ONE
If it weren’t for the fact that Phil Dibble needed to work in order to live (or ‘Develop a habit of eating indoors on a regular basis’ as his father always said), he would never leave his apartment.
Phil could have afforded a house, since his spending was minimal in comparison to his substantial pay, but in doing so, the increase in rooms would never allow him the time to leave the place. You see Phil has an obsessive/ compulsive disorder (to some, this was originally called being a neat-freak). Everything had to be in a certain place, in a certain fashion, in a certain order.
He would notice if the condiment bottles were out of line, or if they weren’t faced a particular order. His eyes would be drawn to his sock and underwear drawer if a pair of socks overlapped his boxers (which were folded first in half lengthwise, then in half, then in half again). He would notice (which could also be referred to by others as ‘freaking out’) if his soiled laundry was not in their individual receptacles; socks in one basket, boxers in a second, tee shirts in a third. His shirts, pants and other outerwear would be sent to the cleaners, regardless if they had a ‘dry clean only’ label.
When Dibble would dress in the morning, he – after setting his items the night before – would wear clothes that did not overtly contrast. Blues would be with blues, grays and blacks, browns would be with tans or blacks, and forget any clothes with patterns or prints. All would be variations of solid colors. Once someone bought him for his birthday a vertical striped shirt. It took him several days to determine what color pants he owned that would not clash with each stripe (it was a blue and tan striped shirt, with a white collar). In the end, the shirt was returned to its gift box and placed in a corner of the closet, under the other clothes he could not bring himself to wear; each in their individual gift box.
After making sure that his apartment was in order, going from room to room, putting things in order, making sure each blind was straight and turned downwards versus up (curtains were out, because any sudden gust of wind would make a crease in the fabric, which would need to be corrected), the furniture faced a particular way, the TV Guide was placed upward on the coffee table, three inches in and five inches down from the left edge of the table, he would go to work. Of course, he had organized his apartment before he went to sleep, but something in his mind pushed him to make sure things were the same as he left it before he walked out of the apartment.
Then there was sleeping.
His bed, a twin (Phil would not get a larger bed for fear that it would take him more time to arrange the sheets, pillow and comforter), was military straight. The corners of the sheets were evenly tucked under the mattress, the box spring was set perfectly on its frame, the comforter was centered over the mattress over the pillow, which was centered at the top of the mattress. He would dress in his pajamas (after ironing in a crease sharp enough to hurt someone), gently fold over the comforter and sheets, carefully climb in, and after laying in the center of the mattress, gently pull the sheets over his body, followed by the comforter, with his arms on the outside of the comforter. He would then clap his hands together twice to activate the Clapper device to shut off the lamp on his night table (before he purchased the device, it would take him several hours to position himself under the covers, reach over to turn off the light, then turn it back on to make sure the covers were perfectly flat and unwrinkled, only to reach over again to turn off the light, then turn it back on to correct the sheets), and allow his body to relax and drift off to a peaceful orderly sleep. And as if his conscious mind worked overtime, as he slept, Phil Dibble never moved a muscle, keeping his coverings in perfect symmetrical order.
Then there was the matter of getting ready for work.
Not a hair could be out of place, not a wrinkle in his clothes, not a spec of dirt anywhere to be seen. His soap was in a Ziploc bag, as were his toothbrush, toothpaste, and floss; separate bags for each. His brush and comb were cleaned after every use and placed in a small plastic case, also in a Ziploc bag. Though he began work at 8:30 in the morning, he religiously woke at 4:30 because performing his morning rituals had to be, well, performed just so.
Phil would have two pieces of wheat toast with two exactly measured pats of margarine, placed on a plastic plate on a plastic place mat, with a cup of tea (two carefully measured teaspoons of sugar, thank you kindly). Each item would be placed in the dishwasher with a measured half-cup of dishwashing liquid. For fear of suds bubbling outside of the machine (thus creating thousands of small soap rings of varying sizes), he waited until the cycle was complete, and then re-dried the plate, placemat, the cup, the spoon, and the butter knife with a lint free towel, which would go into the towel basket near the washing machine.
Phil would catch the 7:15 bus to his office, which would drop him off at the corner at 7:35 (he allowed more than enough time for traffic, weather conditions, and assorted other delays – his list was two single spaced pages long – to hamper his trip). He would go to the newsstand, pick up the Daily News (the pages were folded properly down its center, the paper folded exactly in half, and placed in a sealed plastic bag, as per an arrangement with the stand owner) and walk to his office.
Phil Dibble’s job was tailored made for him. He was an editor, proofreader and fact checker for a film magazine. With one glance, Phil could spot spelling and printing errors in the galleys, and make the appropriate corrections with a sharpened number 2 pencil. After that was done, he would glance over the critiques and articles and check, double check and triple check the information for accuracy (the magazine publisher only allowed Phil three checks because the first time Phil confirmed a single article’s information, he spent the entire day checking Internet files).
He would order his daily meal of a hamburger, French fries and a small coleslaw. Each item was in its own Styrofoam box, and the fries would be of equal length, cooked exactly the same way and be no more, no less than twenty-four individual strips of potato (as per an arrangement with the stand owner). Once his meager repast was complete, each box was placed in an individual plastic bag and deposited in the wastebasket near his desk (the evening clean-up crew constantly remarked how neat and orderly his wastebasket was).
Phil would return to editing, proofreading and fact checking, sign off on the work, okaying it for print, shut down his computer, dust and straighten his desk, give his area a spray from the aerosol disinfectant he carried in his briefcase, and take the bus home.
This was a satisfactory routine for Phil Dibble. His weekends were spent straightening up his apartment, picking out his clothes for the workweek, shining his shoes, dropping off the previous week’s clothes to the cleaners, and preparing his supper.
No variation. No difference.
Phil – for obvious reasons – was a bachelor. He did not feel lonely, nor did he feel that his life was missing companionship. Not having met a woman that was as neat or as orderly as he was, he was more than comfortable with his existence.
Having cable, he would watch any and every documentary or show with a scientific or fact based edge to them. He did not watch situation comedies, dramas, or reality shows, because he would find some form of disarray in the participant’s clothes, hair, makeup, language, and/or demeanor. This was not counting statements in script lines that were easily refutable, regardless if the line in question was an attempt at humor. He had tried a few times, but found that his numerous corrective comments to the network went ignored. So to avoid any level of frustration, Phil Dibble watched only shows that contained factual information.
On Saturday, at exactly three in the afternoon, Phil would call his mother and spend exactly twenty-three minutes on the telephone with her. Even in this, the conversations – which were mostly one-sided; hers - were always the same. ‘How are you?’ ‘What’s new?’ ‘Have you found a girl?’ ‘When am I going to get a grandchild?’ ‘You’ll call next week, right?’ After this, he would call his sister and spend eight minutes on the telephone with her. There was more of a give and take between them, his sister Eloise fully comfortable with her brother’s idiosyncrasies.
No variation. No difference.
Phil liked his life, because it was orderly and predictable.
It was his death he would have problems with.
It was a Wednesday. The sky was slightly overcast, but the temperature was pleasant. Some people went to work by bus, car or taxi, which was the norm. Others walked uptown and downtown, passing the bus stop on the corner where Phil, as usual, stood at the bus stop, waiting for the bus to take him to work. The passerby’s took little notice of the small-framed man with his black raincoat over his blue two-piece suit, the highly polished shoes and the brown snap-closed briefcase in his hand. No variation. No difference. A typical day.
Phil Dibble, whose life was about to end in exactly thirty-three seconds, noticed that a taxi was coming down the street, which to him was nothing out of the ordinary. His sharp eyes did notice that the inspection sticker, which was coming into view, was not straight, and he fought the urge to mention that fact should the taxi stop near him. To do so would take him away from his spot at the bus stop, and possibly delay his arriving at work. As the taxi came closer, the last two observations Phil Dibble had was a) the driver was clutching his chest and his face was ashen and, b) the taxi company’s telephone number, which he instantly memorized to call them to report the askew sticker.
Of course, both were moot points when the cab bounced up onto the sidewalk, struck Phil exactly dead center (a point that may or may not have pleased him), smashing him, the bus stop sign and the kiosk into the building on the corner.
A police officer who happened to turn the corner in time to witness the accident, called it in, requested an ambulance, and leaped from his vehicle to see if he could assist the victim until the EMTs arrived.
Phil, groggily, brought the specks of cruller on the front of the officer’s uniform to the officer’s attention, mentioned that he missed a spot when shaving, gave his office number, asking the officer to call to say he was going to be late, and brought up the angled inspection sticker on the now broken windshield of the taxi. When Phil raised his hand, he saw blood on his fingers and became slightly frantic realizing that his clothes were in disarray.
The last three words Phil Dibble uttered were the three that he never expected himself to say in this life or any other. Ever.
“I’m a mess.”
* * *
The sun, which was either the beginning of dawn or the close of sunset, shone between the snowcapped mountains. The sky, which was a striking blue, was peppered with clouds that looked so soft and fluffy, cotton balls were cast-iron in comparison. The grass that covered the hills and valleys were a perfect green, and colorful flowers of every variety accented the area. It was as if God and Spielberg were watching The Sound of Music, and just as Julie Andrews spun through the grass, God nudged Steven and muttered, “This could use a little improvement. You have ILM on your speed dial?”
Phil Dibble turned around and found that the spectacle in back of him was just as majestic as the view from the front. He glanced at his hand and saw skin unbroken and unblemished. He looked down and saw his suit was rent-free and all its creases were in place. He was about to touch his head to check for any scars or abrasions when a voice spoke softly from behind.
“Mr. Dibble?”
Phil turned to see a man standing before him, wearing a black two-piece suit that had to be tailor made for him. He was handsome, tall, broad of shoulder and narrow of hip. His graying brown hair was neither too long nor too short, and framed his tanned face well. He gazed easily at Phil Dibble through a pair of friendly blue eyes.
“Mr. Dibble,” he began in a voice that answered the unasked question, ‘What would Claude Rains’ and James Mason’s voice sound like if they mated?’
“What time is it?” asked Phil.
The man stopped short, his mouth snapping shut. One eyebrow rose as he regarded Dibble. “Excuse me?”
