Found a Peanut
Hope you enjoy...
On the 4th of July I died. A week later I sat on a headstone behind a pile of dirt and listened to that Ecclesiastes passage that politely sums up that the final nail in the coffin has been hammered in. Like I needed confirmation. I opened an appointment book that a nice lady with one arm, one eye and no left ear gave me after I cashed it in. Even through missing teeth and half a tongue, I somehow understood her when she said, “lsldf eiosv sogowt woiyue vnbwgt.” In other words, this was the day I had a meeting to go to. I looked up to see people tossing flowers down a hole that opened as my casket was lowered into the ground. Funny. They lower you down even though you always prayed to be going “up.” I wondered what I looked like. Fire couldn’t have helped my complexion. Hmm…fire. Why didn’t they just cremate me, I was already charred. Could have gotten a discount.
I closed the appointment book and was shocked to immediately hear a loud clap of thunder followed by a lightening-bright light that could have, at some earlier date and time, blinded me. Before me now sat a distinguished looking gentleman, eclectically attired in something old—himself, something new—a Ralph Loren Polo shirt, sales tag included, something borrowed—Barry Goldwater’s horn-rimmed glasses, and something blue—Elvis’s suede shoes. I got it. Gifts from people who had passed through. Then, Let’s see, I thought, The Wedding Feast…Revelations—Damn, I should have paid better attention! And brought a gift!
“Welcome.”
Alec Guinness! Gays do get to heaven! I knew I couldn’t say that and just end it there.
“Thank you,” was all I had.
“Won’t you have a seat.”
I checked out the surroundings as I sat in the only other chair in the place, whatever the place was. If it were a person, it could best be described as milquetoast. And uncomfortable, as I turned my attention to the chair. Nevertheless, it was clear that this was the interview of all interviews and I was…aw shit.
“Please. Nothing to worry about. Let’s talk.”
It was as if he could read my thoughts. Duh.
I took a deep breath. “So, this is the Book of Life meeting, before, you know.” Of course he knew. Lighten up!
“Why don’t you start. Tell me about your life.”
“Okay, but…and I’m not trying to be a smart—sorry. I just know that you already know about my life and all.”
“I do. But maybe I missed something. I do keep pretty busy, you know.”
I shrugged, and then for some reason began using my fingers to count down my life’s events. “I’m the oldest of three, only boy, mom and pop still alive though pop is, well, you know, losing his mind and all. Moved from Louisville to Dallas after marrying someone I met in junior college—”
“How is Meg?” he asked.
Whoops. I had wanted to skip over all that. “She’s okay, I guess.” I shook off my lame answer. “Yeah, well, we don’t stay in touch, since the divorce and all.” The old man’s eyes were penetrating. “Yeah, okay, messed around, a little coke. Yes! I hit her but hey,” now I felt defensive, “I’ve talked to you about all this and I was a real sh—”
After what seemed like a lifetime the drilling stopped.
“Do you have any questions for me?” he asked.
“Yeah. What’s with the getup?”
“You were right. Gifts. I have a closet full.”
“I guess, then, that there’s not a question I could have that you haven’t already seen coming.”
“Very intuitive.”
“So, what happens from here, then,” I asked
“Sounds like you’re becoming impatient.”
“Well, I’ve told you all the good and all the bad that I can think of. Your list may be longer and I certainly doubt that you missed anything during your busy schedule.” As soon as I said it I wished I could take it back. But then I thought, What the hell, he knew it was coming.
Since I was in deep already, I decided to add, “So, this is that halfway house, purgatory, that the Cathos believe in. How come it wasn’t mentioned in your book?”
He didn’t answer but asked, “Tell me something, do you think you died and went to heaven or do you believe, since you seem resentful, resigned and filled with building angst that you are destined for hell?”
If he wasn’t going to come clean and answer my questions—that he told me I could ask—then I wasn’t going to give him the benefit of a direct answer either.
“I’ll just say this. If everybody knew they had to go through this crap to go to heaven, then there would be less suicides in the world and more people scrambling to keep better care of themselves.” Then I added, snottily, “You should write a new book. Instead of life after death, life instead of death!” And I couldn’t seem to stop. “Start your own airline for suicidal people. One way fares to Newark. To keep people pumped, how about a phone company. ‘Ask and you shall receiver.’ A cookbook with a preface written by someone who came back from the dead. ‘Eat light to not have to see the light.’”
The old man had had enough. “Are you done?”
I shrugged. “You would know.”
He offered a conciliatory smile. “I think you are the writer.”
“Oh?”
“Sure. You are quick-witted. Maybe write something lyrical. After all, you don’t need to be resentful or angry anymore. And you’ll have the time.”
“So my cracks about purgatory and all the other stuff is forgiven?”
A grin filled his face. The room changed colors. More than that, though.
“This interview is over.” He got up and began to walk away, humming of all things My Darling, Clementine.
It sparked a thought, something I might try, something lyrical, but my attention was drawn back to his final words.
“And, by the way, there is a reason this place is not in the bible. Down here we call it purge-a-tory.
