It wouldn't be such a shock to their system."
"The electricians are on strike," Peter Lorre answers.
"Why are the electricians and mechanics on strike?”
“They're out in support of the postal workers and civil servants."
My voice starts to show my frustration. "Why is everyone on strike?"
He looks at me with his sad eyes, releases a deep sigh, and replies, "That's their Heaven."
“I don’t get it, what good is that for everybody else?”
Peter Lorre raises his face to look directly at me. The sad look gone from his eyes, his voice is now stern and serious.
“There are many different levels in Heaven, similar to what Dante described in his ‘Paradisio’. Everyone’s Heaven is based on what they chose in life. I see from the records that you were a poet. You will probably be assigned to one of the mediocre levels. You probably spent your whole life thinking lofty thoughts and writing about the ideals and follies of mankind, but you never once actually helped an old lady to cross the street. You were a wishy-washy guy on Earth and that’s the kind of Heaven you will get.”
“Then who goes to the upper levels of Heaven?” I ask.
“The real paradise is for the fanatics, those who blindly obeyed whatever religious book or sect they chose to follow.”
“All the different fanatics, even the Jehovah’s Witnesses?” I ask, dismayed.
“Yes, each fanatical group resides in their own private level. This allows them to believe that they are here by themselves. The Jehovah’s Witnesses are all located on Level 324.”
“But I thought their religion stated only a limited number could get in, something like one-hundred and forty-four thousand?”
Peter Lorre smiles faintly, with the sardonic knowledge of an experienced gate-keeper. “They’re in paradise, who’s going to bother counting?”
A quick look around.
I find myself in the sleeping compartment of an old train, the kind that were commonly used in the 1920's and 30's, sort of like Pullman cars with bunk beds and curtains.
Listen.
I hear the sound of the wheels, the whine of metal riding on metal, clickety-clack, clickety-clack, clickety-clack. The rocking and rolling of a train ride is unmistakable, comfortable, and reassuring.
I'm glad. I like trains.
To my relief, this journey seems to be starting out just fine. I lay back and wonder if everyone travels by train. Perhaps everyone is transported by the mode of travel they most enjoy, to make them feel secure, to make the transition easy.
I am lying on the top bunk. The one below me is empty. Across from me, another man lies on his back, asleep. He is large and his feet stick out of the blanket at the end of the bed. His immense belly has the appearance of a small hill.
I begin to chuckle to myself.
I realise it was his snoring that woke me. He sort of sounds like all the Three Stooges put together:
"Arrrk, phew, me me me me me me. Arrrk, phew, me me me me me me."
I lay in the half dark and contemplate my destination.
Paradise. Could it be all I had imagined?
The train gears down slowly. I hear the familiar screech of the brakes. The man with the hill-sized belly keeps on snoring. I guess this isn't his stop. I climb off my bunk, stumble around in the half-dark, and find an exit.
The train blows a gust of wind and dust in my face as it leaves the station. It wasn't an old steam engine or a modern locomotive.
Standing on the subway platform imparts an uneasy and suspicious feeling to me. The dim, fluorescent lights create a yellowish stain in the air. The tiled walls are a neutral beige colour, about two shades darker than urine, and the terrazzo floor is cracked and chipped. The platform is as cold and lifeless as a tomb. At the far end, someone has spray- painted their message on the wall:
"Why does living have to crush the life out of people?”
I walk towards the other end of the platform. A man stands with his back leaning against a pillar, his thumbs hooked into the belt loops of his jeans, a smouldering, hand-rolled cigarette dangling from his mouth.
The man looks familiar… I think it's James Dean.
He doesn’t even notice me as I walk by. He just stares at the advertisement on the opposite wall: A poster from the 1940’s, a drawing by the famous illustrator, Dan Gregory. The poster depicts a distraught housewife lying on the kitchen floor while her husband threatens her with his leather belt. The man is upset because his wife could not remove the bloodstains from his work shirt. From the crest on his shirt, it is apparent that he is employed by a major financial institution, perhaps a bank.