“What time is it?” Phil repeated. He pointed towards the sun. “I mean is it morning? Afternoon? Evening? Which is it, please?”
Tanned lids fluttered over blue eyes. The man smiled a intensely white smile.
“Ah, Mr. Dibble,” he said. “Here we do not measure time as you once understood it. Here . . . “
“Why?”
The man’s jaw snapped shut again. He adjusted his jacket, flexed his shoulders and cleared his throat.
“Because, Mr. Dibble,” he began, “in Heaven, there is no need for such things. You see, here . . . “
“How do you greet people then?” asked Phil.
“I don’t follow you,” the man said softly after a pause, his graying eyebrows coming down in a V.
“I mean,” said Phil, “do you greet people with ‘Good morning’, ‘Good afternoon’, or ‘Good evening’?”
After several blinks, the man said, “We usually just say ‘hello’ or ‘hi’.”
Phil Dibble mulled that information over for a few seconds. “Oh,” he said finally.
“It could be considered ‘afternoon’,” Peter said flatly causing the lines in Dibble’s face to relax. Partially, anyway. “Anyway, my name is Peter,” the man said.
“What?” asked Phil.
Peter stared blankly at Phil for a second. “I said,” he began, “My name is Peter.”
“What?” Phil repeated.
Peter cleared his throat. “Peter,” he said a little louder.
“What?” Phil asked again.
Peter folded his arms across his chest and looked at Dibble. “Can you hear me, Mr. Dibble?”
“Yes,” Phil answered. “Perfectly.”
“I mean, not just now. Have you been able to hear what I’ve been saying?”
“Yes, I have” Phil said. “Why do you ask?”
Peter opened and shut his mouth and shook his head slightly. He grinned and shrugged. “Never mind,” he said. “It’s nothing. As I said, my name is Peter.”
“What?” Phil asked again.
“THERE!” Peter exclaimed, a well-manicured finger from the end of an outstretched arm aimed between Phil’s eyes. “You’re doing it again! Why do you keep saying ‘what’?”
“Peter Smith?” asked Phil. “Peter Jones? Peter Gabriel? What’s your last name?”
Peter’s mouth moved, but no sound came out.
“I mean,” continued Phil, “Since you’re calling me Mr. Dibble, I felt – out of courtesy – I should call you by your last name as well.”
“Oh,” said Peter in a whisper. “It’s . . . just . . . Peter.”
“I see,” Phil said. “Then please, call me Phil.”
“In . . . time, Mr. Dibble,” Peter replied, eyeing the smaller man suspiciously. He blinked his crossed eyes away and smiled again. “We have a few formalities to complete before I take you to your new home, Mr. Dibble,” he said feeling the need to start again from the beginning. “Please,” he said. “Have a seat.”
Phil frowned and looked down at the grass, then back up at Peter, who was walking behind a large mahogany desk with a computer terminal on the corner. He looked slightly over his shoulder and saw a very comfortable chair behind him. He sat down.
Peter typed on the keyboard for a few seconds, moved and clicked the mouse and beamed at the screen. “Ah, here we are. ‘Phillip Sca . . . ‘” Peter’s eyes narrowed as he looked at the line on the screen. “Must be a typo of some sort,” he muttered.
“What’s a typo?” asked Phil.
Peter’s eyes shot up. “You are asking me what the typographical error is, not ‘what is the definition of ‘typo’’, are you?” he asked hesitantly.
“No,” Phil replied. “I mean, yes!” he corrected. “What error are you talking about?”
“It says here that your middle name is . . . “
“’Scaramouche’,” finished Phil.
Peter’s head swiveled slowly towards Dibble. “Your parents named you ‘Phillip Scaramouche Dibble’?” he asked.
“My mother had a thing for Stewart Granger,” Phil replied. “You know; the actor?”
“I am very familiar with Mr. Granger,” Peter said. “We play cricket every third eon.”
“You know Stewart Granger?” Phil asked with interest. “My mother would have loved to meet him!”
“She will,” Peter replied. “In time. Let’s get on with this now, shall we?” He turned back to the screen. “‘Phillip Scaramouche Dibble’,” he said, casting an eye to the seated man. “Born January 22, 1964, died October 12, 2004. Death caused by car accident.”
“It wasn’t a car accident,” said Phil.
Peter frowned and looked back at the screen, then back to the seated man. “Mr. Dibble,” he began. “You were struck by an oncoming taxi cab and compressed into a wall. Hence the word ‘car’. The driver, David Bellows, had a heart attack and had lost control of the automobile. That means Mr. Bellows did not hit you on purpose. Hence the word, ‘accident’. Car. Accident..”
“Well, yes,” said Phil. “That’s all true. But the term ‘car accident’; it implies that I was the driver, and I was at fault.”
“Not necessarily,” replied Peter.
“Well, it sounds that way.”
Peter sighed. “What would you prefer?” he asked. “’Death by Chevy’?”
Phil mulled that over and smiled. “Yes, that would be preferable.”
Peter rolled his eyes slightly. “You realize I have to fill out a change of death form? In triplicate,” he added.
“Well, it would set things straight,” Phil replied.
Peter stared at Phil Dibble, held out his hand and a pen appeared in it. He took a Post It out of the drawer to his left, made a note, raised his hand and the pen vanished. He forced a smile on his face and his eyes snapped to the screen. “You’ve led an exemplary life, Mr. Dibble. I believe all is in order,” he said quickly . “Let me escort you to your home.”
He stood up and the desk and the terminal vanished. Phil pulled himself to a standing position and the chair behind him also disappeared.
“Follow me, Mr. Dibble,” Peter said and walked down a path that suddenly appeared at his feet and went over a hill. Phil walked about three steps behind him. Three carefully measured steps.
“So this is Heaven,” Phil said.
“That it is, Mr. Dibble,” Peter replied. “Your final destination.”
“It seems pretty empty,” he said looking across the hills and valleys.
“Empty?” Peter repeated.
“Well, uh,” began Phil, “I would have said ‘void of life’, but that would mean, well, you know . . .”
“You are only in the reception area, Mr. Dibble,” Peter said. “There’s more to Heaven than this.”
“It still needs work,” Phil muttered. He collided with Peter’s back, who had stopped dead in his tracks. He slowly turned and looked down at Dibble, a look of complete and total shock on his face.
“What needs work, Mr. Dibble?” he asked softly.
“Well,” Phil began. “Your gardener seems to be slacking off.” Seeing that this information only caused Peter’s eyes to go round, Phil continued. “I mean, look at the trees. Those over there are in need of trimming. The branches are uneven. And the grass, it looks longer over there than it is over here. And those flowers! I mean, who plants mums next to daffodils? And next to the daffodils are violets. There is no logical pattern to this. It looks all thrown together. You really should speak to him.” Phil flushed. “Uh, unless the gardener is a ‘her’, that is.”
Aghast, Peter slowly turned and pointed. “There is your home, Mr. Dibble.”
Phil turned to see a beautiful ranch style house, painted in a soft sky blue, with a large front yard and an even larger back yard. Framing either side of the walkway to the front door were rows of white marble and a pair of tall maple trees. From their vantage point on the hill, you could see a Japanese rock garden in the rear of the property, complete with a mini-waterfall. Not far away from the garden were two trees with a hammock strung between them. The front and rear of the house had huge bay windows overlooking the peaceful setting. Phil walked slowly to the gate and stared with open mouth. He turned to look at Peter, who stood with a beatific smile on his face.
“Could you fix the rocks?” Phil asked.
Peter’s smile fell. “Excuse me?”
“The rocks on the walkway,” Phil said pointing. “Could you fix them?”
“Those ‘rocks’, Mr. Dibble, are marble.”
“Yes, could you fix them?”
“Mr. Dibble,” Peter began, “What exactly is wrong with the ‘rocks’?”
“Well, for one, they’re not the same size. And they aren’t evenly spaced.”
“’Evenly’ . . . ?”
“Do you have a tape measure?” Phil asked.
Not taking his eyes from the little man, Peter reached into his pocket (which from all outward appearances looked empty) and handed him a tape measure. He watched Phil measure height and width of the marble stones, then the distance between two of them, then took several more measurements. After a short while, he let the metal strip retract into its holder and handed it back to Peter.
“You see,” Phil said calmly. “Those two over there are two inches apart. Those over there are two and an eighth inches apart. And those! Those are two and three-quarter inches apart. And that’s not mentioning that some of the rocks are three inches in circumference, while some are three and a half. Very shoddy work. So? Could you fix them?”
Peter stared at Dibble in silence for several beats. “Let’s go inside,” he said softly.
The front door opened as if it were expecting them, and Peter led them through a large wide foyer and into a immense living room.
“As you can see, you have everything you could want,” he said with a wave of his hand. “You have a one hundred and twenty inch projection television, with every channel you could imagine. You have a surround sound system of the highest quality. There is a mini-fridge in the corner to house whatever you like to drink. The couch and loveseat have recliner functions. There is mood lighting that can be preset to your tastes. There is a CD player, a DVD player, a VCR, and we will give you a form to fill out, so we can get you every film you’ve ever wanted.” He then led Phil through a door.
“This is your bedroom,” Peter continued. “Your bed is a king size and has comfort controls to set the firmness of your mattress. Over there is your closet and all your clothes . . . “
“You have a dry cleaning service?” Phil interrupted.
Peter smiled. “Mr. Dibble,” he said. “Here, your clothes will not soil, nor will they wrinkle in any way. They will be as fresh as the first time you put them on. And before you ask, all you need do is think of the style of clothes you enjoy wearing and a representative will be by in a while to take your measurements. And show you a choice of formal and leisure wear,” he added. His arm raised and he pointed at the thirty-five inch television set on a stand. “In case you wish to relax in bed, this is your bedroom television. It also has the same cable access as the television in the living room. Anything you want to see, all at the press of a button on the remote control.” Peter looked at Dibble, who wore an unimpressed expression. “Let go this way,” he said softly, leading Phil to an enclosed room.
“This is your combination Jacuzzi, hot tub and steam bath, Mr. Dibble,” Peter continued. “All you need do is set the temperatures and enjoy. Now let me show you the kitchen.”
