John Goes to Heaven

John made it to the pearly gates with a Marlboro sticking out of his mouth. When he got to the top of the escalator he cupped the tip of the cigarette in his hands, lighting it with a paper match. He stuffed the pack of Reds—his favorite for the past thirty years—into his breast pocket, and approached the golden gate leisurely. He looked up and noticed the curious words Atman is Ramen spray-painted along the top.

Ramen, he thought. It was basically just cardboard all along…

Saint Peter stood there, in front of the entrance, flipping through the Book of Life, with his other hand adjusting his wraparound sunglasses. The Apostle stood thirty feet tall behind a podium of gilt marble, wearing a red-trimmed tunic and over it a flowing toga. He wrinkled his nose and coughed as the smoke from John’s cigarette wafted up to his face. Peter bent over the podium and looked down.

“Oh. Hello there!” he boomed.

“Hey. How are ya?” John replied.

“Yes, welcome! You’ve arrived!”

“Seems so,” John admitted, taking another drag, mildly annoyed that his question went unanswered.

“What is your name?” asked Peter.

“John,” said John.

“Ah, yes, John! We’ve been expecting you, John. Now, let me see…” Peter ran through the thousand pages of the book, tracking the name with the end of his forefinger. “Yes, yes… John!” he exclaimed. “You’re right here.”

“Yeah?” asked John.

“Yes. John. The one and only.”

“Yeah?” John was perplexed.

“Yeah.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Well,” said John, “It’s good to be here.”

The man grinned and scratched his head. He thought it peculiar that an ancient and clearly very powerful being, and one so close to the Good Lord, would make the mistake of singling him out—the one and only?—especially since his name was probably the most generic phrase in the English language.

“Oh, but, my…” Peter mumbled, visibly worried.

“What’s the matter?”

“Well,” said Peter, “Oh. Well, it says here that you died of throat cancer.”

“It wasn’t too fun.”

“You smoked for forty-five years.”

“Yes. It was a real hoot while it lasted.”

“Curious...”

“What of it?” asked John.

“No,” said Peter. “That’s not my point, anyway. But, but John…” he continued, “it says here that you didn’t believe in God.”

“Nope,” replied John. “To be honest, I’m really surprised about all of this.”

“Well, you were apparently raised in the faith. And, as the Book says, disbelievers are not permitted into paradise.”

John’s expression changed from one of indifference to confusion. His gaze darted until it met the cigarette nestled between his fingers, smoldering by his hip.

“But I bummed a lot of smokes!” John exclaimed.

“You did read the Bible, didn’t you?”

“God,” John continued, ignoring Peter’s question. He scratched his chin, looking off into the distance, “must’ve—”

“Please... do not use the Lord’s name in vain.” Peter interrupted.

John remembered where he was, and in that context how elementary his mistake had been, and so cursed himself under his breath.

“Yeah,” John said, waving his hand, pretending to be cavalier. “Anyway, I must’ve shelled out thousands on those smokes. Must’ve given out a million of ‘em.”

“Yes. But—”

“Hey!” John interrupted. “Generosity is a thing, isn’t it? Some of those people were dying for a break. End of shift, lunch break, classes out… I was always fuckin’ there! Me.” John beat his breast, now visibly upset.

“Do not use foul language, sir!” cried the Apostle.

“Foul language? What kind of patsy are you? Doesn’t your God incinerate kids?”

“These gates are not far from the throne of the Almighty!” Peter said, ignoring the man. He pointed backward, at the portal. “Such a disturbance is unwelcome and, indeed, sinful!” Now frustrated with the newcomer, Peter removed his wraparound sunglasses to reveal eyes pearly white, glowing with a sacred power. He then gestured to a sign behind John, one which the mortal had apparently missed after hitting the crest of the elevator, to the left of which it hung from some invisible membrane. Scrawled on it, in dry-erase marker, was a list:


THINGS TO KEEP IN MIND:

1. NO SHIRT, NO SHOES, NO PROBLEM. *

2. COMPLIMENTARY BUMPER STICKER “THIS CAR CLIMBED JACOB’S LADDER” FOR AUTOMOBILE ACCIDENT DEATHS.

3. NO SWEARING, EXCEPT AT OPEN MIC NIGHT. **

         * “Come as you are…” Nude deaths/bathtub suicides provided free “Eden-style” collector’s loincloth/fancy grape leaf and tree-branch pasties.

         ** “Ass” permissible [for obvious reasons].


John took a final drag from his Marlboro and tossed the butt onto the transparent floor, held aloft by a thick layer of supernaturally-charged cirrus clouds. He stomped out the ember and kicked it off to the side, then proceeded to pick his nose.

