A Little Slice of Heaven

When Jerome Tuesday dies and goes to Heaven, he finds that his afterlife is perfect. That is until he finds different versions of the people he knew which include variations of him.

And don't think it hasn't been a little slice of heaven... 'cause it hasn't. – Bugs Bunny

 

Jerome Henry Tuesday smiled as the credits for White Heat showed on the screen.  That was Mom’s (and eventually his as well) favorite James Cagney film.  Sure, there was Angels with Dirty Faces, and of course, The Man of a Thousand Faces, but there was something about a psychopathic hood with a mother complex that made Heat perfect.  He lowered the legs of the recliner and placed his feet on the carpeted floor.  He stayed in a sitting position for a few minutes, just to let the blood fill and circulate through his legs.

He used the arms of the chair to hoist himself to a standing position and took an uneasy step forward.  His jaw tightened when the pain in his ankles, knees and hips started, took a breath and continued towards the kitchen.  He passed the rack of DVDs he had collected, his eyes falling on titles and his mind picking which he’d watch next.  The Treasure of Sierra Madre? he thought.  No.  Citizen Kane?  No.  Too high-brow.  His fingers ran across the titles that were in alphabetical order and pulled out The Dark Knight.  He smiled.  He always was a comic book fan and that was one of his favorite movies.  He placed it on top of the DVD player, reached down into the J section and pulled out the live action Justice League film that had hit the screen three years later, which would be a great companion piece.

He shuffled into the kitchen, reached into the cupboard and pulled out a bag of pork rinds.  These weren’t the ones that made you use all the strength in your jaw to chew; these were the air blown ones that almost melted in your mouth.  He took a bite and chewed slowly, remembering the harder one; longing for the ones he liked.

But at his golden age of 85 (rusty, if you asked him), there were few things he could chew; even with his dentures in.  And even if he could chew them, his stomach – the one that had once took all the spicy Mexican, Chinese and Indian food he could pile on (or in) betrayed him.

Even a single slice of pepperoni pizza could bring hours of evil flatulence and heartburn that would double him over.  And he liked pepperoni pizza.  He would stand in the frozen food isle and stare longingly at the frozen pies with the circular red spots on the box.

Even the air-blown pork rinds would give him enough gas to open the bedroom window, but damn it to hell, this was his only vice!  And it made him sad to think that somewhere down the line he had added pork rinds to his list, under his once-a-year drinks and his half a pack a day cigarettes; the latter two he begrudgingly quit 25 years ago.

Screw it! He thought and popped another pork rind in his mouth.  Yeah, I’ll have to put another blanket on the bed because it’s freakin’ twenty outside, but I’m eighty-five f*****g years old and if I want another pork rind, then I will have another pork rind!  And whoever don’t like it can freakin’ blow me!

 He paused to chuckle bitterly.

Not that anyone could get little Jerry moving these days, he thought.  That train derailed years ago!  And that made him angrier; enough to add another rind to his mouth.

And it was now official; Jerome Tuesday was pissed.

Again.

He shuffled back to the recliner (because lifting his feet brought more pain to his ankles and knees), placed the telephone in his lap, then his worn book of telephone numbers and took the thick glasses out of his pocket and placed them on his nose.  He then opened the drawer on the telephone table and took out his magnifying glass and opened the book.

It drove his wife (God rest her soul) to distraction that all the people in the book; ones he had known, ones she had known, and the ones they had knew together, were listed by last name. 

“Why can’t you put all the Joes together!?!” she nagged one day when looking for her brother’s new telephone number.

“Because it is orderly,” he replied for the umpteenth time.

“But it’s easier!” she wailed.  “Put all the Toms under T, all the Mikes under M, all the Bobs under B, all the Waynes under W . . . “

“We don’t know anyone named ‘Wayne’,” he said, knowing that the response was the equivalent of using gasoline to put out a brush fire.

“That’s not the point!” she balked.

“No, the point is that aside from it being orderly, it also exercises the brain and keeps the mind active,” he said.

“But it’s easier!” she wailed.

“So you’re telling me that you don’t remember your brother’s last name?” he asked.  “Which happens to be your maiden name,” he added as he moved quickly out of the room in time to dodge an airborne pillow.

Order was Jerome Henry Tuesday’s rule.  Everything had to have a place.  His old 33 RPM albums were in alphabetical order.  His three walls of books (two hard covered, one paperbacks) were by author’s last name.  And if you ventured into his attic, his boxes of comic books were not only filed by title, in alphabetical order, but each comic had their own plastic sleeve (sealed with two strips of tape).

 Jerome opened the book of telephone numbers and looked at the first name.  Aiello, Mario.

Who died ten years ago.

He flipped a few pages.  Frasca, Mark.

Who died last year.

McDonald, John. 

Ten years dead.

Giannotti, Nick.

A small tear appeared in the corner of Jerome’s eye.  Poor Nick was in a nursing home and suffered from Alzheimer’s. 

He turned page after page and realized as he went through the list of names accumulated throughout the years that all his friends were dead.

Or worse than dead.

He had no one to talk to.

He flipped a few more pages and stared at his daughter’s telephone number.  More tears poured down his cheeks.  She had died from a blood disorder two years earlier.  She didn’t even make fifty.  Going to her funeral was the very last thing he expected to do in his life. 

Jerome’s heart broke as he remembered their lengthy conversations about nothing, both of them throwing sarcastic jibes at each other, poking fun at the other’s life, always ending with  I love you always and always, and a wet smooch on the phone.

He was alone.

The sound of roaring came from outside.  He wiped the tears from his face and shuffled to the window.

“F*****G B*****D!” he spat.

Below, a truck with a snow plow was turning the corner, but not before it placed a small wall of snow and ice in front of his driveway.

Jerome shuffled to his closet and put on his coat, hat, scarf, gloves and boots, then went outside to the garage and opened it.  He fired up the snow blower and, with the speed on slow let it drag him down the driveway. 

The wind whipped the scarf from his neck and he held onto the blower with one hand while the other on the blower’s accelerator.  He released it when he was ten feet from the mound of snow and snapped a dark look at the rear lights of the truck, which had stopped on the corner.  He assumed the driver was taking a break. 

“If I die doing this, I hope you’re fired, you scumbag b*****d!” he screamed into the wind.  He shook his gloved fist at the taillights for emphasis. 

Jerome turned back to the mound of snow.  He flexed the muscles in his shoulder and grasped the handles in both hands.  When the snow blower moved forward, he felt a pain in his chest, which he equally ignored and blamed on the pork rind binge he just had.  When the pain went up his arm, a small panic filled his mind.  Then, strangely enough, Jerome Henry Tuesday watched in quiet shock as the blower hit the wall of snow and ice and bored through it, dragging him behind and into the street where he hit another wall of snow across the street.

As Jerome lifted into the air, he realized he no longer felt the cold of winter.  Seconds later, he realized that he no longer felt the pain in his joints.  Jerome looks down on himself again and saw his limp body hanging from the handlebars of the snow blower.  Above him, in the lateness of the hour, the sun had come out.  Jerome looked up and saw a brilliant circle of light in the middle of the dark sky.

“Oh,” he said.  “I get it.”

He took one last look at his house and cursed under his breath because he had left the television on.  Then he smiled.

“Hey National Grid!” he called.  “Looks like payment is going to be delayed this month!”

He looked up at the light, shrugged and headed for it.  At the last second, Jerome closed his eyes and passed through the shining circle.  It felt like being covered in your mother’s arms and wrapped in warm velvet.

By the way, the driver was fired.

. . .