Peter walked past Phil to a room that rivaled the living room in size. The stove, the sink, the dishwasher and the refrigerator were all a polished stainless steel. In the center of the kitchen was a huge butcher-block table. Above the table, hanging on racks, were pots, pans, skillets, and assorted cooking utensils of all varieties. The floor was white marble and the walls; also marble, were in a black and white checkerboard pattern. Peter, with all the presentation skills of Vanna White, swung the refrigerator door open to reveal packages of meats, vegetables, sodas, beer, wines, and a large assortment of snacks.
“If there is anything here not to your liking, all you need do is say so.” He reached into the air and produced a sheet of paper. “Here’s a form for you to fill out, which will be presented to our food service department.” Peter stepped back and held his arms out wide, as if to encompass the entire house. “And if you find that we missed something, anything, Mr. Dibble,” Peter said now reaching into his jacket pocket, “please give me a call and we’ll have it taken care of, straight away.” He handed Phil a cell phone. Phil looked at the small silver rectangle in his hand and frowned. Peter leaned forward and flipped it open revealing the dial pad and one button marked ‘Peter’. “Just press that button to let me know of anything you require.”
Peter spun on his heels and headed for the front door. Phil followed exactly three steps behind him. Peter’s hand touched the doorknob as Phil cleared his throat behind him. Smiling, Peter turned, his eyebrows raised.
“Where’s the bathroom?” Phil asked.
Peter’s smile widened. “Like your clothes, Mr. Dibble,” he began, “you will not become soiled, so there is no need for a shower or a bath.
“But . . . “
“As for shaving, there is no need to do so. The hair on your head and chin will only grow if you want it to. Versus that all-too-living chore of having to wait for a mustache or beard to grow in,” he said rolling his eyes slightly, “all you have to do is just want to have a mustache or beard or both and it will be there. If you wish your hair to be longer or shorter, then it will be. It’s as simple as that.”
“What about the . . . toilet?” Phil asked, the last word coming out in a whisper.
“You won’t need it, Mr. Dibble.”
“Excuse me?”
“Here such mundane and time consuming things as relieving oneself aren’t at all necessary.”
“It . . . isn’t?” Phil asked, his eyebrows dipping slightly.
“Not at all,” Peter replied. “You may eat all you wish and never have to . . . go.”
“Uh, . . . “ began Phil.
“And you will never gain weight either,” Peter added. “You don’t have to exercise to keep fit.”
“I, uh, don’t exercise,” Phil said softly. “Much.”
“Then the point is moot,” Peter said. “Here, all you have to do is enjoy the afterlife.”
“Well, that doesn’t make sense,” Phil said.
“That is because you have not acclimated your thinking to Heavenly ways, Mr. Dibble,” Peter said. “Once you stop thinking living, all will be easy.” Both men locked eyes for several beats. “Well, if there is anything you need, please do not hesitate to call me.” Peter again reached for the door.
“What do I do?” asked Phil from over his shoulder.
Peter turned, the smile frozen on his face, but not reaching his eyes. “Do, Mr. Dibble?”
“Yes,” Phil said. “What’s my job here?”
“Whatever it is you want,” he said.
“I mean, what do I do here? Exactly.”
Peter’s eyes crossed slightly. “What do you want to do?” he asked.
“My work.”
Peter’s smile returned, but this time, not so radiant. “Let’s just say that you are on an extended vacation, Mr. Dibble. You can choose to do whatever you wish.”
“Sounds boring,” Phil replied.
“Not at all,” Peter said. “You can read, watch television. You can visit with your neighbors and enjoy a good conversation. Maybe play chess . . . “
“I don’t play chess,” Phil said.
“Or checkers.”
“I don’t play checkers.”
“Tennis? Basketball? Monopoly?” Peter stared at him for a few seconds. “Skeet shooting?”
“I don’t play any of those,” he replied.
“What did you do for enjoyment?” Peter asked. “Before . . . “ He waved his hand versus finishing the sentence.
“I worked.”
“Well, what is it that you like, Mr. Dibble?” Peter asked. “Or liked?”
“Work.”
Peter blinked several times. “Well, I am absolutely sure you will be able to find something entertaining to occupy your time. So if there is . . . ”
“Do you have something smaller?” Phil asked.
“ . . . smaller?”
“Than this,” Phil said, waving both arms at his surroundings.
“You wish something . . . smaller?”
“Well, yes,” Phil said. “It just seems too . . . much. Very high maintenance.”
“Uh, well, suppose you give it a try for a short time,” Peter said slowly. “If it doesn’t meet to your satisfaction, I’ll see what I can do.”
“Well, okay,” Phil said, sounding disappointed.
“Well, if there is . . . “
“I’ll need laundry baskets,” Phil interjected.
“I thought we covered that, Mr. Dibble,” Peter said. “You, nor your clothes will not become soiled, so you don’t need . . . “
“Yes, but I would feel a lot better about it.”
Pause. “I will have a laundry basket sent over, Mr. Dibble,” Peter said softly.
“Baskets,” Phil corrected. “Laundry baskets. More than one.”
Peter’s mouth opened, shut, then opened again, albeit slower. “May I ask why you require more than one basket?”
“One for my socks,” Phil replied. “One for my tee shirts. One for my underwear. And you’re sure you don’t have a dry cleaning service?”
“Yes. Positive. We don’t,” Peter said staring. “We’ve never had the need for it.”
“You should consider getting one,” Phil said.
“I will take it under advisement,” Peter replied. “Is there anything else?”
Phil thought for a long beat, then shook his head. “No,” he replied. “Not at this moment.”
Peter released a sigh of relief. “Then please enjoy your stay, Mr. Dibble. Remember, I’m only a call away.”
Peter left the house and quick-stepped down the paved walk. He had reached the opening to the main road when the cell phone in his pocket rang. Actually, it sang. Whenever an incoming call was received, your would hear the opening bars of Handel’s The Halleluiah Chorus, in a magnificent four-part harmony. He flipped the cover up and held it to his ear. “Peter here,” he said cheerfully.
“Hi,” said Phil. “It’s me.”
“Yes, Mr. Dibble?” Peter said, his voice still cheerful, but forced.
“You will send someone over to correct those rocks, won’t you?” he asked.
“It is at the top of my things to do, Mr. Dibble,” Peter said dryly.
“Grand!” he exclaimed. “I mean, I don’t mean to be a bother, but the rocks are just . . . uneven.”
“They will be taken care of, Mr. Dibble,” he said. “Goodbye.” He flipped the cover shut and replaced it in his inside pocket. He had no more than taken a single step when the phone sang. “Peter here,” he said in a cheerful tone.
“And you will have someone bring over the laundry baskets?” Phil asked. “Oh, sorry! It’s me. Phil Dibble.
“Yes, Mr. Dibble,” Peter replied. “I know it is you. And I will have the baskets brought over.”
“Very good,” Phil replied and hung up.
Peter flipped the cover down and stared at the phone in his hand. It sang again. “Yes, Mr. Dibble?” he asked.
“How did you know it was me?” Phil asked.
“An educated guess,” he said in a strained voice. “What can I do for you?”
“I wanted to make sure I would get a minimum of three laundry baskets, is all.”
“I can have a dozen sent over if you’d like,” Peter replied sarcastically.
“Oh, okay. Thanks.” The line clicked off.
Peter stood staring at the telephone, waiting for it to ring again. For several beats he waited, but the phone remained silent. He took a step when the door to Dibble’s home opened behind him.
“Why would I need a dozen laundry baskets?” he asked from the open doorway.
Peter turned completely around slowly and stared at Dibble. Phil’s inquisitively blank expression twisted into an inquisitive frown. “You were joking, weren’t you?” he asked.
“Yes, Mr. Dibble,” Peter said with slow infinite patience. “It was an attempt at humor.”
“Oh,” he replied. “I understand.”
Phil opened his mouth to say something, but witnessed a small electric spark flash from Peter’s blue eyes. Even though he was at the end of the walkway, he saw the spark clearly. He sheepishly grinned at him, nodded and shut the door. Dibble was about to release the doorknob and turn away when another question popped in his mind and he swung the door open. Standing in the doorway was Peter, looming over him.
“Yes, Mr. Dibble?” he asked in a strained voice.
“Uh,” Phil croaked, “It can wait,” he said and quickly shut the door. When he peered around the curtain covering the window in the foyer, Peter was gone.
TWO
“Yes, Mr. Bronstein,” Peter replied, escorting the new arrival around the solarium, “That is John F. Kennedy.”
“But,” began Bronstein, a tone of hesitancy in his voice, “Didn’t he, well, you know, uh, sleep around?”
Peter’s eyes glanced around and he moved conspiratorially closer to the man. “Yes,” he whispered. “That he did.”
“But what about . . . “ began Bronstein.
“Yes, I know,” whispered Peter. “That ‘Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's wife’ rule. One of the ten. I sort of questioned that myself.” Peter’s eyes darted to the left, then the right. “Rumor is that his father pulled some strings before he took his trip . . . “ Peter raised his eyes to the roof of the solarium, then quickly dropped them to the floor, adding the sound of a falling missile for effect.
“Ohhhhh,” whispered Bronstein.
“But one has to admit that the man did many great . . . “ Peter’s telephone sang, cutting him off. He grinned at the man. “Excuse me; I must take this.” He pulled the phone from his pocket and held it to his ear. “Peter here,” he said in a cheerful tone. His eyes narrowed and his smile slid off his face like butter on a hot griddle. “Yes, Mr. Dibble,” he said in a very controlled voice. “I’m with someone . . . yes, I know, but . . . I will, but . . . I . . . yes, Mr. Dibble. I’ll be right there.” He snapped the phone shut and stuffed it into his pocket. Something in his face made Bronstein back up several steps. Peter put on an obviously forced smile. “I must apologize, Mr. Bronstein. I have to . . . attend to something. Feel free to walk about and explore your new residence.”
“Is it alright to speak to . . . “ the man tilted his head in Kennedy’s direction.
Peter smiled. “You go right ahead, Mr. Bronstein. I will let you know that Jack is very receptive to our new admissions.” Peter lowered himself to the man’s ear. “He does like to be called Mr. President. Call him that and he’ll bend your ear for hours on end! Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
As Peter vanished in a flash of white light, Bronstein saddled over to where John F. Kennedy was alternately sipping on a cup of tea and puffing on a stogie.
