Knockin’ on Hibbing’s Door

 

“Hi! Welcome to Paradise. Nice shades, love the blue suede soles, shame about the tailoring. By the way, I’m God, The Big Enchilada, Head Honcho Numero Uno and all that kinda stuff. Who exactly are you?”

“I’m Elvis. The king. I sing a bit, an’ I shoot televisions, but mainly I’m famous for leaving buildings.”

“It must be tough for you kid. Other people abandon wives, kids, ships and stamp collections. But you, it’s buildings.” said God to the glittering ghost, shaking all over before His eternal gaze.”

“That’s a great gaze you’ve got there, but I would appreciate it if you told me where I am and who the hell you are”, asked Elvis.

“I’ve already told you that”, said God.

“Just testing,” said Elvis, life like death is like that.”

“Yours maybe,” said God, “for others it might be just a quiz programme. I’ll get back to you about that.”

“What happens here?” said Elvis.

 

“You’re not the first soul to ask me that. Otis was just the same” “Otis Redding?” said the pelvis.

 “Nope” said God. Otis, the lift attendant. He transported you here from the last building you left.”

 “You’re kidding!” said Elvis. “Nope, again” said God, this is the real deal. Welcome to the cosmic burger bar in the sky. By the way we’re all vegetarians here. It’s tough on the bean growers, but the cows love it, not to mention the chickens. Did you know there are more chickens than people on earth, and that by the end of the month most of them will be burgered to bits and pieces.”

“It’s tough on chickens and tough on the causes of chickens, said the king. I blame the eggs; there should be a law against them.”

“I’ll bear that in mind.” said his Wonderfulness. “I might even have a word with Socrates about it.”

“Socrates, who he?” said Elvis.

“Yeah” said God, “they’re all here: Socrates, Nietzsche, Machiavelli, Schopenhauer…. Ole Shopy’s even got a tattoo that says: ‘I baked Hegel’s bagels and left him looking like a pretzel’ We’ve even got theologians by the bus load. You can’t keep them out of the bingo parlour. Einstein calls the numbers. There are no bingo cards; everyone uses Rubik cubes to keep ahead of the game. Nothing’s simple for those guys. Between you and me kid, they and two short planks have a lot in common. They mean well, but, sometimes you have to ask yourself: since when and for how long has the well- meaning of a bunch of bampots prevented them from damaging others? That’s a tough one. I’ll sort them out later.  Mind you, Andy Warhol thinks Rubik cubes are a new kind of Oxo Cubism, devised by Mondrian and Picasso in order to undermine the fashionableness of modern art and to curtail the influence of Quasimodo’s parrot on contemporary American culture. He’s hoping The Big Bopper might write a musical about it. The big guy says he’s too busy be bopping his lulu with a floosie named Susie from Paisley, but he thinks Buddy Holly’s road manager might be interested”.

 

“Quasimodo’s parrot?!!” exclaimed the king. Then with a chuckle: “I don’t know the face but the name rings a bell.” “Watch it!” said God. “I do the funnies, except during the Lenten period when Michael the Arch-Angel does his stand-up routine - I don’t think he’s very funny, but all the gals in history think he’s a real stoater. Salome, Saint Joan of Arc and Mary Queen of Scots can’t take their eyes off him. I don’t know why; he’s just a one trick pony, a Divine messenger, a cosmic postman with knobs on. That’s all, nothing else. He doesn’t even do his own stunts. Between you, me, the pearly gatepost and Quasi’s parrot, he spends too much time in front of the mirror, wishing he was taller... John the Baptist offered to help him out on that score if he would introduce Saint Joan of Arc to his baptising self. Mike did just that and Johnnieboy, smart as ever, supplied him with a shorter mirror. Joan says she and John are now an item and that she and her new beloved are going to buy a new ironing board and pretend to be surfers ‘hanging ten’ in front of the mirror when the wee fly guy’s not preening himself.”

 “I dig that, said Elvis, “but what’s the deal with Quasimodo’s parrot? Isn’t that fictoid? Does the bird have a name?”

 “Yeah”, said God, “she’s called Typret Llopy, and was christened by an un-sober and dyslexic priest, who has nightmares about naked Polish plumbers playing scrabble with the indigenous and un-naked Catholic plumbing community. Quasi’s not real but the parrot doesn’t have the heart to tell him and besides, his hunch serves as a pretty nifty perch. Also, fictoid or otherwise, he’s the only stained glass window cleaner in Paradise. You have to watch him with the Brasso though; he does enjoy a drink. He says it helps him with his campanology problem. Typret Lloppy is from Wales and is a close confidant of John Paul II - J2P2 to the texting faithful - and is trying to cut a deal with Brian Epstein, to persuade his holiness to also call himself George and Ringo, and that he will get him a gig in Moscow on top of Lenin’s mausoleum. But he’s got to wear the groovy triple-decked hat - even if it’s a bit unorthodox. She’s a smart bird that parrot....”