When Jerome opened his eyes, he was standing in a huge field of grass.  At one end of the field he could see picturesque snowcapped mountains; at the other, he witnessed a large body of water that was as blue as sapphires.  He looked up into the welcoming sun and crisp blue sky and saw a few birds sailing on the breeze.  He released a chuckle.

“So,” he said to himself.  “This is Heaven.”

“Yes,” said a voice behind him.  “It is.”

Jerome spun and saw a tall man wearing a gray three-piece suit, cobalt blue tie and had black hair that was turning gray at the temples.  The dapper man also sported a salt-n-pepper mustache and van dyke beard.

“Are you . . . “ Jerome began.

“Peter?” the man asked with a relaxed smile.  “Yes.  Welcome Jerome.”

Jerome took a step towards Peter and stopped.  He looked down at himself. 

Twice. 

Then again.

He was not only years younger (by Jerome’s estimation, he was about 35 years old), his shoulders were broad, his chest, stomach and legs were muscular, and a few inches taller than he normally was.  Aside from the physical differences, he was wearing a polo shirt, jeans and sneakers.

“This is Heaven, Jerome,” Peter said.  “You are how you’ve always wanted to look; how you’ve always seen yourself.”

“Wow,” whispered Jerome in an awestruck tone.  “This is amazing!”

“We call it Heaven,” Peter said with a smirk and held out his hand to him.

Jerome took two more steps and stopped, his jaw dropping slightly.  He took another step and stopped again.  He quickly turned around and undid his zipper, opened his pants and peeked inside.

“Like I said,” remarked Peter who smiling at the sky, “You are how you’ve always wanted to look.”

Jerome closed his pants and turned back, his face flushed in embarrassment.  He reached out and clasped Peter’s hand and gave it a firm shake.

“Let me show you your new home,” Peter said turning and walking across the field.

“Is it far from here?” Jerome asked taking in the beauty of the ocean.

“No,” Peter replied over his shoulder.  “It’s right here.”

Jerome turned and saw a Victorian mansion that was suddenly ten yards away from where they were standing.

“Wow!” Jerome said.

“This is your Heaven, Jerome,” Peter said handing him a key.  “Any and everything you’ve ever wanted or needed is right here.”

Jerome shook his head.  “I tried to be a good person, you know?” he said.  “I think I was always fair to people; at least I tried to be.  But this,“ he said pointing at his body.  “And this,” he said now pointing at the mansion.  He shook his head again.  “I really don’t deserve it.”

Peter smiled and put a warm hand on his shoulder.  “Jerome,” he began.  “You’ve been kind and understanding and probably more helpful to others than you realize.  You would be amazed at how many people you’ve influenced in your life, making them good people in turn.  Trust me on this; you deserve it.”  Peter winked.  “I have it on good authority.”

“I don’t know what to say,” Jerome said.  “Thank you?” he asked.

Peter smiled.  “It is us who should be thanking you, Jerome,” he said. 

Jerome walked up to the house and walked around the side and saw the large pool in the back, next to the large brick barbecue, which was next to the large hot tub.  He came back to the front steps and looked up.

“The place is freakin’ huge!” he exclaimed and slapped a hand across his mouth.

“Cursing is permitted,” Peter said.  “As long as you don’t use you-know-who’s name in vain.”  Peter’s smile widened.  “We have New Yorkers here.”

“I mean,” said Jerome turning to look at the wrap-around porch, “The place is too big, just for me.”

Peter tilted his head to one side, one arched eyebrow raised.

“What do you mean, ‘just for you’?” he asked.  “Your family is inside.”

After a beat, Jerome turned slowly towards Peter, tears filling his eyes.

“My  . . . family?” he whispered.

Peter nodded.

“My wife?  My daughter?”

Peter nodded again.

Jerome ran up the steps, then turned back and ran up to Peter, wrapped his arms around the man and swung him in a small circle, then ran back up the stairs.  He dropped the key in his hand, picked it up, and dropped it again.

“Jerome?” Peter called.

Jerome, who had bent forward to pick up the key from the porch, looked at Peter upside down from between his legs.

“It’s open,” he said.  Peter reached into his pocket and pulled out a cellphone and tossed it to Jerome.  The phone seemed to hover in the air, waiting for Jerome to turn fully around to catch it.  “If you need me for anything, please call,” Peter said.  “Anytime.”  He smiled at Jerome, then waved, turned and walked back into the field, fading with every step.

Jerome turned the knob and opened the door.  As soon as he did, he could hear a repetitious thudding over a steady tick, tock, tick, tock coming from inside.  He walked into the wide foyer and stared at the ornate grandfather’s clock in the corner.  He remembered seeing this exact clock when he was 22 at an antique store and recalled he wanted it so badly, but a) he couldn’t afford its expensive price, and b) he had no place to put it in the small hovel he called an apartment.  He ran his fingers over the elaborately carved ornamentation on the clock’s hood, felt the vibrations caused by the clock’s inner mechanism and gazed at the sweep second hand move from mark to mark, counting out time. 

He walked into the sitting room and stared at the racks of DVDs lining the walls.  His eyes fell on titles he had wanted, but never took the time to buy.  There were even films he knew were either discontinued or were never popular to make it from VHS to DVD.  In the middle of the room, in front of a picture window, was an oversized couch that looked inviting.  He let his eyes cover one end of the large room to the other and inhaled sharply when he saw the 100 inch high-definition flat screen TV on a rectangular cabinet.  On the oak coffee table in front of the couch was a single universal remote.  On the other side of the room were his books, his records, and his CDs, all on racks in his preferred alphabetical order.

 Jerome tore himself away to find the source of the repetitive thumping.

He looked down the long hallway and saw an open doorway and walked in that direction.  He peered around the frame and felt the tears in his eyes begin again.

Running on a treadmill, eyes glued on the ocean seen through the sliding glass doors, was his wife. 

In life, his beloved wife was far more attractive than she realized but had always complained she was slightly chubby.  She had a few extra pounds on her, but then again, so did he, so Jerome did not care.  He knew in his heart that she would feel better about herself if she was a few pounds lighter and constantly reminded her that the models and actresses that covered all the magazines and filled the screens at the Cineplex were either bulimic of anorexic.  She had that old world voluptuous figure, which was his preference.  Even so, he always tried to help her stick to whatever diet she went on and never made her feel bad when she had a sudden craving for a deep-dish chocolate sundae with fresh whipped cream. 

But there she was at about 35 years of age, wearing baggy sweatpants and a half tee-shirt, running on the treadmill and was several pounds lighter; the weight she had always wanted  to be.  The weight his mind had always pictured her at.  She had her long curly dark hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, her skin glistening from her workout, and she looked as sexy as all get out. 

“Hello, Baby,” Jerome said.

She looked over her shoulder and grinned.  She turned off the machine and walked towards him, then broke into a run and leaped into his arms. 

“I missed you so much, Annie,” he said as he covered her face in kisses.

“I missed you too,” she said and held him close and tight.

He carried her to a small loveseat and they sat in each other’s arms.

“Dinner’s ready!” called a voice from the hallway.

Jerome turned to see their daughter, Danielle, coming through the doorway.  She looked like she did when she was 18, which was the age Jerome always saw her at.  In life, he had watched her turn twenty, then thirty, then forty, and stop at fifty, but he would always see that self-assured twinkle in her eye that began when she was in her freshman year of college.  At that age, her standard mode of dress was a pair of faded jeans, worn sneakers and oversized tee-shirt with a super-hero emblem on the front.  Presently, the shirt was a bright crimson and it bore the lightning bolt of the comic book speedster, the Flash.

“Dad!” she cried.  “You’re home!”

She dashed across the room, leaped and dove, landing on top of them.  She first kissed Jerome, then her mother, then the both of them who she held in a bear hug.