A flash of light appeared in the middle of the walkway of Dibble’s home and Peter stormed the rest of the way to the front door. He pressed the doorbell, releasing a pleasant musical chime. He stood there, tapping his foot and glancing at the window closest to the door, his eyes searching for movement of any kind. He pressed the bell again and waited. He reached across and rapped the windowpane. And waited. He then pressed the doorbell and rapped the windowpane. And waited. He was about to drive his foot through the front door’s lower panel, but counted to ten instead. Slowly. He reached out, turned the doorknob and pushed the door open. He slowly walked inside and glanced around. The house appeared empty. He sighed deeply.
“Mr. Dibble?” he called.
“Back here!” Phil’s voice called.
“Where are you?” Peter asked in a loud voice.
“In the backyard!”
Peter sighed again and walked through the house and came to a sudden stop when he saw Phil Dibble in what was once the Japanese rock garden.
The rocks were removed from the garden and set up in separate piles, according to size and shape.
The bonsai trees had been trimmed to the point that only the trunks were visible. Its branches were tied in bundles, broken down by length and thickness.
Dibble was presently digging a trench around the wall where the waterfall came from.
“What are you doing?” cried Peter.
“Oh!” Phil exclaimed. “You’re here!”
Peter’s mouth hung open and his eyes crossed. He shook his head, putting his eyes in place. “WHAT . . . are you doing?” he asked in a strained voice.
“I think you should have a word with your gardener,” Phil said frowning at the running water that was filling the freshly dug trench. “I mean there’s no rhyme or reason to the order of things. Big rocks are next to small rocks. The trees are uneven. And the water!” He gave the waterfall a frown. “How do you control this thing?”
“What exactly is wrong with the water, Mr. Dibble?” Peter asked, automatically regretting the question.
Phil looked at Peter in obvious surprise. “Look at it!” he exclaimed.
Peter’s eyes snapped to the waterfall, then back to Dibble. “I’m looking, Mr. Dibble. But what exactly am I looking for?”
Using the handle of the shovel, Phil pointed to the top of the waterfall.
“It’s not coming out evenly!” Phil replied slowly, as if to a mental deficient. “It’s running thicker on the left side than the right, and that alone is ruining the middle flow. That needs to be corrected. Or better yet, would you please remove it? It is very distracting.”
“I . . . “ Peter began, his eyes gazing over the carnage. “I will have it removed.”
”But that’s not what I called you here for,” Phil said, walking past Peter, heading for the house.
Versus screaming like a little girl (which was his first intention), Peter asked, “It’s . . . not?”
Phil took several minutes scraping the mud and dirt off his shoes on the mat by the rear door before speaking. It didn’t matter that said mud and dirt literally fell off before he reached the mat; Phil Dibble wiped his feet on it just the same. Peter stood vibrating, waiting for Dibble to continue inside. Phil raised one foot and peered at the soles of his shoe, then repeated the action with the other. He then continued to scrape the nonexistent muck off of his shoes for several more minutes before entering the house. As Peter began to follow him, Phil cried out, “Don’t forget to wipe your feet!” Peter raised his foot in mid-wipe and stopped, his highly polished shoe hovering over the mat. He sighed and walked inside.
Phil stood in the center of the kitchen, near the butcher-block table, a single can held in one hand.
“What does the label say?” asked Phil.
Peter’s eyes looked at the can, then back at Dibble. “Peas, Mr. Dibble,” he replied.
“It says small peas, Sir!” he exclaimed, holding the can out like a prosecuting attorney displaying key evidence.
“I stand corrected,” Peter said. “Small peas.”
“Now look at this!” Phil said, placing the can on the table, turning to the cabinet and removing three bowls, placing them on the table next to the can. He spun around, can in hand, to the automatic can opener on the counter. He opened the can quite dramatically and returned to the table with a teaspoon. “Now watch,” he said. Dibble took one pea out and placed it in a bowl. “Small pea, correct?” he asked.
Peter stared at the lonely pea and looked questioningly at Dibble. He nodded.
“Now look at this,” Phil said and began to remove each pea from the can. “Small pea. Small pea. Small pea. Small pea. Small pea. Small pea. Small pea. Small pea. Small pea. Small pea. Small pea. Small pea. Small pea. Small pea. Small pea. Small pea. Small pea. Small pea. Small pea. Small pea. Medium pea. Small pea. Small pea. Small pea. Small pea. Small pea. Small pea. Small pea. Small pea. Small pea. Small pea. Small pea. Small pea. Small pea. Large pea. Small pea. Small pea. Small pea. Small pea. Small pea. Small pea. Small pea. Small pea. Small pea. Small pea. Small pea. Small pea. Small pea. Small pea. Small pea. Small pea. Medium pea. Small pea. Small pea. Small pea. Small pea. Small pea. Small pea. Small pea. Small pea. Small pea. Small pea. Small pea. Small pea. Small pea. Small pea. Small pea. Small pea. Large pea. Small . . . “
“YES!” cried Peter louder than he intended. “Yes, Mr. Dibble! What exactly is the point of all this?”
“The point, sir,” Dibble said in a fully exasperated tone, “is that your quality control is shoddy! And this is not the first can I found in this . . . condition, for the sake of a better word. I mean, the label clearly states small peas, and obviously, there are ones within that do not conform to what is written.”
“Aaaaaand you want me to correct this,” he said in the form of a statement than a question.
A sympathetic expression filled Phil Dibble’s face. “I am not blaming you, Sir,” he said kindly. “It is not your fault, but this being Heaven, there are certain standards that must be adhered to.”
Peter stared at Phil quietly for several seconds, his entire head vibrating and his eyes beginning to bulge. “RIGHT! RIGHT!” he said sharply. “I’m on it, Mr. Dibble!” He turned on his heel and walked quickly – somewhat unsteadily – towards the door.
“I only mention this . . . “ began Dibble.
Peter snapped around to face the smaller man. “No, Mr. Dibble! You are absolutely correct,” he said wagging his finger. “Something must be done! Heads will roll! I dare say that the distributor will be packing peas in a warmer climate by the end of the day!” Peter did an about face and walked out the kitchen, down the hall and out the door. He was almost to the opening of the walkway when his phone sang.
“Peter here!” he snapped.
“I’m truly sorry,” said Phil in his ear. “I don’t mean to get someone in trouble. Maybe a strong reprimand will do.”
“I will take care of it,” Peter said softly and returned the telephone to his pocket. His hand lingered on his chest.
It had been several millennia since blood flowed through his veins, since he breathed air, and had walked among the living. But Peter swore that he was having a heart attack. He knew it was impossible, but the pains in his chest continued.
THREE
The large picture window in the office overlooked a picturesque sea of rolling clouds. Behind a large desk sat an older man whose hair was long and white, bunched in a ponytail that hung to the middle of his back. The man was leaning back in a chair as far as it could go without tipping over and his feet were perched on the edge of the desk. He took a moment to scratch his thick gray/ white beard, then deftly picked up a stub of a cigarette and took several pulls from it, exhaling a huge plume of smoke. When the butt became too small, he dug into the pocket of his chambray shirt and removed a small alligator clip, fastened it to the end of the butt and continued to smoke.
Peter sat across from him in a recliner, an icepack on his head.
“More ice, Dude?” the man asked between tokes.
“No, thank you,” Peter said with a deep sigh. “I’m sorry for bothering you, but . . . “
“Naw, Dude,” the man said peering at Peter through glazed eyes over a pair of glasses with circular lenses. “Think nothing of it.”
The room was decorated in warm earth tones, dark oak wood furnishings and trim, a black leather couch in the corner which stood next to a wet bar. Several potted and hanging plants were scattered artistically throughout the office. A few framed posters of Jimi Hendrix, Eric Clapton, the Doors, the Who, Yes, Jefferson Airship, the Mamas and the Poppas, The Animals, among others, hung on the walls; the elite of the 1960s rock period. All posters announced a performance from a time long gone by. Each one had a ticket stub and a Polaroid picture from the show, showing the man with the artist in question. His clothes and visage changed in each snapshot, but there was always one constant; the chain around his neck with the BACKSTAGE PASS card hanging from it. A crack suddenly appeared in the wall. The man behind the desk gave it a cursory glance.
“Hold a sec, Dude,” he said, stubbing out the butt. He tapped the intercom. “ESTHER? Wall, babe.”
“On it, Sir,” said voice on the other end.
The crack in the wall suddenly patched itself up.
“You were saying, Dude?”
“I mean, the man asked for three more refrigerators!” Peter exclaimed. “And why? Because he had separated its contents in alphabetical order and did not want the food to touch!”
The man behind the desk lit up another cigarette and toked deeply.
“And that is after,” Peter continued, “putting all the can goods, bottles and condiments also in alphabetical order! What kind of person takes the time to do that, I ask you?”
The man coughed and muttered, “Harsh.”
Peter looked at the man. “Maybe you should cut back on those things,” he suggested.
The man stared at Peter for several seconds blankly, then burst out laughing. “Naw, Dude!” he said. “I was talking about what your bud was doing, not this,” he said holding up the joint. “You sure you don’t want some? Cures what ails you.”
Peter leaned back and shifted the icepack. “No,” he replied. “That’s okay. Don’t touch the stuff.”
“Cool, Dude!” the man exclaimed happily. “More for me!” He took another drag and watched a crack form in the corner of the window and spread down its middle. “Hang tough,” he rasped. He tapped the intercom again. “ESTHER? Window.”
“On it, Sir,” she replied.
Like a video played backwards, the thin line reversed and disappeared. The sunlight glinted off the gleaming surface.
“Hey, Dude!” the man said tilting the glasses further down his nose, revealing kind blue eyes; slightly red. “How do you like the frames? It’s a gift from Johnny L!”
Peter regarded the rose tinted lenses. “They’re nice,” he replied. “Fits your face very well.”