On the 4th of July I died. A week later I sat on a headstone behind a pile of dirt and listened to that Ecclesiastes passage that politely sums up that the final nail in the coffin has been hammered in. Like I needed confirmation. I opened an appointment book that a nice lady with one arm, one eye and no left ear gave me after I cashed it in. Even through missing teeth and half a tongue, I somehow understood her when she said, “lsldf eiosv sogowt woiyue vnbwgt.” In other words, this was the day I had a meeting to go to. I looked up to see people tossing flowers down a hole that opened as my casket was lowered into the ground. Funny. They lower you down even though you always prayed to be going “up.” I wondered what I looked like. Fire couldn’t have helped my complexion. Hmm…fire. Why didn’t they just cremate me, I was already charred. Could have gotten a discount.
I closed the appointment book and was shocked to immediately hear a loud clap of thunder followed by a lightening-bright light that could have, at some earlier date and time, blinded me. Before me now sat a distinguished looking gentleman, eclectically attired in something old—himself, something new—a Ralph Loren Polo shirt, sales tag included, something borrowed—Barry Goldwater’s horn-rimmed glasses, and something blue—Elvis’s suede shoes. I got it. Gifts from people who had passed through. Then, Let’s see, I thought, The Wedding Feast…Revelations—Damn, I should have paid better attention! And brought a gift!
“Welcome.”
Alec Guinness! Gays do get to heaven! I knew I couldn’t say that and just end it there.
“Thank you,” was all I had.
“Won’t you have a seat.”
I checked out the surroundings as I sat in the only other chair in the place, whatever the place was. If it were a person, it could best be described as milquetoast. And uncomfortable, as I turned my attention to the chair. Nevertheless, it was clear that this was the interview of all interviews and I was…aw shit.
“Please. Nothing to worry about. Let’s talk.”
It was as if he could read my thoughts. Duh.
I took a deep breath. “So, this is the Book of Life meeting, before, you know.” Of course he knew. Lighten up!
“Why don’t you start. Tell me about your life.”
“Okay, but…and I’m not trying to be a smart—sorry. I just know that you already know about my life and all.”
“I do. But maybe I missed something. I do keep pretty busy, you know.”
I shrugged, and then for some reason began using my fingers to count down my life’s events. “I’m the oldest of three, only boy, mom and pop still alive though pop is, well, you know, losing his mind and all. Moved from Louisville to Dallas after marrying someone I met in junior college—”
“How is Meg?” he asked.
Whoops. I had wanted to skip over all that. “She’s okay, I guess.” I shook off my lame answer. “Yeah, well, we don’t stay in touch, since the divorce and all.” The old man’s eyes were penetrating. “Yeah, okay, messed around, a little coke. Yes! I hit her but hey,” now I felt defensive, “I’ve talked to you about all this and I was a real sh—”
After what seemed like a lifetime the drilling stopped.
“Do you have any questions for me?” he asked.
“Yeah. What’s with the getup?”
“You were right. Gifts. I have a closet full.”
“I guess, then, that there’s not a question I could have that you haven’t already seen coming.”
“Very intuitive.”
“So, what happens from here, then,” I asked
“Sounds like you’re becoming impatient.”
“Well, I’ve told you all the good and all the bad that I can think of. Your list may be longer and I certainly doubt that you missed anything during your busy schedule.” As soon as I said it I wished I could take it back. But then I thought, What the hell, he knew it was coming.
Since I was in deep already, I decided to add, “So, this is that halfway house, purgatory, that the Cathos believe in. How come it wasn’t mentioned in your book?”
He didn’t answer but asked, “Tell me something, do you think you died and went to heaven or do you believe, since you seem resentful, resigned and filled with building angst that you are destined for hell?”
If he wasn’t going to come clean and answer my questions—that he told me I could ask—then I wasn’t going to give him the benefit of a direct answer either.
“I’ll just say this. If everybody knew they had to go through this crap to go to heaven, then there would be less suicides in the world and more people scrambling to keep better care of themselves.” Then I added, snottily, “You should write a new book. Instead of life after death, life instead of death!” And I couldn’t seem to stop. “Start your own airline for suicidal people. One way fares to Newark. To keep people pumped, how about a phone company. ‘Ask and you shall receiver.’ A cookbook with a preface written by someone who came back from the dead. ‘Eat light to not have to see the light.’”
The old man had had enough. “Are you done?”
I shrugged. “You would know.”
He offered a conciliatory smile. “I think you are the writer.”
“Oh?”
“Sure. You are quick-witted. Maybe write something lyrical. After all, you don’t need to be resentful or angry anymore. And you’ll have the time.”
“So my cracks about purgatory and all the other stuff is forgiven?”
A grin filled his face. The room changed colors. More than that, though.
“This interview is over.” He got up and began to walk away, humming of all things My Darling, Clementine.
It sparked a thought, something I might try, something lyrical, but my attention was drawn back to his final words.
“And, by the way, there is a reason this place is not in the bible. Down here we call it purge-a-tory.