I walk past the James Dean impersonator and wonder what his fascination is with the poster. Further along, an old woman sits alone on a red, plastic bench, her dirty clothes somewhat tattered. Even though she is sitting by herself, she loudly scolds her sister, Thelma.
I pick up my pace and hurriedly walk to the end of the platform and stand before a moving stairway. Black, steel steps appear from beneath the floor. Each step the exact size as the previous one, all joined together by a series of interlocking, vertical lines. A constant, uniformed motion of upward mobility.
"Just like Yuppies,” I think to myself.
I step onto the moving stairway, leery as to where it may lead, but rationalising that anything is better than this subway platform. The metallic sides of the stairway are dirty, spotty, like a glass window with a million sticky fingerprints on it. The black, rubber handrail moves slightly faster than the stairway itself, pulling you off balance. At the top, the black, steel steps shrink and disappear into the floor.
I step off the escalator into a bright, unimpressive foyer . . . and just like all of those times that happened when I was alive, I stand at the top of the stairwell and wonder what I came upstairs for. A middle-aged woman bumps into me from behind, mumbling as she walks past.
"Friggin’ asshole shouldn't stop at the top of an escalator." She carries a cake box wrapped in string and three bulging shopping bags.
"She's not taking any chances," says another voice from behind me.
I turn to see a man in his early fifties. He wears faded, worn-out blue jeans, patches at the knees, running shoes, a white T-shirt, and a red baseball cap bearing the emblem of the St. Louis Cardinals.
"She's bringing her own food,” Baseball Cap continues. "Probably has to keep on some special diet. Personally, I always wondered what kind of food they have up there. I wonder if we'll be able to choose how spicy we can have our meals. Mind you, they probably have a multitude of people to serve, so the food might be like that bland, cafeteria crap they serve in prisons. You know the kind, nothing tasty, but digestible. Then again, who knows, maybe there'll be an international restaurant section so you can partake in a different, exotic delicacy at every meal. That would be something, wouldn't it? Falafels for breakfast, haggis and headcheese for lunch, and eggplant lasagne for supper. Sure does make my mouth water just thinking about it. I wonder if they'll have fresh fish and lobster. I'm really fond of lobster, especially in a nice, rich, butter sauce. Do you think they'll have fresh lobster up there?"
I stare at this strange stranger for a few moments, then hesitantly reply, "I don't know. I'm not sure if there'll be any oceans or rivers or lakes."
"Yeah, but they should be able to import fresh lobsters. I mean they can do anything up there, can't they?"
I shyly nod and smile and excuse myself to the man with the red baseball cap. I walk a few feet to the stairway marked "Down." My hope is that I somehow got off at the wrong station and that I will be able to find a comfortable bunk bed like the one I had left. I reason that another millennium of sleep and disembarking at another station probably won’t do me any harm.
The Down stairway is the exact same as the one that elevated me to this level, and the ride is uneventful, but as I get off at the bottom, I find myself in the same bright foyer. Baseball Cap is waiting for me and giggling.
With nothing to lose, I summon up the last bit of my courage, which I keep stored away on the right side of my brain for just such an emergency. Once more, I get on the Down stairway. Once again, I end up in the same bright foyer.
"Sorry bud," says Baseball Cap, "but you got no choice. Follow me, I know which streetcar we have to take."
The experience with the moving staircase has left me in a state of vague uncertainty, and I follow Baseball Cap down a short corridor to a doorway leading onto an outdoor platform. A black, backlit sign above the doorway states “33AD." On the platform, we sit upon a cold, tiled bench the same colour of dark urine as the subway walls.
"What do we do now?" I ask.
"Wait for the streetcar," Baseball Cap says.
In an awkward daze, I survey these new surroundings. The streetcar platform is enclosed within a large masonry structure and resembles an enormous, man-made cave. Streetcar tracks lead in from a long, dark tunnel on the left and exit through another dark tunnel on the right. On the wall directly behind us is a telephone box. Two old, tattered phone books hang by a chain.