“Yeah, Dude, thanks!” said the man. “Johnny gave them to me after I helped him pull a gag on Keith Richard.” The man took a deep toke and blew out another plume of smoke. “I brought him into Keith’s dressing room for a scare. He came out all ‘Oob-li-di-oob-li-da’ spooky like,” he said, wiggling his fingers over his head for emphasis. “Even gave him some green backlighting for effect. Keithy didn’t bat an eye. Started talking to the bro like he never left. Bummed Johnny out like you wouldn’t believe!” He took another toke and said through a strained voice, “Told ‘em he should have busted Paul’s nads for selling the songs to Jackson.”
“I’m sorry for bending your ear,” Peter said sitting up, catching the icepack as it fell forward into his lap. “I didn’t know who else to turn to.”
“Negative perspiration,” the man said as he dusted the ashes from his shirtfront. “C’mon, Dude! If I can’t sympathize with what you’re going through, who can?” He glanced at the ceiling above Peter’s head. “Dude. You may wanna move about three feet to the right.”
Peter did not follow the man’s gaze. He stood, slid the recliner over a few feet and sat back down as a chunk of plaster fell from the ceiling and landed in the exact spot he was sitting. Dust particles fell from the hole, but fell around Peter versus on his clothes.
The man tapped the intercom again. “ESTHER, babe. Ceiling.”
“On it, Sir,” she said and clicked off.
This time the hole filled itself and the debris on the floor disappeared.
“Anyway,” the man continued, “We’ve been friends for how long now?”
Peter smiled to himself. “Several millennia,” he replied. “Probably longer than that.”
The man’s feet dropped to the floor and he sat forward. “Exactly!” he said. “What kind of bud would I be if I – after all this time – not to take a few off to listen to your tales of woe.” He toked on the joint again and leaned back in his seat, replacing his feet on the edge of the desk. “You did the same for me a while back. Right?”
Peter nodded. “Yes, you’re correct.”
“Exactly!” the man said. He held out the smoking joint to Peter. “Sure you don’t want a hit off this? You’ll feel better.”
As Peter shook his head, the potted shrub a few feet from the desk burst into flames. Both men involuntarily straightened their backs as they stared at the dancing fire and waited.
“Job?” came a booming voice. “Have you seen the millennial report?”
Job took another toke off the joint. “Check your in-box, Big Guy,” he said through a raspy exhalation. “That’s where I put it.”
After a few seconds, a deep chuckle was heard. “Thank you,” the voice replied. “I thought I lost it. Sorry for interrupting your conversation. Peter,” he added, acknowledging the other man.
“Sir,” Peter said nodding to the flaming bush.
“Yo! Big Guy!” called Job. “Wanna try the intercom next time? You’re scorching my ceiling, man.”
“Sorry, Job,” the Big Guy replied. “Force of habit.”
Job tapped the intercom again. “ESTHER, babe,” he said. “Shrub. Ceiling.”
“On it, Sir,” she said. The flame not only went out, but a fresh one replaced the charred bush, and the scorch marks on the ceiling vanished.
Peter body suddenly shook in his chair, then relaxed. The man paused in mid-toke to give his friend a concerned look. “Dude?” he asked. “You okay?”
Peter sighed again. He shook his head and pulled the cell phone from his inside pocket. “I have it on ‘vibrate’,” he confessed. He gave a pained look at the readout panel. “Two-hundred and forty three voicemails,” he gasped, replacing the phone in his pocket. “I’ll wager that two-hundred and forty are from Dibble.” He leaned forward and held his head in his hands. “I wish this thing had caller I.D.,” he muttered.
“Remember how long it took for us to get voicemail,” Job reminded him. “Brother feels we should be on call all the time.” A blast of thunder rocked the office and a bolt of lightening flashed past the window. “Sorry, Big Guy!” Job said. He took a hit and looked at Peter. “Big Guy’s getting super-sensitive in his old age,” he whispered.
“I heard that,” came his voice from the joint’s glowing tip.
“Sorry, Big Guy,” Job repeated. He turned back to Peter. “You’ve gotta relax, Dude!”
Peter’s fingers spread, showing red-rimmed eyes. “I would like you to tell me how, with Dibble calling me every two seconds!” He suddenly sat up straight in the chair. He pulled out the phone and looked at the display. Two-hundred and forty four,” he groaned.
“Dude,” Job said, leaning forward on his elbows. “You can’t be sure they’re all from him.”
“Really?” Peter said, his eyes bulging. “Let’s just see, shall we?” He accessed the phone’s voicemail and pressed the play button, holding the phone out for Job to hear.
Two hundred and forty one messages from Phil Dibble later, Job had graduated from joint tokes to bong hits. Peter, on the other hand, simply stared into space.
Job shook his head. “The guy just won’t let up for a sec, will he?”
“Now you understand!” Peter said, standing from the chair. “Look,” he said holding up his hands. “I’ve taken enough of your time. I must go deal with the . . . Mr. Dibble.”
“More power to you, brother,” Job said. “Like I said, you gotta find a way to relax.” He held up the bong. “How do you think I deal with things?”
“I know, I know,” Peter replied sadly.
“Hey!” Job said, swallowing a ball of thick smoke. “There’s karaoke night the evening after tomorrow! You should go! And there’s a live band for a little steppin’ afterwards.”
“I’ll think about it,” Peter said.
“You should have been there a week ago. The Big Guy showed up and did a few AC/DC numbers. Afterward, Big Guy burned up the dance floor. You should have seen him! Brother moved in mysterious ways.” He paused for a few beats, then burst out laughing at his own pun.
“I’ll see you later, my friend,” Peter said heading for the door.
“Be cool, Dude!” Job replied. “Try to be there, okay? It’ll take your mind off of, well, things.”
“I’ll try,” Peter replied.
“Remember, Dude!” Job called. “Stuff happens!”
As Peter shut the door, the floor nearest Job caved in, sending the desk plummeting downward. In one deft move, Job grabbed the bong before it followed the desk. He took another hit from the bong.
“ESTHER, hon!” he yelled. “Floor! Desk!”
“On it, Sir,” she yelled back and the desk came back up through the hole in the floor, and the floor, and the carpet underneath it repaired itself.
Job took another hit as he tapped the intercom. “Thanks, babe.
FOUR
Eva Marie Collins stood in the field, staring at the snowcapped mountains, the full trees and the blooming array of flowers, her hands clasped together and held under her chin.
“Miss Collins?” Peter said from over her shoulder.
She turned and gazed at the tall man, tears forming in her eyes.
“Am I . . . ?” she began hesitantly.
Peter gave her a warm and friendly smile. “Yes, Miss Collins,” he said gently. “My name is Peter, and this is Heaven.”
Eva moved forward and embraced Peter, who held her close. She pulled back and wiped her eyes with the back of her hands. “I tried to do good all my life,” she said, sniffing slightly. “I followed the commandments and always tried to help others when they needed help.”
Peter placed a strong hand on her shoulder. “And you did well, Miss Collins,” he replied. “You did very well, which is why you are here.”
She wiped another tear from her eye. “You know,” she began, “I was told that Heaven wasn’t real, and I gave too much of myself to others. That I was going to be in a black void, or reborn as some . . . thing and have to start all over again. But I believed in God. I knew. I believed in all I was taught as a child. And I held true!”
As she spoke, a very handsome man stepped from behind a tree and stared at the two standing at the top of the hill. He wore a polo shirt, Dockers and boat shoes, with a sweater jauntily tied around his neck. He leaned forward, not taking his eyes from Peter, and plucked a flower from the ground. All at once the flower began to hiss and decay in his hand.
“And I was right all along!” gasped Eva. “Here I am! In Heaven! There’ll be no more pain. No more suffering. No more . . . “
Peter raised his eyes above her head and spotted the man staring at him. “Uh, hold that thought,” he said abruptly and walked around her and down the incline. Eva didn’t seem to mind the sudden rudeness and sat down on the grass and basked in the glow of the afterlife.
“I thought I asked you to meet me after work,” Peter hissed.
“Hello to you, too,” the man said with a dark smile.
“I mean,” Peter began, glancing over his shoulder to check on Eva, “I could get into big trouble talking to you in the open.” He lowered his voice lower than it already was. “I mean big trouble!”
“And what did you want me to do?” the man asked. “Wear a trench coat with the collar turned up? Meet you in a dark alley, and say a secret password? Remember, you called me, I didn’t call you.”
“True, true,” Peter said nervously. “Can you give me a few minutes so I can take care of Miss Collins?”
“Ah, Eva Marie Collins,” the man said, regarding the woman kneeling on the grass, sniffing a rose. “She was a hard sell, that one.” He looked up at Peter with deep green eyes. “You know, she almost bought that void business. She was so on the edge, she could have gone in either direction. Especially when she picked up the cancer in ’97. So much pain,” he said, a small smile coming to his full lips. “So much doubt.”
“Yes, yes,” Peter said uncomfortably, shifting his feet. “I know all about that. I know what you did. But can we talk a little later? When I have a little more free time?”
The man’s eyes moved from the back of the woman’s head to Peter’s face. “Sure,” he said. “How about the pub on Cherubim and Psalm? In about an hour?”
“Perfect,” Peter replied, backing away. “In an hour then.” He turned around, then turned around again to face the man. “Please try to be inconspicuous!” he whispered harshly, and began walking to Eva. He came to a sudden halt and looked back at the man. “What will you do in the meantime?”
“Oh,” said the man grinned as he watched a butterfly land on a flower’s petal, and the tree branch that suddenly dropped from overhead, smashing it into the ground, “I’ll find something to keep myself busy.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Peter muttered as he rejoined Eva and escorted her to her new home.
* * *
Scattered across Heaven were several bars, clubs and entertainment halls, where the residents could let their hair down after a hard eon’s work. The two constants in these establishments were that there were no cover charges, and there were available smoking sections. This was Heaven, after all.
The pub in question, The Other Side of Paradise, was small and comfortable, created especially for those souls who wanted to spend an evening talking over a drink, watching whatever was on the projection television, having a light supper, or a combination thereof.
On this particular evening, Cary Grant, James Stewart and Orson Welles were sitting in the center of the room in front of the projection television, watching the Angels play the Padres. Grant and Stewart playfully chided Welles about his cigar smoke, while Welles puffed and complained about the broadcast’s camera angles.