. . .

They sat at the large cherry wood dining table, eating and talking.  Actually, Annie and Danielle were chattering away while Jerome listened.  

Danielle, as animated as ever, was popping baby carrots in her mouth as she talked about the house (“It’s so HUGE!”), the field (“There are no freakin’ rocks to hurt my feet and I can walk barefoot!”), and the ocean (“It’s always so warm and the fish swim around and play with you!  It’s so unreal!”).  Annie talked about her gardening (“I know I don’t have to, because the flowers just come up where you want them, but what’s the fun in that?”), her exercise (“I’m up to three miles a day on the treadmill, and use the universal machine for an hour; just like the one you had in the basement!”), her other hobbies (“I have a room for my paint-by-number sets and puzzles!”), and them (“As soon as Danni goes to bed . . . “ said in a seductive whisper as she pressed her firm breasts against his arm).

Jerome sat and watched his two ladies joke and play around, feeling that there was nothing more he could ever want; in this life or any other.

Jerome, Annie and Danielle sat and watched two DVDs together; one Danni picked and the other picked by Annie.  They stretched out on the large comfortable couch and snacked on bowls of popcorn, then after the first film ended, called Domino’s (‘Your order in 30 seconds or less! Guaranteed!’).  Jerome burst into a case of the hysterical giggles when the order of buffalo wings was delivered seconds after he had hung up the telephone.

Danni kissed and hugged each of them and went to bed.  Jerome held Annie in his arms and they walked into a more private area of the house; the one with the large stone fireplace, and made love on the plush carpet in front of the hearth.  They loved each other in ways that was done when they were alive, and more gymnastic methods that they only dreamed of.  They fell asleep in each other’s arms.  Jerome kept waking up to look at his sleeping wife and to make sure he wasn’t alive and propped up in the recliner, dreaming.

. . .

“I’m heading out for a while,” Jerome said to Annie as he watched her put on a fresh pair of sweat pants.

“Where are you going?’ she asked.

“To see Mom and Pop,” he said.  He frowned.  “I don’t know where they live.”

“Oh,” replied his wife, pulling her long curls into a ponytail, “Mom’s down the hill, and past the square.  White house.  You can’t miss it!”  She walked over and kissed Jerome deeply.  “You sure you want to leave?” she purred.  “I could delay my workout for a few hours.”

Jerome felt the rush of heat between them and felt his boxers suddenly tighten.  He kissed her and gently pushed her away.

“Gotta see them,” he said softly.  “But I will take a rain check for tonight.”

She kissed him on his nose and walked to the treadmill.

“Better have a few bowls of Wheaties, love,” she said with a wink.  “I’m in the mood to see the sun rise.”

Jerome grinned.  “I’ll see you in a while, Babe,” he said.

Annie waved to him with one hand while the other switched on the treadmill.

Jerome walked down the hall  hearing the thud, thud, thud of his wife on the treadmill and found his daughter in the living room, putting a few of the DVDs in a backpack.

“Hi, Dad!” she said happily.  “I’ll be back in a while!  I’m going to see Rosie!”

“Rosie? She’s here?” he asked.

She shot him her patented ‘you’re retarded’ expression, gave him a hug and almost skipped out the door.

“See you later, Baby!” he called from the doorway.

(thud, thud, thud)  “By Sweetie!” she yelled back.  (thud, thud, thud)  “Have a good time!  Give her my love!”

“Will do,” Jerome said.  He was about to walk through the doorway, then paused.  “White house on the other side of the square, right?” he called.

(thud, thud, thud)  “Just look for the limos!” Annie yelled back.  (thud, thud, thud)  “You can’t miss it!”

“Okay!” he called.  Jerome stepped out on the porch and inhaled the crisp fresh air, feeling the warm sun on his skin.  He went to a door in the foyer and opened it, finding the closet.  He pulled out a blue satin windbreaker and walked out the door.  When he arrived at the end of the walkway, he stopped and looked back at the house.

“Limos?” he asked out loud.

Jerome walked down the grassy hill marveling at its beauty and saw the square ahead.  He smiled and quickened his pace. 

There were stores, fast food joints, take-out places and restaurants he recognized.  Traffic lights, cars going by, a smiling uniformed cop giving someone a ticket who was also smiling back, garbage cans, people walking their dogs (whose poop disappeared as soon as it came from the animals), and people walking around with a contented smile on their faces.  It was everything that reminded him of his time on Earth (except the smiling).  He grinned seeing the Wal-Mart on the corner, next to the Lowe’s, which was across from the Home Depot.  He chuckled at seeing a Blockbuster in Heaven.  He shook his head in amazement and walked across the street.

He saw a bus at a far corner of the square and several people milling about.  He glanced at the front of the bus and saw the flashing word CASINO above the wide windshield. 

“Guess they have gambling here,” he muttered.

Jerome was about to continue on his way when he heard a familiar giggle behind him.  He turned to see Annie in the arms of a muscular man.  The guy had his arms around her waist and was kissing her.

Passionately.

He jogged over to where they were standing, still in a tight embrace.  In two quick moves, Jerome pushed the man away from his wife and slammed him against the side of the bus, his fist raised and ready to deliver the first of a series of blows.

And realized that the man was him.

Who grinned back at him.

His rage drained and was replaced by shock, which was then replaced by total confusion.

“JEROME!!!” screamed Annie behind him.

He released his double (who still wore the annoying smile) and turned to his wife.

Or looked like his wife.

She wasn’t the Annie he fell in love with so many years ago, and she wasn’t the Annie who he left thud, thud, thudding on the treadmill.  This Annie had the same long curly black hair; this time cascading across her bare shoulders, but was wearing a halter top and a pair of khaki shorts.  And this Annie’s body was defined enough to see the muscles in her arms, stomach, and calves.  She had the same face, but it was  . . . tighter.  The one thing that did not change was her large firm b***s.

The fact that this . . . doppelganger was doing the things he did with his wife brought back the rage.

Annie grinned and wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him (he could feel her beating heart through her halter and through his shirt and began to feel aroused).

“Baby!” she said moving away.  “Damn, you look good!  When did you di . . . get here?”

“Yesterday,” Jerome said.  His eyes canted over to . . . him.  “You wanna explain that?”

“Oh!” she grinned.  “That’s you!”

“I know that’s me!” he replied.  “What’s me doing here when I’m here?”

Annie looked at Jerome and smiled gently, her hand slowly caressing the six-pack she had above her shorts.

“Jerome,” she began.  “You know how much I love you, right?”

“Of course I do,” replied Jerome.

“And do you remember the last words I said to you?” she asked.

Jerome’s eyes filled with tears.  Annie’s health had rapidly deteriorated after her stroke.  Day after day, she fought for one more.  When he realized how much pain she was in, he asked her if she wanted to go.  She looked up at him, now so small in their bed, her body no more than a shell, reached out and grabbed his hand.

“I need to be here for you,” she said in a harsh croaking whisper.  “You’d be lost without me,” she added smiling the smile he first fell in love with.

He kissed his wife of so many years and told her that he would be okay and that she can rest; they would meet up on the other side.  Her last words to him was, “I need you beside me, always” and with that, she left this plane of existence.

Jerome nodded.

“Well, God was good enough to give me you when I got here, so I wouldn’t be alone waiting for you,” Annie said.  She giggled.  “That sounds so grammatically incorrect!” she exclaimed.  The bus horn beeped twice.  “We’ve got to go, sweetheart,” she said with a wide grin.  “The bus is leaving for the casino.”

“But . . . but I don’t gamble!” Jerome said.  “You know I hate gambling.”