I am tempted to glance through them, curious to see who might be listed. This thought slowly causes my depressed mood to wane, and my warped sense of humour is intrigued by the idea of calling a friend or relative and saying, "Hi, it's Norman, guess where I'm calling from?”
Thinking again, I reject the idea as the person on the other end of the line could end up having a stroke or a mental seizure, and they would get pissed off and yell at me when they got to heaven. Unless of course, they weren't destined for heaven. Then they would be really pissed off with me, so I decide it would be wiser not to make any calls.
Then again, I could always make an anonymous call, but I wouldn't know what to say, unless I was obscene. However, I logically reason that the phone line is probably monitored by some angelic operator who'd surely report me to the higher-ups. I conclude that any phone call is definitely out of the question.
Baseball Cap notices me looking at it. "Don't bother with the phone," he says, "The only number you can reach is with a clairvoyant in Omaha. I've heard a rumour that she's got some sort of deal worked out with the management. Pay-offs under the table, that sort of thing."
I hear a distant rumbling that continues to grow louder until an old, battered, yellow and red streetcar emerges from the dark tunnel to our left. It slows and stops at the platform in front of us. Then it lurches forward again, stops, backs up slightly, and stops once more. On a small sign at the front of the streetcar are the route numbers, 501.
The doors open with a hiss and a squeak. We board through the back doors, which immediately close behind us with another hiss of air. A strong odour bites at my nose. It is the pungent smell of too many people riding on a streetcar on a hot summer’s day.
I take a seat in the rear and Baseball Cap sits beside me. After a few moments, the streetcar starts with another lurch. It leaves the station through the darkened tunnel that was on our right, and after a few minutes we emerge onto the main thoroughfare of a large, ugly, dirty, grey, over-industrialised city.
Baseball Cap stares out of the window and doesn’t say anything. Out of shyness, I stare at the floor by my feet.
Cigarette butts lie lazily about. A piece of gum, black with dirt, has become a permanent fixture. An empty, cellophane chip-bag lies gaping open, as if it were about to start an argument.
Looking up, I take note of the other passengers.
A young man sits across the aisle from us, totally enraptured by the book he is reading. He notices me staring, smiles, and holds the book up for me to see. It is entitled "Real Messiahs Don’t Eat Quiche." The author was Norman Mailer.
I sigh and look away. The young man shrugs his shoulders and continues reading.
Three teenage youths sit in the very back of the streetcar, smoking, swearing, laughing, and writing obscenities on the "No Smoking" sign.
A young lad sitting with his mother has his head out of the window and is making animal noises at the pedestrians. His mother pulls him back in, cuffs him on the side of the head, and tells him to behave. She then continues to search with her finger for a buried treasure up her nose. The lad sticks his head out of the window once more and starts calling for a taxi.
A middle-aged couple sits near the front and converses in discreet, whispered tones. Their barely audible conversation is obviously about sex.
Sex.
I wonder if they have sex up there. And if so, is it just straight sex, or would you be allowed to get kinky? I begin to speculate if they would let you get into a little bondage. They would probably allow you to use feathers, you know, angel wings and all. Butter and whipped cream? Maybe, maybe not?
Ahhh, I begin to ruminate on sex. I wonder if it will be just like it was when I was alive. One thousand, two hundred and thirty-eight times, not including the two thousand-odd times I was by myself.
One wife, a handful of lovers, a few dozen one-night stands, six hookers, and that one old babe in Vienna who actually paid me thirty bucks.
Suddenly, a pungent smell enters through the cracked windows as the streetcar passes a sewage plant.
The young man reading Mailer sneezes at the smell, then holds his nose while breathing through his mouth. The couple sitting up front hold each other’s noses. The three teenage youths curse the smell then continue telling stories about their numerous sexual exploits. The young lad is now spitting out of the window. His mother claps him once more on the side of the head, then retreats back to the exploration up her nose.
I look around and a sense of anxiety begins to take hold. The realisation comes to me that I could possibly be on the wrong streetcar. Excusing myself to Baseball Cap, I walk up to the driver.