As was his habit on the third and fifth evening of the month (this evening being the fifth), David Niven served drinks behind the bar, giving Scott, the bartender, the pleasure of being served. On those evenings, no matter how much Scott protested, Niven would physically remove him from behind the bar and deposit him on an empty barstool. He would wrap an apron around his waist and ask Scott for his order, which was usually a gin and tonic. At the end of the evening, Niven would hand the protesting bartender a healthy tip, always grinning as he did.
While FDR and Churchill smoked stogies and shared a bottle of an exceptional single malt, the less noteworthy souls simply had dinner, drinks and enjoyed themselves.
With the exception of one.
Peter sat in a corner booth, not watching the television, not sharing his table, just steadily sipping from a snifter of Napoleon brandy, and every so often, popping peanuts in his mouth. His eyes went from the door to his drink and back to the door again. He looked at the clock above the television screen. The man – if that was what he could be called – was over an hour late. As Peter raised the snifter to his lips, the blonde man, wearing a trench coat with the collar pulled up, walked through the door.
He stood in the doorway long enough for everyone to take notice of him. It was only then he pulled down the collar, revealing he was wearing those novelty glasses with the fake bulbous nose and bristly mustache.
Being closest to the blonde, Gandhi (who was having dinner with Mother Teresa) took one look at the comic face and sent a mouthful of beer to the floor in a small geyser. A passing waitress, carrying an order of bananas flambé on a tray, slipped on the wet spot, sending her to the floor and the flaming dessert on top of Harpo Marx’s head, setting his red wig on fire. Niven, still behind the bar, calmly picked up a seltzer bottle and sprayed Marx’s head until the flames went out. By this time, the blonde had sat in the booth across from Peter, who was holding his head.
“What part of the word ‘inconspicuous’ needed to be explained?” groaned Peter from behind his hands.
Removing the novelty glasses and dropping them on the table, the man grinned. “Sorry about that . . . “
“Which you’re not,” interjected Peter.
“True,” acknowledged the blonde. “I simply couldn’t resist it.”
“HA!” exclaimed Welles, patting Stewart on the back. “Sorry, old man. That’s twenty dollars you owe me.” He looked over to Grant, who was staring darkly at the baseball score on the screen. “And you, dear boy, owe me fifty!” He spun in his seat (as fast as a man with his sizeable girth could spin) to the bar. “Niven, you old reprobate!” Welles cried. “Send over a magnum of Le Mesnil ’76 and three glasses!” He waved a stubby finger at Grant and Stewart. “And spilt the cost between these two losers!”
Niven grinned. “Nice to see you haven’t lost your ability to win graciously, Orson,” he replied. He reached below the bar and brought out three fluted glasses and placed them on a tray. He reached below again and brought out the champagne. As he pried the cork from the mouth of the bottle, the cork flew out, struck the huge mirror behind him, shattering it in hundreds of jagged pieces. The cork ricocheted off the glass and struck Churchill in the back of the head, sending him face forward into the table, reddening his nose and crushing his cigar.
The blonde turned back to Peter, who stared at the carnage with wide eyes. “Anyway, what was so important that you called me . . . up here?” The last two words came out as if he had something rotting in his mouth.
“Do you have to do that?!?” Peter whispered.
“It passes the time,” the blonde replied. “Anyway . . . “ he said waving his hand to get on with it.
Peter stared at the blonde, his jaw clenched and his lips moving slightly, as if he was having trouble speaking, which he was. “I want you to take someone . . . down there,” he said finally.
The man’s expression, which was blank, did not change. He didn’t speak for several seconds. He slowly sat back in his chair. “Okay,” he said. “What’s the joke?”
Peter sighed, realizing to himself he was doing that a lot lately. “I’m serious,” he replied. “I want you to take someone.”
“Why?”
“Does it matter?” Peter asked, hoping the desperation he felt hadn’t leaked into his voice.
The man smiled a cold smile. “No,” he answered. “Not really.”
“Then he . . . “
“Why?” he repeated, cutting him off.
“Just do me this favor,” Peter asked.
The man’s smile widened. “Are you telling me that someone made a mistake bringing him here?”
Peter shook his head. “Not at all. But he’d fit in well,” he said. “With you,” he added.
The man suddenly leaned forward in his seat, making Peter lean back several inches. “Is he bad?” the blonde asked, his eyes twinkling in the dim light of the booth. “Has he corrupted someone? Has he hurt someone?”
Peter frowned and looked down at his snifter. He unhappily realized it was empty. “Well, uh, not really.”
The man’s smile fell from his face and he crossed his arms across his chest. “Okay, Peter,” he said. “What’s he done?”
“Look,” Peter began, wiping a film of sweat from his brow. “You said it didn’t matter. Just take him, okay?” His eyes glanced at the clock on the wall.
The blonde regarded Peter in silence. A small smile lifted the corner of his mouth. “I’m waiting.”
“He’s better off with you!” Peter hissed. He looked at the clock again.
The man slunk forward and leaned on the table, cradling his chin in his hand. “Tell you what I think,” he said. “This soul has done something that is disrupting your painfully organized life, and you want to dump him on me. Now, this being the case, you must really be desperate to call me. And now, you expect me to just say okay without any explanation. So why don’t you just fess up and tell me what he’s done?”
Peter shifted nervously in his seat.
“I’m waiting, Peter,” the man said with a touch of menace in his voice.
Peter remained silent.
A loud pocket of flatulence came from the table where Gandhi and Mother Teresa sat. Gandhi’s eyes rolled back in his head and he stepped away from the table covering his nose with both hands. So did the occupants of the two tables that flanked Gandhi’s. Mother Teresa’s face flushed from chin to crown.
“I’m waiting.”
The rack of glasses that hung above the bar fell with a loud crash. Niven dived out of the way just in time, though the possibility of him being hurt was near impossible.
“I’m waiting,” the man said for the fourth time. His brows knotted. “This is payback, isn’t it? You still haven’t forgiven me for instilling self-preservation in you at the eleventh hour, have you?”
“That’s old business,” Peter said in a bitter voice. “I’m over that.”
“What is it then?” the man asked, his green eyes flaring in the shadows.
An ember from FDR’s cigar fell onto the table at the same time the bottom of the bottle of single malt shattered, setting the table on fire, rivers of flame pouring off the table and onto the floor. Niven deftly leaped over the bar, a fire extinguisher in his hand.
“THE MAN IS DRIVING ME CRAZY!” Peter exclaimed. Of course, when he said this, the pub has gone suddenly and eerily quiet. All eyes turned to him and his shadowy partner. Peter’s eyes narrowed. “You did that on purpose,” he snarled.
“Your point being what?” the man asked genially.
“I hate you,” Peter rasped.
The man smiled kindly. “I know,” he said wistfully. “Everyone does.” He leaned forward and placed his hand (which was uncomfortably warm) over Peter’s. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place!?! If this soul is bothering you to such a degree; so much so, you’ve dined on a full course of crow just to get me here to take him off your hands, what makes you think I won’t offer you my services?”
“Because you are who you are?” answered Peter.
The man grinned, displaying very white teeth. “You’ve got me there,” the man said. “Peter, old chum, you’re on your own.”
As the man stood up to leave, Peter muttered, “I knew you couldn’t do it.”
The blonde froze in the middle of flipping up his collar. He turned and faced Peter. “What did you say?” he said in a low threatening tone.
Peter signaled Niven for another brandy and sat back in his chair. Neither man moved as a waitress switched his empty snifter for a full one. Peter took a slow sip and extended his hand towards the now-empty seat in front of him. Scowling slightly, the man took the seat.
“Now,” Peter began smugly, “I make you an offer to taint a soul and you won’t do it.” He took a sip from the glass. “What does that tell you? That you’ve lost your ability, and you are regulated to performing parlor tricks? That you no longer have the nerve? That you should be replaced? Very disappointing, don’t you think?”
The man stared at Peter, and Peter felt the temperature in the booth rise several degrees. The artistically tousled blonde hair began to separate at the corners and small bumps began to rise under the hair. His perfectly shaped nose began to lengthen and his skin reddened.
“Peter,” the blonde said softly, “if you think insulting me is going to make me change my mind . . . “
Peter’s eyes glanced at the clock, then returned to the man. He tapped the corners of his own head absently. “Not in the least, old friend,” he said. “But it seems I’ve got your attention.”
The man’s face went blank and he reached up and felt the bumps underneath the corners of his hair. The temperature suddenly decreased, and he returned to the matinee idol visage.
“Who is this . . . soul you wish me to take?” he said slowly.
“Excuse, me!” said a female voice from a distant table, “What are you doing?”
“Your pretzels,” replied Phil Dibble. “You have the broken ones mixed with the whole ones.”
“And?” said the woman, who held the book she was reading open with her finger.
“You have the broken ones mixed with the whole ones,” Phil repeated, the tone of his voice implying that the problem was obvious. As he was speaking, he was diligently taking the broken pieces from the bowl and placing them on a napkin. He glanced down at the book she was reading, his eyes locking on the folded down corner. “Excuse me,” he muttered, taking the book from her hand and began folding the other pages to match.
The man, momentarily distracted by Dibble, turned back to Peter.
Peter was staring into his glass, which he raised to his lips. “Him,” he said, downing the rest of the brandy and signaling Niven for another.
* * *
Dibble took the seat next to Peter, allowing the blonde to cast his full gaze on the man. Peter was taking large sips from the glass, while Phil, after spreading two cocktail napkins in front of him, was reaching into the bowl in front of Peter and separating the peanuts. The blonde’s eyes followed Dibble’s thin fingers taking out a broken peanut, placing it on one napkin, then taking out a whole peanut and placing it on a second. After the bowl was empty, he called the waitress for two more napkins and divided the whole and broken peanuts by size.
“Anyway,” Peter said, his voice slightly slurring, “Because you really do not have anything to do, I planned a day trip for you.”
“What will the weather be?” asked Dibble. “I need to know what type of clothes I should wear.”
“This is an old friend,” Peter continued, ignoring the question. He canted his eyes to the blonde, whose eyes were glued on Dibble. Peter kicked the man’s ankle, bringing him into the conversation.
“Uh, call me Beal,” the man said.
“Is that your first or last name?” asked Phil.
“Uh, Beal will be sufficient,” Beal replied.