“Oh, I know,” said Annie, grabbing the other him by the hand.  He wrapped his arm around her tight waist.  She in turn wrapped her arm around his.  “But he does, and that makes Heaven so perfect!”

Jerome stared feeling the muscles in his jaw release.

“And he likes to eat out all the time!” Annie added.  “We go to a different casino and restaurant almost every night, trying out new things!”

The bus’ horn beeped again.

Jerome vibrated as he watched them walk to the door of the bus.

“But you always liked my cooking!” Jerome protested.

“And I still do!” she said smiling.  “We just go out more!”  She blew him a kiss and tossed him a wave.  “Talk to you soon!  Bye!”

Jerome watched her go up the small steps of the bus and watched him follow her.  He even shot Jerome a smile and a wink before the doors closed.

As the doors shut, Jerome stepped forward to rip the doors open with his bare hands, grab him by the neck, throw him out the door and throttle . . . himself.

The word REJECT! flashed off and on in his head.  In his ears he could hear the Star Trek red alert klaxon blaring.  He was jealous of . . . himself?

Annie was going out to restaurants and casinos and obviously banging  . . . him, so why should he feel jealous?  He had to assume that his Annie was still thudding along on the treadmill and was waiting for him to return with promises of a passion filled, sweaty all-nighter.

His head felt like it was hit several times with the business end of a sledge hammer.

He walked – albeit a lot slower – towards his mother’s house.

. . .

Annie was right; he couldn’t miss the place.

It was a mansion that would rival the ones he had seen in shots of Bel Air, with its long sweeping driveway, the manicured lawn, the marble porticos that flanked the large double doors, and the large fountain in the shape of a fairy, pouring flowing water from an urn.

And the rows of limousines with their drivers patiently waiting outside the vehicles.  Some were smoking cigarettes, a few were talking, a pair was playing a card game on the hood of one of the limos, and one sat sleeping in the driver’s seat, his driver’s cap pulled down over his eyes.

Jerome walked up the driveway and past the limousines, and up the curved steps to the double doors.  He saw a button embedded in the doorframe and pressed it.  After a few seconds, he pressed it again.  One of the doors swung open and staring back at him with an impatient glare, her fingers curled around a cigarette holder, was Bette Davis.  She was wearing a green dress with a belt that was cinched tight around her waist.  Her large eyes looked him up and down.

“Can I help you?” she asked in that cold tone that Davis was known to use.

“I’m here to see Mrs. Tuesday,” he said in a small voice.

“And you are?” Davis asked in a tone that dropped the temperature in the doorway by ten degrees.

“I’m . . . I’m her son,” Jerome replied.

Davis stared at Jerome and broke into a wide smile.  She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and gave him a small hug.

“Of course you are!” Davis exclaimed.  “Come on! Come on! Dolly will be so happy to see you!  Walk this way!”

Jerome followed Davis, who walked in that stiff-legged gait she was known for.  As Jerome walked past the indoor fountain, the pottery on pedestals, and the paintings that adorned the walls, he heard singing coming from the further in the mansion.

“We do everything alike
We look alike, we dress alike, we walk alike, we talk alike
And what is more
We hate each other very much
We hate our folks
We're sick of jokes about how hard it is to tell us apart.”

And he followed Davis through the mansion Jerome swore he recognized the voices of the three men singing.

“If one of us gets the measles, then another one gets the measles
Then all of gets the measles, and mumps, and croup
How I wish I had a gun, a little gun
It would be fun to shoot the other two and only be one!”

Coming out of a room ahead of him was Cary Grant, dressed in a pearl grey suit and lavender tie.

“Oh, Cary!” said Davis.  “I want you to meet Dolly’s son.”

Grant stopped and walked straight over to them, reached out and grasped Jerome’s hand in his.

“It’s a real pleasure!” he said with a shining grin.  “Dolly told us all about you!  Welcome!”

“Than . . . uh, thank you,” said Jerome.  He felt the warm hand in his and there was no mistaking that staccato cadence of the actor’s speech.  “Us?” he asked.

“Oh, sure,” Grant said, releasing Jerome’s hand in order to place it around his shoulder.  “You haven’t met the gang!  Come on!”

Grant walked Jerome into a large ballroom with an elevated stage at the far end and couches lined in a large U in front of it.

“We do everything alike
We look alike, we dress alike, we walk alike, we talk alike
And what is more
We hate each other very much
We hate our folks
We're sick of jokes on what an art it is to tell us apart
We eat the same kind of vittles
We drink from the same kind of bottles
We sit in the same kind of high chair, high chair, high chair
Momma says that we're a bore and what is more
She didn't want to have us and we didn't want to have her
No more!”

In the center of the stage stood James Cagney, Gene Kelly and Fred Astaire, who just went into a tap dance, each taking turns displaying their terpsichorean prowess.  They all wore slacks and white shirts, but Astaire was the only one of the three wearing a tie.  Cagney did a shuffle tap and glided in front of the other men, then did a jerky walking tap forward, then came back up on the tips of his toes.  Cagney then brought both knees straight up and slammed both feet flat on the stage, his back ramrod straight, first glaring, then grinning at the attended.

This was followed by Kelly who did a fast tap that went into a soft shoe, his eyes shyly gazing at the ceiling, smiling to himself.  He then went into a spin on the tip of his shoe, then crooking one leg up and sending the other over it.  He stopped and flashed his trademark grin at the audience and extended his hand to Astaire. 

Astaire went into a faster tap and only seemed to use his feet and not his entire legs.  He grinned at the audience and shuffle-tapped in a circle around Kelly and Cagney (who feigned waving fans under their chins with a bored expression) and went into a rapid 1-2-3-4 tap. 

Kelly pulled out a coin, flipped it and caught it on the back of his hand.  Cagney gave Kelly a rolling point of his finger and winked at the audience and matched Astaire’s tempo.  Kelly watched the two men for a few beats and went into his own tap, modifying it to match the beat of the others. 

“If one of us gets the measles, then another one gets the measles
Then all of gets the measles, and mumps, and croup
How I wish I had a gun, a little gun
It would be fun to shoot the other two and only be one!”

Cagney, Kelly and Astaire tapped backwards, then shot forward, sliding on their knees, arms outstretched, singing the sustained last word.

The place erupted in applause.  Jerome looked around and saw Tyrone Power lighting Ginger Roger’s cigarette.  Next to them sat Laurence Olivier and Vivian Leigh, with Danny Kaye perched on the back of the sofa.  Tapping on their knees with a set of drumsticks were Gene Krupa and Buddy Rich, both trying to outdo the other in speed.  A slightly balding bespectacled man sat in the corner alone, sipping on a glass of champagne.  It took Jerome a few seconds to realize it was a young Groucho Marx without his painted on or naturally grown mustache.  He looked up when he heard the tinkling of a piano.  Seated was Chico Marx and standing next to him wearing a dark suit was Nat ‘King’ Cole.  Cole smiled and bowed at the audience and began singing ‘You Can’t Take That Away From Me’.

Everywhere Jerome turned were more celebrities from the golden years of Hollywood and music.

“Baby!” he heard above Cole’s soft tenor.

Jerome turned to see his mother, Dolly Tuesday, walking towards him.  She was young again, and wearing a silver dress with a wide shoulders and a train that followed her as she weaved through the crowd.  Around her neck was a sapphire on a silver chain.

His mother, in life, was a small plump woman.  In the hereafter, she had a full hourglass figure.  Her deep brown eyes brimmed with tears as she grabbed his face to kiss him.  They stayed in each other’s arms for several seconds until he heard her sniff and pull back a foot.

“You look so good, Jerome!” she said.  Tears filled her eyes again.  “I’ve missed you so!”