“Hold your gee gees, said Elvis. Is that It? I arrive in Paradise, blue suede shoes ‘n’ all, hip swivelling my way into this eternal grain of sand, and for what? A bunch of bingo playing theologians, a scheming parrot, a fictoid window cleaner, a handful of saints, a vanity stricken winged messenger and a vegetarian burger. It seems more like the central headquarters for the Roy Orbison Appreciation Society.”

 “ROY ORBISON?!” exclaimed the Almighty

“Yeah, Only the Lonely,” said the king with a smirk. God smiled a withering smile and said: “That’s a better than average smirk you’ve got there kid. But I will remind you that dying was your smartest career move. You began your life looking like Michelangelo’s King David and you died alone on your throne in a suede covered lavatory, looking like a creature who escaped from a swamp, in a mansion you furnished from Woolworth’s. Aren’t you just the renaissance prince of a belted and bible-braced America?”

“Make my day.” said Elvis.

“You talking to me?” said God.

“You need people like me.” replied the king.

“I bet you just love the smell of nae palmolive in the morning, said God, “not unlike the folks down below. You can visit them, if you’re not careful, but I must warn you it’s just like Hotel Casablanca; checking in is Lonely Street, but checking out is a tunnel job”.

 “Nice work if you can get it”, said the king. “Is the desk clerk still dressed in black? I’ve got the T-shirt. I met Hail Billy there, nice guy, a dready little teddy, very drock very droll; it drove him off his clocker. Shame about the haircut, huh?”

 “Smart guy!” said God.

“Well here’s looking at you”, replied the king, “Have you seen my buddy Richard Nixon?”

“Not recently”, said God, the last I heard was that he and J Edgar ran a second hand frock shop out in the sticks. J Edgar does the modelling and Tricky plays poker with the dummies, one of whom is a ventriloquist called Henry. Tricky and J Edgar are their own punishment. It’s a kind of justice; their karma ran over their dogma a while back.”

 “Is the Reverended neverending Billy Graham here?” asked Elvis.”

 “Not anymore, said the long haired one. He arrived here ranting and raving about his unfinished mission to take the light of me into dark and sinful places. Saint Vicious the Sid gave him a Glasgow kiss before transforming him into a lamppost in Soho with a bike permanently chained to his lonely concrete stump. He spends his days cursing Noah for allowing dogs and pigeons into the Ark. At nights he manages to console himself by writing to his pen pal Sisyphus, who sometimes replies in hieroglyphs he found written on his boulder. And that’s what can happen to punks in Paradise. Saint V, he’s young…” said God.

“What about the Re-reverended?” said Elvis

“Who cares, said God. His ‘was’ was wish-granted and all that kinda stuff.”

 “Is my manager The Colonel skulking around anywhere?” asked Elvis.

“Yep”, said God, “he’s become a reasonably successful blackmailer. His problem is he keeps writing notes to himself demanding money with menaces, and spending the cash on new second hand threads from Andersen’s Emperor.”

 “Suits him” said Elvis.

“Yeah they’re all here.” said His Luminousness.The good, the bad and the nose jobs conclude their mortal trespass just outside the pearly gatepost.”

 “As it is in heaven, so it is on earth.” said Elvis. “This

is Gracelands in the sky.”

“Without the décor”, said God “but you do have a point about heaven and earth and the part each player plays in those unfolding dramas. You see kid, there’s more to your penchant for leaving buildings than is dreamt of in the school of ancient Athens.”

 “Tong Ya Bas”, said Elvis, “why do I just know that you are about to say something that is crucial to my existence in eternity and I’m not going to understand a word of it? Can I ask the audience or tell Christ Arrant to give me the money on the grounds that I am very entertaining and have a mortgage in Paradise that’s overdue.

 “Ding dong”, said God, “I’m your only friend on this quiz show. Now listen, Elvis, don’t be alarmed, if this isn’t good news, it’s at least fair to middling gossip. You see, how can I put it? You are the writing on the wall.”

“You mean I’m Kilroy?” said Elvis.

 “Not quite”, said God, “he’s better looking than you. You are the eternal graffiti. Either by accident or design you have become the Redeemer; it is writ in spray paint across the globe. ‘Elvis has left the building’, indeed. Pin back your lugholes and I’ll deconstruct the mystery in Hebrew and Sanskrit for you. You see El - do you mind if I call you El?”

 “Go ahead Go” said Elvis. “Ok El”, said God, “In Hebrew, ‘El’ means God and in the Sanskrit of the Isha Upanishad, ‘Isha’ refers to the Indwelling Lord, hence: El v IsHa s left the building, or God the Indwelling Lord is out of his stone box. The Resurrection’s taken place and you’re It.”

 “Can I phone a friend of us all?” said Elvis.

“That’s the smart move”, said God, “Harpo’s a wise guy, an’ just like in the teenage wedding, you never could tell if it looked like rain. Let’s get this show on the road before the circus leaves town.”

 “It’s only Rock ‘n’ Roll,” said the king.

 “I know, said God. Can I borrow your blue suede soles? The road could be heavy without them.”

 “Amen, said the King, gallus as ever. The highway is for gamblers, let’s lose ourselves”.