“Oh!” exclaimed Phil. “Like Liberace!”
“He could have said ‘Cher’ or ‘Madonna’,” muttered Peter, taking another sip from the glass. Beal winced and his eyes flared ever so slightly. Peter, knowing the man so well, was unsure which name caused the reaction.
“Of course,” continued Phil, “his name wasn’t really Liberace. It was Wladziu Valentino Liberace.” He turned to Peter. “And Cher’s real name was Cherilyn Sarkisian LaPierre, while Madonna’s was Madonna Louise Veronica Ciccone.”
“You’re full of information,” muttered Beal, his voice slightly in shock.
“Yes,” agreed Peter. “He’s very entertaining.” He signaled Niven for a refill.
“So,” began Phil, looking at Beal. “What does this day trip include?”
“Why don’t we play it by ear?” suggested Beal.
Dibble stared at Beal curiously as Peter’s drink was placed in front of him. “You don’t have a schedule?” he asked.
Peter emptied the glass in one gulp and he sat back against the seat, both hands holding the edge of the table. He shooed Phil out of the way so he could get up, which proved to be slightly challenging.
“Where are you going?” asked Beal. His eyes glanced at Phil, who was reorganizing the peanuts.
“Back to my place,” Peter slurred. “I’ll leave you two to make your . . . schedule.”
Peter went to the bar and paid the tab with his Heavenly Express card, filled out a sizable tip, shook Niven’s hand and swayed to the exit. As he approached the door, he took one last look at Beal and Dibble, focusing more on the former than the latter.
“’Self-preservation’, my angelic posterior,” Peter snarled under his breath. He swayed in place for a second, watching Dibble explaining something to Beal whose eyes had glazed over. “Retribution is a female dog, my friend,” he muttered with a sly smile, then vanished in a flash of light.
FIVE
After waking up feeling refreshed (in Heaven, there are no such things as hangovers), Peter took three days off to relax and unwind after what had to be the most stressful period of his life. Peter had the days to spare, since he had not taken a vacation in three eons. In Heaven, there is no ‘use it or lose it’ clause.
He called his old friend Matthew, who handled the soul’s 401K plans and insurance questions, and they both went fishing on Peter’s boat, The Sea of Galilee II (he originally contacted his brother, Peter, but their conversations had become strained throughout the years. His brother harbored a slight grudge against him, mainly because people thought it was he who suffered that feeling of ‘self-preservation’, and not his brother who was originally named Simon. Of course ‘the name incident’ – as Peter, the younger referred to it - was the root of the problem).
After a leisurely two days, Peter dropped Matthew off at his house and planned to spend his final day off in peaceful seclusion. He planned to relax at home, listen to his large collection of music, watch his videos and DVDs, and/or maybe peruse the huge collection of books he had accumulated throughout time.
Peter lived in a two-story Cape, overlooking a picturesque valley. Though he had a large and comfortable bedroom and living room, he spent most of his free time in his study, which was a sight to behold.
The study was an open two floors, with no ceiling/floor separating the two. There were racks of books on three of the room’s walls on both levels. On the second level there was a balcony for you to walk and read. Both levels had a rolling ladder to get to the higher shelves. The remaining wall on the first level held Peter’s collection of vinyl recordings, his CDs, his videos and DVDs.
The albums and CDs were divided by classical music, jazz, big band, Broadway, rock and roll (which was divided by decade; 50s, 60s, 70s, and 80s – after that, Peter felt the music he had heard – with few exceptions – were crap).
The videos and DVDs were also separated by genre. Dramas, comedies, science fiction, horror, mysteries, dramatized true events, and documentaries. The books were simply broken into a fiction section (first level) and non-fiction; both were alphabetized.
To Peter, it was simple organization, and made his search for whatever tickled his fancy easier to fill. He also remarked with pride to whoever would listen, how long it to took to arrange his study.
Peter reached for the knob on his front door as it opened. Beal stood smiling in the doorway, a small twitch twitching in the corner of his left eye. He held out a glass filled to the brim with a dark liquid. From the aroma, Peter knew it was his favorite brandy.
“You’re going to need this,” Beal said as he stepped aside to allow Peter entrance.
“What are you doing in my . . . my . . . “ His voice drifted as he saw Dibble through the tall doorway of his study, calmly munching on a sandwich. The sound of the door closing behind him brought him back. “What is he doing here?!?” Peter whispered at the back of Beal, who was heading for the study. Beal stopped and turned.
“He’s all yours, my friend,” he replied.
“I thought you were . . . “
“I was,” Beal said, holding up his hand, silencing Peter. “I truly was, until Mr. Dibble began to organize the brimstone, questioning why the heat wasn’t uniformed, why the rooms weren’t uniformly the same dimensions, and an assortment of petty things. I repeat; he’s all yours.”
Peter’s hand shot out and he grabbed Beal by the Polo shirt. Beal’s eyes flared as his glare traced down Peter’s hand to his face. Peter released him.
“Sorry,” he said. “Why bring him here? To my house!??!?!”
“Well,” said Beal gently, “Mr. Dibble said that you had been to his home several times, but he had never been to yours. He didn’t even recall getting an invite, so, as your friend, I decided to give him the two-cent tour.”
“Hi there!” Phil called from the couch. He came up and hugged Peter around the middle, smoothing the wrinkles from man’s tee shirt immediately after. “Great place you have here!” he exclaimed. “Great view. You have a great collection. And thanks for that day trip! Mr. Beal’s place was very interesting!”
“Think nothing of it, Mr. Dibble,” Peter said in a hollow voice. “Beal’s place wasn’t too warm for . . . what did you say about my collection?” he suddenly asked, his eyes bulging in their sockets.
“I just remarked that you have a fine collection of books, and CDs, and videos, and DVDs,” Phil replied. “They were a little out of order, so, because of all you’ve done for me, I took care of that.”
“What did you do?” whispered Peter. Beal was about to turn towards the front door when Peter’s hand grabbed his arm. “Don’t you dare move a muscle!” he hissed. He turned back to Phil. “Mr. Dibble,” he said, trepidation filling his voice, “What did you do?” Peter blindly reached out and grabbed the glass that was still held by Beal and drained the contents in one swallow. “Exactly?”
“I just put things in order,” he said a matter of factly. “Took me a while, but it’s done! Here!” he said, pointing at the doorway to the study. “Take a look!”
Peter sat down heavy on the floor. “No, Mr. Dibble,” he said. “No need. Just tell me what you did.”
“Well, first I put the books in alphabetical order, because they were all mixed up,” he replied. “Then I did the same with the CDs, the videos and the DVDs. You had the right idea, meaning the order you had things, but – and here’s an example – suppose you remember the name of the book, or the movie, but forget what the story is about? You won’t have that problem anymore. They are all in alphabetical order!” he said proudly. He looked down at Peter, then up at Beal, who was now standing in the open doorway, smiling. “I think he’s crying,” he said. “Mr. Beal? Is he crying?”
“Why yes, Mr. Dibble,” Beal said. “I believe he is. Tears of joy, I expect.”
“Oh, Sir!” cried Phil. “There’s no need for that. Can I get you anything? A soda? Maybe a plate of cheese and crackers?”
Peter removed one hand from his face and pointed at the door.
“Come, Mr. Dibble,” Beal said. “I think your good turn has overwhelmed the man. Let’s leave him alone.”
“I could stay if you want to, Sir,” Phil suggested.
A small animal sound came from behind Peter’s hands.
“No,” said Beal. “I don’t think that would be a good idea. You see, few people take the time to show such a degree of friendship as you have. I’ll take you home. Why don’t you call him in an hour? And if he doesn’t answer, I’d call every fifteen minutes thereafter.”
“If you think that wise, Mr. Beal,” Phil said. He laid a gentle hand on Peter’s shoulder, releasing a louder growl. “I’ll call you later, Sir. I promise I will.”
As Beal escorted Phil Dibble through Peter’s doorway, Beal hung back a second.
“And Peter,” he said brightly. “If you need me again, please do not hesitate to call. Don’t be a stranger!”
The door shut behind him, muffling the wails coming from inside.
* * *
“I’m going to kill him!” rasped Peter, his fingers digging into the sides of the leather couch.
“Mein freund,” replied Dr. Freud in his typically friendly manner. “The man is already dead.”
“I don’t care!” shouted Peter. “I’ll have him resurrected! Then I’ll kill him!”
“It is against the ten, you know,” Freud reminded him.
Peter sat up spinning on his rear end to face the bearded doctor. “That was for living beings!” he said, his eyes bulging. “There has to be an escape clause somewhere!”
“Let’s look at this logically,” Freud said leaning back in his chair. He took several puffs from his cigar before speaking. “If you – and this, of course, is hypothetical – were able to resurrect Herr Dibble, how would you kill him, since you are part of this world?”
“But . . . “ began Peter.
Freud held the smoking cigar up, signaling Peter he wasn’t finished. Peter’s jaw snapped shut.
“Und the only way to kill him; assuming you wished to do the deed yourself, would be to become part of the living as well,” continued the doctor. “Und if you are part of the living, would that not make you a murderer and be punishable under the edicts of the ten?”
“I . . . well, yes, but . . . you see . . . I mean . . . “ stammered Peter, his eyes rolling in their sockets. “JESUS CHRIST!” he screamed.
A long haired man frantically poked his head through the door.
“YES?!?!” he said in an urgent voice.
“Nein! Nein!” said Freud, waving his hands. “You’re appointment is not for another fifteen minutes.”
“Sorry,” said Peter sheepishly. “That was me.”
“Oh,” replied Christ, looking very confused and uneasy. “Okay.” The door closed behind him.
Peter stared at the door for several seconds. “If it is not breaking patient/client privilege, what is troubling the Son?”
Freud stared at Peter deeply. His direct gaze into his eyes made Peter a trifle uneasy. It was as if he was looking into his mind.
Freud leaned back in his seat and relit his cigar. He puffed on it and made a perfect smoke ring. All the while, his eyes were turned inward.