“I missed you, Mom!” he said, kissing her on the cheek.

“Well, have you met everybody?’ she asked, entwining her arm in his and leading him to an open spot on the couch.

“Too many people to meet the first time out, Mom,” he said.

“Oh, you will,” she said with a smile and a wink.

“Nice place you have here,” he said.

“Well, Pete said I deserved it, and who am I to argue?” she grinned.

“Where’s Pop?’ he asked.

“Never far away,” Pop replied over their heads.

Jerome turned and saw his father standing there, smiling his usual slightly gap-toothed grin, and holding three glasses of champagne.  In life, his father was over six foot and stocky.  In this life, he was trim and wore slacks, a white shirt with its sleeves rolled up under a dark vest.  Jerome grabbed two of the glasses and passed one to his mother.

“To us!” his father said.

“To us!” repeated Jerome and his mother.

“Where were you?” Dolly Tuesday asked her husband.

“In the back,” replied Pop.  “Playing pool with Joe and Rocky.”

Jerome looked at his mother.

“Louis and Marciano,” she clarified.

Jerome nodded like it made sense.  “I really missed you guys!” he said.

“We missed you too,” grinned Pop.  “Took your sweet time getting here!”

“Hey!” Jerome said, trying to keep his smile down.  “I was busy!”

“Yeah, yeah,” his father said with a smile.  “I hear that.”

Jerome, again close to tears (This is becoming a habit, he thought), put his arms around his parents and they went into a group hug.

“So,” he said, looking at his mother, “Aside from being the hostess with the mostess,

 what else do you guys do around here?”

Dolly Tuesday playfully elbowed her son in the ribs.

“Most nights the gang takes us out for dinner,” she replied.  “We also have movie nights, parties like this, and some days when we’re by ourselves, we just sit by the pool and reminisce.”

“There’s no pressure for us to much of anything,” added Pop, “except what we want to do.  Heaven is a very relaxed environment.”

“OH!” his mother exclaimed.  “You’ve got to see this!  ROBERT!” she called walking past a blank-faced Buster Keaton who was eating a square of cheese on a toothpick.

Jerome looked at his father.  “Should I ask?” he asked.

Pop gave him a smile.  “You know your mother,” he sighed.

Dolly led stage and screen actor Robert Preston onto the stage.  She whispered something in Chico’s ear and he gave her his dark grin and a wink.  She returned to the couch and sat down.  She looked up at Jerome.

“You may want to sit for this,” she said.

There was that look of do what I tell you he remembered in her eyes and he sat.  His eyes looked into hers and she smiled and crooked her head towards the stage.  Obediently, Jerome turned his head.

On the stage next to Preston was a small boy wearing jeans, high polished shoes and a white dress shirt.  Jerome watched him say something to both Preston and Marx – who was still seated at the piano – and saw the two adults break into soft laughter.  Jerome looked back at his mother who added a level of sternness to the do what I tell you expression.  He sighed and returned his eyes to the stage.

Jerome saw the child and Preston separate to either side of the stage, and focused their attention on the audience.  They gave each other one last look and a nod.  Just as Jerome took a swallow of the bubbly, the boy stared directly at his mother and winked.

“Friends, either you're closing your eyes to a situation you do now wish to acknowledge,” they began in unison and Jerome released a geyser of champagne on the carpet in front of him and went into a choking spasm.

He looked up at the boy on the stage, earnestly belting out the number from the Broadway hit, The Music Man, and back at his mother, who sat there smiling proudly to herself.

“That me!” Jerome whispered.

“That’s right,” his mother replied softly.

“But . . . but, that me up there!” Jerome said.

His mother slid her eyes towards him and gave him a small look of disapproval above her smile.

“You were never one to overstate the obvious or repeat yourself when you were alive,” she said.  “So you chose to start now?”

“It’s not that!” whispered Jerome.  “Why am I eight years old?”

Jerome looked up at his younger self on the stage.  He saw himself remove an invisible hat and hold it over his heart.

“Mothers of River City!” he began in a tone of utmost seriousness.
“Heed the warning before it's too late!
Watch for the tell-tale sign of corruption!
The moment your son leaves the house,
Does he rebuckle his knickerbockers below the knee?” he asked, gravely pointing past his bendable joint.
“Is there a nicotine stain on his index finger?
A dime novel hidden in the corn crib?
Is he starting to memorize jokes from Capt.
Billy's Whiz Bang?
Are certain words creeping into his conversation?
Words like 'swell?"
And 'so's your old man?"
Well, if so my friends,
Ya got trouble!”

Preston and the younger Jerome pranced and passed each other moving from one side of the stage to the other, singing and bringing everyone to their feet to sing the chorus.

Dolly Tuesday stood along with the rest and Jerome followed.  She reached out and grasped her son’s hand.

“When you were eight,” she began, “You had no worries, except school, and you loved school.  There was a light in your eyes that time and life replaced with a cynical sense of the world.”  She chuckled.  “Don’t get me wrong,” she said.  “I loved your sarcasm, but I also missed you when you were innocent and didn’t put up walls to protect yourself.”  She looked at her son on stage and joined the applause when he and Preston reached the end of the number.  “This is how I remember you the most,” she said wistfully.

Jerome hugged her and planted a kiss on her forehead.

“Hey!” protested Pop.  “What about me?”

Jerome smiled and hugged him and gave his father a kiss on the cheek.  He pulled away and shook his head.

“I need a refill,” he said.

“Hurry back!” Dolly said.  “Stubby Kaye is going to do ‘Sit Down You’re Rockin’ the Boat’ in a few minutes!”

Jerome nodded and went to the full bar in the corner, passing Mario Lanza and Bing Crosby talking about horse racing, Spencer Tracy and Katherine Hepburn staring lovingly in each other’s eyes, and George Raft flipping a coin.  He took a fresh glass of champagne and walked to the bay window and stared out, sipping on his drink.  Outside playing the oddest game of tennis he had ever seen were the Nicholas Brothers against Moe and Curly Howard.

Fayard Nicholas lobbed the ball over the net and struck Moe right between the eyes.  As Moe’s head shot back, Curly swung at the ball that had ricocheted off of his brother’s face, missed, and sent Moe’s head through the racket.  With the racket still around his neck, Moe chased Curly around the court.

Jerome remembered the last times he had seen his parents.  His mother had stomach cancer twenty years before she died, and the doctors assured Pop that the entire baseball-sized tumor was removed.  From the moment she returned home from the hospital, her body slowly broke down.  First it was advanced arthritis in her knees, making her use a walker.  That was followed by arthritis in her hands, making her unable to use the walker.  Then diabetes and pains in her arms and back, making her take an assortment of pills and insulin shots.  Each pill she took caused an adverse reaction, making the doctor to prescribe more pills, which caused incontinence and alternating constipation and diarrhea.  After the diabetes spread to her feet causing two toes to be removed, her spirit died and she remained bedridden for the last five years of her life. 

Pop’s role as husband and provider changed to nurse and he dutifully prepared her meals, sat with her to watch television, change her adult diaper and wash her from head to toe.  Not long after, her hearing and sight went, making her love of watching old movies nearly impossible.  Many were the nights Dolly Tuesday would lay in her bed, crying in pain and frustration, begging God to take her.  For five whole years, her prayers were ignored.

After she died, Pop went into a deep depression, then into dementia, then full blown Alzheimer’s, leaving him not knowing who or where he was.  Jerome placed him in a nursing home and sat with him whenever he could.  His last days were filled with him talking to Dolly (her spirit or imagined presence), recalling the active days of their youth and not recognizing his son who gave him occasion sips of water.