"Where does this streetcar go?" I ask him.
"To Heaven,” he responds without looking.
"I'm confused. I always thought that the trip to Heaven would be some sort of spiritual voyage where your soul would travel through a long, ethereal tunnel leading to a bright, white light, or maybe with angels singing and blowing golden trumpets."
He looks at me and replies with a familiar, deep, nasal voice that could only be his. "What do you think this is, a Hollywood movie? Now go away, you're bothering me."
I walk back to my seat in dazed amazement. The driver was W.C. Fields.
"Are we on the right streetcar?" Baseball Cap asks.
"Yeah, I guess we are."
The streetcar pulls into another station, stopping with its usual lurch. One man ascends the front steps and stands looking at his fellow passengers.
"No dawdling up front, move on back,” says W.C.
The new passenger is an older man, somewhere in his seventies. He is wearing a blue bathing-cap and carrying a small, red, plastic toy shovel and pail. His only other garments are a beach robe and blue and white, polka-dotted swimming trunks. Spotting me and Baseball Cap, he decides we are his best bet for a conversation.
"I hear the beaches up there are real nice,” he states with a sense of joy while taking the seat directly behind us.
"If there's water up there, then they must surely have fresh lobsters,” replies Baseball Cap.
"You can't go swimming with lobsters around," says Blue Bathing Cap. "They like to pinch your toes and bum. They think your toes are little mollusks and that's the staple of their diet."
"Why do they pinch bums?" asks Baseball Cap.
"Well, they either think it's the head of an ugly octopus or they're getting revenge for all their relatives that have been boiled alive and had their tails and legs ripped off."
Baseball Cap looks quizzical for a moment, then replies, "I don't think lobsters have the capacity for an abstract thought like revenge."
"True, true," replies Blue Bathing Cap, "But can you imagine what would happen if animals did have the intelligence and capacity for an abstract thought like revenge. Why, every spider, cockroach, and termite you ever tread upon would have hundreds of relatives plotting fiendish little plans against you. Just think, every time you bit into a hamburger, some other cow would be in the bushes outside your door, waiting for you to bend over to pick up the morning paper."
"I never used to get the morning paper delivered," says Baseball Cap."My second cousin owned the corner store and I used to get it from him at a discount."
"Don't matter. That cow would find you somewhere. Maybe it would be in the bread aisle at the supermarket, disguised as a giant, whole-wheat loaf. Then, when you weren't looking, it would poke your behind as you were trying to reach up for the low-fat, two-percent yogurt."
Baseball and Blue Bathing Cap continue with their conversation. However, my attention is diverted by an intestinal gas pain slowly growing in my bowels which has now decided that it must be set free. As discreetly as a member of the royal family, I raise the left cheek of my derriere and release a small, silent emission. Looking up, I see that no one has noticed, and I act as if nothing has happened.
Behind me, I can hear Blue Bathing Cap sniffing. Then, he takes a deep breath to make sure he is not mistaken.
"Pheee-yewww!" he cries. "Who let that one off?”
I remain silent, but with a look of complete, absolute innocence on my face. An expression that I have practiced and perfected. A look so pure that it has helped me win more than one paternity suit.
"Someone farted and it was a beaut. Smells worse than a barn in winter full of sick cows."
The young lad clutches at his neck, pretending to be choking. His mother, still up her nose, hasn't noticed anything. The three teenage youths in the back open all the windows around them, finding the acrid smell of the city more preferable than my emission.
I turn to Baseball Cap and see a little tear trickling down his cheek.
"Why are you crying?" I ask.
"It reminds me of my boyhood days back in St. Louie. Our house was beside the stockyards. I used to watch the cows being herded past. It smelt something like that. I remember we used to gather all the bones out of the garbage and take them down by the river, where we made little bone houses that we could play in. Them's was the happiest days of my life."
I no longer feel guilty and embarrassed and prepare my bowels to release another trip down memory lane, but the streetcar comes to a sudden halt, lurches forward, then jolts to a stop, three or four more times.