“Out of all things in the living world that is habitual,” he began slowly. “And that includes war, fear of the unknown, drugs, and an assorted other man-made plagues, calling his name is by far the worse.” He took a puff off of his cigar. “Because the living have taken to use his name as a divine being, and an expression . . . “ he paused to gage his words. “Look at it this way,” he said finally. “How would you feel if you were given an unique name; one that belongs to you, and you alone, and hear your name being called over and over again? Every second of every day, all you hear is people calling you. Calling you to help them win a wager of some sorts. Calling you to stop Mother Nature. Calling you to find your keys. Calling you to prolong a person’s life. Calling you for everything.”
Peter swallowed.
“On top of that,” continued the doctor, “Your name being used in either a frustrated tone, or a hostile one.” He leaned forward to tap the cigar ash in a sliver tray. He took several puffs causing the hot embers to glow furiously. He leaned forward and regarded Peter with the utmost seriousness. “Your telephone bill is unusually high. Whose name do you call? You find your spouse is having an affair. Whose name do you call? You realize you left the iron on. Whose name do you call? You stub your toe on the nightstand. Whose name do you call? You scare yourself by thinking your reflection in the mirror is an intruder. Whose name do you call? And everything in-between.
“And all the emotion that goes with it,” Freud continued. “You are torn by your inability to attend to all who need, insulted that you would be called for something frivolous or inane, and angered that your name is being used as a form of a profanity.” He took a moment to take a long draw off the cigar. The rich plume of smoke came out in a thin stream that touched the ceiling. “In the words of the song, ‘it ain’t easy’,” he said. He suddenly slapped his knees and looked at Peter. “But that is his problem, my problem, but not yours. So, what do you think is your main problem with Mr. Dibble?”
Peter shuddered.
“Are you all right?” Freud asked, a small tone of concern in his voice.
Peter shook his head. “It’s him,” he said in a tone that would fit in a horror movie, “It’s Dibble. He’s calling me again.” He took the phone out of his pocket. “I have it on vibrate,” he said.
“Back to the question then,” Freud said with a nod.
“It’s his need to keep things in order,” Peter said after a long pause. “If it was regulated to his personal living, that would not be of anyone’s concern. It’s the way he feels that everything around him must conform to his standards.”
“So,” Freud said quietly, “Because he thrives on an orderly existence, he is a pain in the lower extremities? Is it not true, without order, there is chaos?” he asked.
Peter frowned slightly. “I just wish I knew . . . “ he muttered.
Freud snapped forward with his finger pointing at the center of Peter’s head so fast, it caused the man to jump. “What did you say?” he asked sharply.
“Wha . . . what?” Peter stammered.
Freud put on a pained expression and wagged his finger in Peter’s face. “What did you just say?” he asked again, his tone more urgent than the last time.
“I . . . “ began Peter, his eyes focused on nothing. “I said, I wished I knew,” he said.
“Wished you knew what?”
“Wished I knew . . . “ Peter began, “Wished I knew . . . more about him before he got here!” he exclaimed.
“And why is that?” the doctor asked in a leading tone.
“Because I would have been more prepared,” Peter replied, the air suddenly leaving his body (not that the Heavenly populace require air, because they don’t; it’s the visual image I was trying for).
“So we now come to the final question,” Freud said. “Since it is your position to greet all new souls and help them adjust to their new environment, what would you have done to make Mr. Dibble’s (and your) stay more . . . tolerable?”
Peter thought for a while and his face opened in awe. “He wants to work,” he said softly. “If I find something for him to do . . . it just may work!” he exclaimed.
Freud stood, signaling an end to the session. Peter stood, unconsciously adjusted his jacket, and held out his hand to the doctor, who took it and gave a strong and quick triple-pump. “It appears my job here is done,” Freud said smiling.
“Thank you so much for all you’ve done,” Peter said returning the doctor’s smile. He walked to the door. Behind him, Freud’s brows dropped to a frown.
“I have a question,” he said, stopping Peter in his tracks. Peter turned and stared at the doctor. “Why is it you didn’t know about Mr. Dibble’s obsessive/ compulsive behavior?”
Peter’s face went suddenly blank. His vacant look slowly changed to one of realization, then flushed with barely controlled fury.
“It wasn’t in the file,” he rasped. “Or if it was, it wasn’t flagged.”
“Interesting omission,” Freud remarked. A short silence hung between the two men.
“Knowing who is in charge makes me feel it was not done intentionally,” Peter said softly.
“That is comforting,” replied the doctor. “Please send him in.” Freud returned to his chair and refilled a glass with water and crossed his legs.
Peter went into the waiting room and saw him pacing in a small circle. His eyes were red rimmed and teary. Peter was about to call his name but stopped himself before a sound was released. He walked over and stood in his line of vision. He looked up looked at Peter for a long moment. He smiled and embraced the well dressed man. Peter pulled back and pointed to the closed door, nodding. He smiled, embraced Peter once more, knocked on the doorframe once before entering Freud’s office and slipped out of sight. Peter stared at the closed door for several seconds, making a small prayer.
Peter felt rejuvenated and reenergized. He had to make a few calls to cash in a few of the numerous chips he had accumulated throughout the eons. Everyone knew that if Peter made that call, advising you that reciprocation of some sorts were finally needed, it would be for something of great importance.
Peter walked out the front door, long-stepping jauntily down the walkway of the office complex and disappeared in a flash.
EPILOGUE
“Dude,” said Job, a huge dubey in his mouth, “This is wrong in so many ways.”
“I can’t believe you’re still complaining after all this time,” Peter said, sitting in the chair before him. “You have to admit that the screening process has been improved greatly.”
“That aside, Dude,” Job said, flicking ashes into a crystal ashtray, “You’re still blaming me for the FUBAR. In a way,” he added. A small chip appeared in the corner of the ashtray and it split down the middle. Job pressed the intercom. “ESTHER, love,” he said. “Ashtray.”
“On it, Sir,” she said and the crystal ashtray was replaced with a heavy steel one, with decorated leather sides.
“That’s a cool one, babe,” Job said smiling.
“I try, Sir,” she said and clicked off.
“I do not blame you in the slightest, my friend,” Peter said. “You’re overworked. It was bound to happen someday.”
“You’re sure you’re okay with it?” he asked.
“Do not give it another thought,” Peter said. He frowned slightly. “What ever gave you the impression I was harboring a grudge?”
“Well, Dude,” Job said, moving his Zippo’s flame to the tip of the joint. “You’ve been coming over a lot recently. Thought you were checking up on me because of the . . . the thing, you know, man.”
“Look,” Peter said, leaning forward on his knees. “What Phil has done is speed up the entrance and adaptation process. He flags certain individuals who may require special care and handling, so I can help the soul along much faster now, giving me more free time. And where’s a better place to spend this time than with an old friend?”
Job smiled as the blinds on three windows suddenly dropped, bounced off the sill, and struck the lava lamp on the end table. The glass shattered on the floor, the water soaking the carpet and the hot wax cooling and drying in the strands of fabric. He calmly reached over and tapped the intercom. “ESTHER?” he called. “Blinds, lamp, rug, honey.”
“On it, Sir.”
“Surprise me with a lamp, babe,” Job added.
“Surprise request noted, Sir,” she replied.
The blinds slid back up the window and reattached itself to the hanging bar, and the water and wax disappeared from the floor and the carpet instantly dried. The lamp vanished from the floor and returned on the table. This lamp had a base pained black lacquer and was dotted small openings, allowing the light to shine through. The water/wax holder was in the shape of a large pyramid and the spiraling silver globules collided with each other, making very cosmic patterns.
“Way cool!” Job exclaimed in awe.
“Live to serve, Sir,” she replied and clicked off.
Smiling, Job returned his attention to Peter. “You gotta admit,” he said, “that the first few months were hinky.”
Peter groaned smiling. “His reports were just two in-depth,” he said. We had to go through every file and edit out the less pertinent information.”
“Dude! Confining his reports to only possible conflicts to the ten was a masterstroke,” Job grinned.
“Yes,” agreed Peter with a wide smile, “It was a stroke of genius if I say so myself.” His phone sang. “Excuse me,” he said, removing his cell phone and glancing at the instant text message. He snapped the cover shut. “New arrival,” he said. “I have to leave. See you at karaoke tomorrow night?”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world, Dude!” Job exclaimed.
The door opened and Phil Dibble walked in, computer printouts in his hands. “Hello, sir,” he said stopping at Peter’s side. “Sorry for interrupting.”
“Hello, Mr. Dibble,” Peter said smiling. “No apologies necessary. I was just leaving.”
Phil nodded, then placed the printout to Job’s desk. He then thumbed through until he found the page that he wanted, separated the stack into two and placed them side by side. After several attempts to straighten the stacks into neat piles, he stood back and opened his mouth to advise his supervisor of the problem he uncovered, then returned and shifted the stack on the left by an eighth of an inch. “I think there is a conflict with number ten.”
Job took a drag off of the bone and scanned the documents. “Naw, man,” he said after a few seconds. “Dude is cool.”
“But it is a direct conflict with ‘Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's goods’,” Phil explained.
Job smiled. “Dude was a pawnbroker, man,” he said. “Of course he’s going to covet stuff. It’s the brother’s gig!”
“If you’re sure,” Phil said with trepidation.
“Naw, man,” Job said. “Chill on this. It’s cool.”
“If you say so,” Phil replied. He tapped the stack on the right. “Number seven,” he said.
Job looked again at the sheet, then turned his eyes to the corresponding information on the other. He shook his head. “Under cutting your prices ain’t stealing, man.”
“It is a form of theft,” Dibble replied. “It is short changing the customer on the actual value of the product.”
“It’s called ‘making a living’, man,” Job said.
Peter smiled and walked out of the office. He nodded to ESTHER, sitting comfortably in her chair, tapping information into a computer. She, without taking her eyes from the screen, nodded back.
He walked out the door and felt the glow upon him. He held his arms out, taking the time to bask in it for a few seconds and walked down the paved entrance. The asphalt turned to grass and Peter strode down the incline towards the tall muscular man staring at his surroundings, his feet making silent footprints in the trim grass. Peter smiled and he tapped the man on the arm. The man spun around, his eyes filled with trepidation. Peter’s relaxed smile softened the worry lines in the man’s forehead and his muscles in his shoulder unclenched.
“Hello, Mr. Jenkins,” he said. “My name is Peter, and this is Heaven.”
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