In a way, this all seemed fitting.

Dolly Tuesday had idolized the legends of yesteryear all her life; on stage and on screen and had seen enough of both to prove it.  But because she suffered from stage fright, she could never join her celebrities except from a seat in a theater or from the comfort of her own home.  And here she was, holding court and living the life she always dreamed of. 

Jerome made a mental note to thank Peter for this.

Jerome frowned.  There was something missing he couldn’t put his finger on.

”YOU COMING!??!! yelled Dolly, shattering his thoughts.  “Stubby is about to start!”

Jerome drained the rest of his drink and joined his parents on the couch in the ballroom.

. . .

Jerome walked out of the mansion and past the still waiting limo drivers and down the winding driveway.  He was happy for them and a bit tipsy from the champagne.  He wanted to stay longer and meet and talk with the stars that filled his parent’s home, but the promise of another glorious evening with his wife and daughter (and a passionate desert with his wife) made him leave early.  It was not like he wouldn’t return.  He smiled to himself.  The next time he, Annie and Danielle would get dressed up to see his folks and let them share the experience.

He walked across the field that proceeded the square, again marveling at what Heaven offered, when he heard a familiar cry of ‘CHEESE AND CRACKERS!’ over his shoulder.

Jerome turned, the afternoon with his parents no longer in his mind.  The expression of ‘Cheese and crackers!’ was one his father had repeatedly said (versus use ‘Jesus Christ!’ which was probably frowned on here).  The sound of cheering and yelling came from the modest Colonial several yards from the mansion.  He walked in that direction.

The Colonial was positioned on a well kept lawn behind a steel mesh fence with a standing mailbox guarding the entrance.  Jerome glanced to the side of the property and saw an incredibly large satellite dish on the lawn.  This could probably pick up signals from a third-world country, he mused.  Hanging from the edge of the roof was a small flagpole; the kind he saw in the suburbs, where people would hang an American flag on Memorial and Independence Day, one with brown leaves when the weather turned to Autumn, one with eggs and bunnies on Easter, and one with snowflakes in Winter.  On this pole however was New York Mets flag.

“GETIT! GETIT! GETIT!” he heard through the open window.  “AAAWWW, MAN!  YOU HAD THE BALL, YOU STUPID!  IT WAS RIGHT THERE, FUCKO!  HOW COULD YOU MISS THAT S**T!?!?”

Jerome swallowed hard and rang the bell.  After a few seconds, the door swung open and there was his father, wearing khaki shorts, a Mets jersey and a Mets baseball cap backwards on his head.  He had a beer in his hand. 

His broad slightly gap-toothed smile widened and he whooped and grabbed Jerome around the waist and swung him around like a rag doll.

“Hey, man!” he said putting his son back on his feet.  “Come in! Come in!  DOLLY! It’s Number One Son!  Get him a beer!” 

His mother appeared behind his father, looked around him and released a high-pitched cry, rushing past him and wrapping her arms around Jerome’s waist.  She then darted back inside.

Jerome, whose mind felt like a tilted pinball machine, followed his father  to the living room.

Inside was a sports fan’s dream come true.  A widescreen television, with pennants, pictures, and bobble-heads in different sections of the room, framed autographs of baseball, football, basketball and hockey stars hanging from the wall, a wet bar, recliners with cup holders for cans, and mugs of beer; even coasters with team logos on the end tables.

Dolly dressed in Capri pants, flip-flops and a Mets jersey (versus a baseball cap, she wore a New York Mets bandana around her graying hair) returned with a frosted bottle of Budweiser and handed it to her son, then sat on the edge of a recliner and stared intently at the screen.  Pop did the same, motioning with a free hand for his son to take a seat on the empty recliner between them.

Jerome sat down heavily on the seat and looked at the television.  There was a game between the New York Mets and Atlanta Braves.  According to the banner on the top of the screen, the Mets were behind 4 – 2.

And that was what was missing when he went to the mansion.

Sports.

Pops was a diehard rabid sports fan.  He played baseball and football in school (and was quite good), but after he met Dolly, his love of sports was reduced to watching it on the tube and going to the occasional game. 

Dolly watched sports with Pops, but was never really a fan, having to learn the names of the game, what each play meant, and who the members of the assorted teams were his father supported.  She watched to keep him company and grew to be a fan of sorts, cheering when his team won, booing when they lost or screwed up a play.  For the sake of fairness (and to keep the peace), Pops sat with Dolly and watched movies.  He enjoyed films, but not as much as his wife did.

There were even moments when a movie - one that Dolly was eager to see - came on at the same time a game did.  It was on those infrequent times that Dolly would command the living room and Pop would head for the bedroom and sit on the edge of the bed, stat sheet in one hand and a cold beer in the other.  If a playoff or series game came on, they would – again, out of fairness – trade places.  It would not be unusual in the Tuesday household to hear Dolly warning the hero that the villain was behind the door in one room, while Pops screamed at a bad call in the other.

 The one regret Pops had (only vocalizing it once) was that his son preferred films to sports.  Yes, his son sat with him during the odd game, but he wasn’t a fan of any sport or team and his lack of interest first saddened him, then grew to acceptance of that difference between them.  When Jerome moved out of the house and came by on visits, Pops would discuss the recent games he watched, the trades, and the ridiculous salaries the players got with his son, knowing that the conversation would be slightly one-sided.

“What’s the score, Pops?” came a voice from the stairs.

Jerome turned to see him coming down the steps, wearing a Mets jersey over black sweat pants.  He grinned at him and sat on the floor next to Pops.

“Those fuckos!” Pops growled.  “4 to 2!”

“Man,” replied his son, equally ticked off.  “What inning?”

“Top of the seventh,” he said taking a sip from his beer.

“Bases loaded!” chirped Dolly, shifting forwards and bouncing in her seat.   

The room became silent.  Jerome looked at the three eager faces, their eyes glued to the screen.  Neither blinked and they repeatedly licked their lips in expectation.

‘HOME RUN!!!” they screamed in unison making Jerome jump in his seat.

“Four runs in!” his mirror image cried.  “That makes it six to four!!!”

“All right, all right, all right!!!” his father grinned pounding his knee with his fist.  He looked lovingly to his son, his wife and at Jerome, then turned back to the set.

“I gotta get home,” Jerome said, getting up from the recliner.

“Okay, Baby,” Dolly said, her eyes still on the screen.

Pops got up and gave Jerome a quick hug and returned to his seat, his eyes now fully focused on the game.

“Later, man,” his double said absently.  “ANOTHER HOME RUN!!!” he screamed.

The three jumped up from their seats and did a small victory shuffle around the living room.  Jerome let himself out.

Jerome stood on the neat lawn, vibrating. 

“LINE DRIVE!!!” he heard his mother scream.

This was insane, he thought.  A different me for Annie, for my mother, for my father?  There was no order, no uniformity!  No continuity.  His eyes bulged in their sockets at his next thought.  That would mean there is a different me for everyone I have ever known!  This is madness!!!

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the cellphone Peter gave him upon his arrival.  He flipped it open and went to the cell’s directory and found not only Peter’s number listed, but his wife’s, his parent’s and everyone he had ever known.  He toggled down to Peter’s number and pressed it.

Behind him he heard a tinny version of Handel’s Hallelujah Chorus.  He turned and there stood Peter, wearing a white suit that was exquisitely cut like the one he had worn earlier.  In his hand he had a cellphone.  He pressed a button and the music shut off.

“You called?” he asked.

Jerome swore he saw a twitch building in the . . . man’s left eye, but dismissed it.

 “What the fu . . . What the He . . . What is going on around here?” he stammered.

“Something wrong?” Peter asked.