W.C. Fields stands up and announces "Sorry folks, the brakes need a little adjusting, but all the mechanics are on strike and we can't seem to find any parts for this old clunker. We have reached our destination. Please leave by the back doors."
The young man reading Mailer picks up his book and glasses from the floor. The three teenage youths from the back of the bus are now in the front.
The young lad has his head stuck in the window, which closed with the sudden stop. His mother cannot help him, because her finger is stuck up her nose all the way to the knuckle. She struggles in an effort to dislodge it.
Baseball Cap is smiling at me. He is missing a front tooth and the hole in his smile is dripping with blood. He gets up to help the young lad and his mother.
The middle-aged couple up front are nowhere to be seen. They eventually emerge from beneath the driver’s seat and Blue Bathing Cap is now in the seat in front of me, head down, with his feet in the air.
We gather ourselves and slowly descend from the streetcar.
There are two large, rectangular, granite blocks standing upright, a dozen feet apart. Another large block lies horizontally across the top, creating a huge arch. The blocks are rough-hewn and carved out of a dark grey stone. They remind me of Stonehenge.
There are no statues, no angels blaring golden trumpets, and no white clouds upon which everything should float. Just the rough, dark grey, granite archway for the entrance, and a neon sign.
The neon is loosely attached by wire and spikes to the horizontal block that sits on top. The neon sign is purplish-orange and in much need of repair. The "TES" of the second word are not lit and the neon tube of these letters remains dark grey, blending in with the dark granite background which renders them almost invisible. The rest of the letters flash out their message.
"PEARLY GA"
Standing just off to the side of the archway, behind an old wooden podium, holding a clipboard, is Peter Lorre.
"Step this way, step this way,” he calls in his familiar, high-pitched, nasal tone.
"You're Peter Lorre,” I say.
"Yes, what of it?”
"I thought St. Peter the Apostle was supposed to meet us at the gates of Heaven?”
Peter Lorre looks at me indignantly and tersely states, "You can't expect the man to stay out here for all eternity, can you? Checking everyone in, keeping the records straight, making sure everyone has the proper visa and documents."
"Well, I guess that wouldn't be right,” I respond timidly, “I just thought that . . . well, you know."
"Yes, yes, I know. Everyone with the name of Peter has to take a turn out here. This way it is fair for everyone."
"What do people with the name of Norman do?"
"You'll find out during the orientation seminar."
"Why doesn't somebody fix the sign?" I ask. "It would make people feel a whole lot better when they arrive. It wouldn't be such a shock to their system."
"The electricians are on strike," Peter Lorre answers.
"Why are the electricians and mechanics on strike?”
“They're out in support of the postal workers and civil servants."
My voice starts to show my frustration. "Why is everyone on strike?"
He looks at me with his sad eyes, releases a deep sigh, and replies, "That's their Heaven."
“I don’t get it, what good is that for everybody else?”
Peter Lorre raises his face to look directly at me. The sad look gone from his eyes, his voice is now stern and serious.
“There are many different levels in Heaven, similar to what Dante described in his ‘Paradisio’. Everyone’s Heaven is based on what they chose in life. I see from the records that you were a poet. You will probably be assigned to one of the mediocre levels. You probably spent your whole life thinking lofty thoughts and writing about the ideals and follies of mankind, but you never once actually helped an old lady to cross the street. You were a wishy-washy guy on Earth and that’s the kind of Heaven you will get.”
“Then who goes to the upper levels of Heaven?” I ask.
“The real paradise is for the fanatics, those who blindly obeyed whatever religious book or sect they chose to follow.”
“All the different fanatics, even the Jehovah’s Witnesses?” I ask, dismayed.
“Yes, each fanatical group resides in their own private level. This allows them to believe that they are here by themselves. The Jehovah’s Witnesses are all located on Level 324.”
“But I thought their religion stated only a limited number could get in, something like one-hundred and forty-four thousand?”
Peter Lorre smiles faintly, with the sardonic knowledge of an experienced gate-keeper. “They’re in paradise, who’s going to bother counting?”