With the simple utterance of that single word, all synapses fired in Jerome’s Heavenly head at once, causing a screaming mira-cod-nyeeb- mira-cod-nyeeb- mira-cod-nyeeb (last heard coming from between two active Tesla coils in a 1930s mad scientist movie) between his ears.

In the pit of his stomach began a burbling and rolling, which changed from burble and roll to Mount Vesuvius (with an advanced case of acid reflux) erupting.

Oh, and the vibrations?  They went from a mild and uneasy internal quivering to a hardware store’s paint shaker to a solid 9 on the Richter Scale.

If Jerome Henry Tuesday was animated (as in cartoon), his flushed face would have turned fire engine red and steam would have come from his ears, accompanied by the sound of a shrill whistle.

 “Wrong doesn’t cut it!” Jerome exploded.  “Wrong is your bacon coming back cooked, but not crispy the way you like it!  Wrong is your favorite TV show pre-empted by a sporting event!  Wrong is finding your socks in your shirt drawer!  Wrong is typing the word wrong, reading the word wrong, and getting this feeling that it looks wrong!!!  Wrong I can deal with!  What’s going on here defies all definitions of the word WRONG!”

“Relax Jerome,” Peter said.  “You’re getting hysterical.  Let’s go to my office and discuss your . . . issues.”

“Issues?” exclaimed Jerome.  “ISSUES!?!?  This is freakin’ volumes!!!”

Peter smiled kindly (who had a pronounced twitch in his left eye) and led Jerome across the field which quickly changed into a nicely decorated office with a scenic view of Heaven from the wide corner windows.  He pointed to a chair for Jerome and walked around and sat behind a glass and chrome desk that was the size of a large conference room table.  He sat in a high-backed chair, leaned back and crossed his legs in a completely relaxed manner.  His right hand slid across the desk and picked up a white squeeze ball laying there and wrapped his hand around it. 

“So, Jerome,” he said in a voice marked with forced patience.  “What seems to be the trouble?”

“This place,” replied Jerome trying not to stare at Peter’s twitch or his repetitive squeeze of the white ball.  “If this is Heaven, well, it is very off-putting.”

Peter nodded in silence to the point he reminded Jerome of a bobble-head toy. 

“Off-putting,” he repeated in a hollow voice.  (squeeze – squeeze – twitch – squeeze)  “How so?” he asked.

“Well, it’s everything!” Jerome said, then sat suddenly forward making Peter’s left eye give a double-twitch.  “But I’ve no complaints about my home, or having my wife and daughter with me; I want to make that clear.  It’s all I could ever ask for.”

(squeeze – squeeze – twitch – twitch - squeeze)  “Then what do you find . . . off-putting?” asked Peter, a gentle smile frozen on the lower half of his face.

“The uniformity,” Jerome replied.  “The continuity.”

( twitch – twitch – squeeze - twitch)  “What do you find here in Heaven that isn’t to your liking?” Peter asked with a croak in his voice.

“Well, for one thing,” Jerome said, “my wife is banging . . . !“ Jerome’s face suddenly flushed.  ”Uh, sorry.  Annie is having sex with me!”

(squeeze – squeeze – twitch – twitch - squeeze)  Peter stared frozen-faced at Jerome.

Jerome stared back.

( twitch – twitch – twitch - squeeze)  “You don’t want to make love with your wife?” he asked.

“NO!” exclaimed Jerome.

Peter’s expression did not change; nor did his relaxed composure.  The only visible change was his hand tightened around the white squeeze ball and cracked it in half.  Peter – not removing his eyes from Jerome - let the pieces drop from his hand and fall to the carpeted floor.  He opened his hand, palm up, and another white ball appeared.

(squeeze – squeeze – twitch – twitch - squeeze)

“Let me clarify,” Jerome began again.

Peter’s index finger shot up.  “Have you ever been diagnosed with OCD?” he asked.  (squeeze – squeeze – twitch – twitch – squeeze - twitch)  “Or any other mental disorder?”

Jerome’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened again.

“Uh, no,” he said.  “Uh, why?”

“This just seems . . . familiar,” Peter replied.  (squeeze – squeeze – twitch – twitch - squeeze)  “Continue, please.”

“What I am trying to say is that there are duplicates of me running around this place,” Jerome said.  “I see my wife and she is with a copy of me, but this one likes gambling and eating out on a regular basis.  I see my mother, and there is a much younger version of me, singing and dancing around with Robert Preston.”  Jerome looked at the unchanged expression of Peter.  “He was an actor during the 1940s,” Jerome said.  “Played in westerns and war films, and did the Broadway prod . . . “

“I.  Know.  Who.  He.  Is,” Peter said, strain leaking into his voice.

“Oh,” Jerome replied.  “And when I went to see my father, there was another me, but this one was a massive sports fan.  And I haven’t even looked up my old buddies yet!”  Jerome wiped a sheen of perspiration from his face.  “I mean, is there going to be more of me!  How am I supposed to deal with that?!?!”

Peter returned his crooked leg to the floor and sat forward.  The finger on his free hand touched the base of the telephone on the corner of the desk.

“Marge?” he said.

“Yes, Sir?” came a decidedly bored and nasal voice.

“Could you send in Phil Dibble?” Peter asked.

There was a pause.  “Are you sure, Sir?” Marge asked.

(twitch  – twitch – twitch - squeeze)  “Yes, please,” Peter replied.

“Your funeral,” she muttered.  There was another pause.  “I just filled the mini-fridge an assortment of libations and there is a fresh bottle of aspirin in the top drawer,” Marge said.

“Thank you, Marge,” Peter said.

Peter looked around the office and Jerome’s eyes followed his. 

At once, framed pictures were crooked, books on the shelves were removed and laid vertically on top of the rack, small potted plants shifted on their stands, and neat stacks of papers on Peter’s desk lifted and dropped.

The intercom buzzed.

“Mr. Dibble is here, Sir,” Marge said.

Peter sighed.  And twitched.  And squeezed the white ball.  “Send him in, please,” he said.

Peter stared at the closed door.  Jerome stared at it as well.

The door remained closed.

Jerome could feel the mounting tension in the room.

Peter squeezed and twitched.

His hand went to the intercom.

“Marge?” he said.  “Please send Mr. Dibble in.”

“He’s  . . . adjusting my files, Sir,” Marge replied in a flat tone.

“Mr. Dibble,” Peter said, leaning closer to the microphone on the intercom.  “Please come in.  Now.”

“I’ll be just a moment, Sir,” said a voice from the outer office.  “I would talk to Marge about her filing methods, Sir.  You should see the literal chaos that’s out . . . “

“MR. DIBBLE, WILL YOU PLEASE COME IN?!?!” Peter said.  He adjusted his jacket, smoothed back his hair, and resumed the relaxed tilted back, cross-legged position in his seat.

(squeeze – twitch - twitch – twitch - squeeze)

The door opened and a small thin man walked in.  He was incredibly clean-shaven and his hair was very neat and trimmed.  He wore brown horn-rimmed glasses, a brown suit, brown shoes, and a brown tie over a starched white shirt.

And in the chest pocket of the suit was a pocket protector, filled with pencils that seemed to be the same size.  Even the erasers were worn in the same areas.

“Yes, Sir?” Dibble said.  “You . . . called . . . Sir?” he said, his voice drifting off as his eyes went around the office.

Jerome watched the man named Dibble quiver in place at the disorder of the office.  He glanced over to Peter, who was still twitching and squeezing the small white ball; the man’s eyes focused on a spot in front of him Jerome couldn’t see.  Regardless of his relaxed demeanor, the look in Peter’s eyes reminded Jerome of a rabbit saucer-eyed and staring down an oncoming tractor trailer.

Carrying nitroglycerine.

Jerome turned back to Dibble just as the man moved like a DVD played on fast-forward.  He zipped around the office, straightening pictures, adjusting plants, putting the papers on Peter’s desk in order and not only replacing the askew books, but putting all the books on the shelves by category and in alphabetical order. 

Dibble returned to his original spot and smoothed down his still neat hair.  He glanced down at the pocket protector and adjusted a pencil that had shifted a sixteenth of an inch.

“Yes, Sir,” he said.  “You asked me to come in?”

Peter cleared his throat.  (squeeze – squeeze -  twitch - squeeze)  “How is everything going in research, Mr. Dibble?” he asked with a frozen smile.

Dibble opened his mouth, but Peter cut him off by swiftly leaving his seat, placing a hand on the smaller man’s shoulder and leading him to the door.

“Glad to hear it!” he said as the door opened on its own.  “You must keep me posted on any changes.  Goodbye!”

The door closed on Phil Dibble’s confused face.

Peter went to the mini-fridge and took out two handfuls of nip bottles and brought them to his desk.  A large crystal goblet appeared in the center of the desk and Peter proceeded to open each bottle and pour them in the glass.

Bourbon, scotch, vodka, gin, vermouth, brandy, rum, tequila, and one with the label Romulan Ale, all went into the goblet. 

“Uh, . . . “ began Jerome.

Peter’s index finger shot up, silencing Jerome.  He took his finger and stirred the concoction.  He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a bottle of aspirin.  He flipped the top off with his thumbnail and emptied about half of the bottle’s contents into his mouth.  He then lifted the glass and drained it in one swallow.  The crystal goblet vanished before he could place it on the desk.  Peter smiled to himself and sat back in the seat, crossed his legs and picked up the squeeze ball again.

(squeeze – squeeze -  twitch - squeeze)

“Mr. Dibble, as you probably guessed, has OCD,” said Peter.

“I sort of figured that part out,” replied Jerome.

“To say his condition is noticeable is an understatement,” Peter said mostly to himself.  “And it is Mr. Dibble that brings us to this moment.”

Jerome frowned.  “How?’ he asked.

“Let’s just say that it is because of Mr. Dibble you are seeing duplicates of yourself.”

Jerome stared at Peter for several silent seconds, trying to digest his statement. 

Unsuccessfully.

“I don’t understand,” said Jerome.  “How is Mr. Dibble involved?”

(squeeze -  squeeze -  squeeze)  “Would you agree that Phil Dibble is a unique individual?” asked Peter.

“To say the least,” muttered Jerome.

“As are souls,” said Peter.  He uncrossed his foot and scooted forward in his chair, locking eyes with Jerome.  “For as long as time Heaven has been just that; Heaven.  A place of peace, joy, and contentment.  A place where a soul will never need or want.  Perfection.”  Peter’s face clouded over and he sat back in his chair.  “Then Phil Dibble died and came here,” he said darkly.  (squeeze – squeeze -  twitch – twitch - squeeze)

Jerome glanced out the picture window and saw storm clouds rolling towards the building.  He was about to question them but caught the tight expression in Peter’s eyes and said nothing.

“When Mr. Dibble arrived,” said Peter, “He questioned everything!  Why the grass was not all the same height.  Why the clouds weren’t in a more uniformed shape.  (squeeze – squeeze -  twitch – twitch – twitch - squeeze)  And . . . peas,” he said in a harsh whisper.

“ . . . peas?” repeated Jerome.

“Yes, peas,” said Peter, the twitch under his left eye now doing the Tarantella.  “Dibble once opened a can of medium canned peas and showed me each pea.  Each.  And every.  Pea!”

“Why would he do that?” asked Jerome.

“BECAUSE THEY WEREN’T ALL MEDIUM SIZED PEAS!” he yelled cracking the small white ball in his hand at the same time a massive clap of thunder roared outside.  Peter closed his eyes and forcibly opened his hand.  The pieces fell out to the floor and a new white ball took its place.  (squeeze – squeeze -  squeeze - twitch – twitch – twitch - squeeze)  “He was proving a point to me,” Peter said after several deep inhalations.  “That perfection is in the eye of the beholder.”

“But what does that have to do with me?” asked Jerome.

“That souls, like Mr. Dibble, are individuals,” Peter replied.  “That Heaven cannot be generic and still be Heaven.  It must conform to the needs of the individual.  That is why, in Phil Dibble’s Heaven, everyone he knows and has associated with has the utmost respect for order.”

Jerome nodded.  “Meaning that while my Heaven is having my family around, hanging out at home, going out once in a while,” Jerome said, “My wife’s Heaven is being with me, going to casinos and eating out on a regular basis.  And my mother’s is show business oriented and my father’s sports related.”

“Exactly!” exclaimed Peter.  “And because you have influenced and been part of so many lives, there will be Jerome Henry Tuesday crossovers in different parts of Heaven, fitting the needs of that particular soul.”

 A thought passed through Jerome’s mind.  “So until Phil Dibble arrived, Heaven was more . . . generic?” he asked.

“In many ways,” replied Peter, “Yes.”

“But no one else complained?” asked Jerome.

“Say you complain to me that things are not to your expectations, and I tell you that there was nothing I could do about it,” said Peter.  “You know that the only other . . . person you can talk to is the one on the . . . top floor.  Do you want to take the chance that your complaint might result in a . . . transfer?” he asked.

“Oh,” Jerome said softly.

“Here the term God-fearing has a very literal meaning,” Peter said smiling darkly.

“So I guess filing for divorce because my wife was unfaithful is out?” Jerome grinned.

“Let’s just say that the few lawyers we have here would have a field day,” smiled Peter.  “So?” he asked.  “Are you satisfied?”

Jerome nodded and stood.  Peter placed the white ball on his desk and walked around it to where Jerome stood.  He placed a warm hand on his shoulder and walked him across the room.  The room faded away and was replaced by the green field in front of his home.

“Thank you,” Jerome said holding out his hand.

Peter took Jerome’s hand and shook it.  He raised his arched eyebrow.  “For what, Jerome?” he asked.

“For everything,” Jerome replied.  “For helping me to understand, for one,” he added.

Peter smiled.  “All part of the job,” he replied.  “Remember, if you need me, I am only a speed-dial away.”

The well dressed man turned and walked through the field, slowly disappearing with every step.

Jerome watched him go, then turned and walked up the steps to his house.  When he opened the door, he could hear the steady tick tock, tick tock from the clock under peals of joyous laughter coming from inside.  He walked into the house, through the wide foyer and into the living room. 

Seated on the large comfy couch was Annie and Danielle sharing a bowl of popcorn with his mother and father.  They were in their mid-40s and dressed in very casual clothes.  His mother was not wearing the expensive gown, nor was his father dressed in slacks, dress shirt and vest, and neither wore jeans, sports jerseys, caps and bandanas.

They were the parents he knew; the family he knew would be here in his slice of Heaven.

“Hey everyone!” he called.  “I’m home!”

 

Reviews

[Elana Juli Royson]

Good write. I have read many poems books and stories about the after life but this is by far the most creative one I have read so far. It is intersesting to see how people view themselves and whow they wish to view themselves differently. I liked how in your heaven this was expressed as was the perfect life. This was a very good read and very enjoyable. Kudos for this write. Keep writing!

[electricsatori]

Decent story, but not right for my contest.
Besides that, I think biblical (western) myths are more than played out.

[Starting Over]

It was great! It made me cry! i lvoed this and it made me think of that book The Five People You Meet In Heaven! I loved this a lot! Thanks for entering it into my contest!