“Hey. Now, you know I was there!” he went on, waving his finger at the saint. “Remember Tommy Canton?”

“Who?”

“Oh… you know. He lived uptown. He was a burnout, and a petty thief. Anyway, he could never afford smokes. He was always overdue with rent. So he used to take butts from off the ashtrays and roll ‘em up in bubblegum paper. I’d say, ‘Tommy, don’t worry about it. I’ve got a fresh one right here for you. No more snipes.’ I’d even light it for him.”

John looked up at Peter now, the both of them silent, the both of them staring into each other’s eyes, mortal and blessed dead.

“... Doesn’t that earn me something?” pleaded John. He balled up his fist and slapped his breast again, and he began to cough loudly.

“I’m afraid to say,” began the Apostle, “that atheism is grave matter here. To be sure, this was made plain to you. Did you expect a free ride?”

“I was busy,” said John. “Busy. Get it? What do I look like? A fuckin’ philosopher? I was a mechanic. I worked day in and day out paying for my ex wife. Who knew her habits? ” John waved his hand in the air, and continued. “Not to mention little Johnny. I put him through school... I mean, I came home with chemical burns on my hands. Grease and turpentine and all that. I’d go home, I’d take a shower, kill a six pack, and fall asleep on the couch. When was I supposed to think about religion?”

“It looks,” said Peter, “as if you didn’t once take the opportunity to enter a church. Not in thirty years.”

“I was living paycheck to paycheck. Is this some kind of goddamn Chick tract?”

“Please do not swear, sir!”

“I’ll swear up a fuckin’ storm, you massive son of a bitch.” John began to yell. “I… I want to speak to the manager!”

“I cannot do that.”

“Why the fuck not?”

“I cannot disturb the meditations of the Almighty! He sits atop the white throne, thronged with the hosts of Heaven, who praise him in an eternal choir! If I were to—”

“Oh, fuck you!” John interrupted. “I’ll get him myself. This is some bullshit.” He proceeded to the gate.

“No! Don’t! You can’t!” Peter cried, his voice echoing throughout the ethereal antechamber.

Suddenly, the gates burst open, a blinding light illuminating the space around them. John and Peter both shielded their eyes. Engulfed in the unyielding brightness, John discerned a faint, dark protrusion that grew larger as it approached him. He could make out a short, lanky man in board shorts and an Aloha shirt, wearing flip flops and a pair of aviators. He was visibly balding, and had a grayed soul patch.

“Johnny, baby!” cried the man, appearing from the light, a wide smile beaming from his face. He walked right up to John, his arms open, and embraced him. John gasped for air and keeled over as the little man gave him an unnaturally firm squeeze and then a rough pat on the back. “How’ve you been, sport?” asked the man.

“Who are you?” John asked in turn. “How do you know my name?” Over his shoulder he could see Peter staring at them with a look of both reverence and disapproval. He heard the soulful sounds of Toby Keith echoing from past the gate, through the great light and into the antechamber.

“Well, I’m God.”

“You? You’re God?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s fairly surprising.”

“I shave sometimes.”

“Great...”

“So what’s all the ruckus, anyway?” asked God, looking up to Peter, who immediately stood up and, with a reverent tone, said:

“Sir, it is on the day of the Last Judgment that this man perversely protests his damnation!”

“And why is that?” asked God, turning back to John. John was about to speak when God interrupted, saying, “wait, don’t tell me… you’re an atheist, aren’t you?”

“Well, yes,” said John. “I mean, I was... It’s not like I had any beef with religion. I just didn’t give a damn.”

“So it goes. Too bad my friend.”

“I can’t make an appeal?”

“Not really.”

“Fuck.”

God quickly changed the subject, unsympathetic toward the mortal and the fate of his eternal soul: “You know, it’s funny,” he said. “It’s funny how I knew that.”

“Knew what?” asked John.

“That you were an atheist.”

“You did?”

“Of course! I know everything. In fact, it’s fun telling people what they already know. Crazy, this omnipotence stuff. I don’t know where I get it from, I swear.”

“Well, I mean, considering the situation, couldn’t someone have guessed—”

“Nope.”

“What do you—”

“It’s not true.”

“But—”

“Heh. Are you really arguing with me right now? Look, if I’m not right—which I am, as I always am—I’ll reorder the laws of physics in my favor.”

“Ok then.”

“Yep. That’s a wrap.”

“Yeah.”

“So you’re going to hell, huh?”

“Yeah,” said John, hanging his head. “Looks to be so.”

“And you have earned it, too!” cried Peter from afar. “You have rejected the sacrifice our Lord made upon the cross, the grace of the Almighty, and the gift of the Holy Sp—”

“Hey, cut it out, will ya?” God interrupted. “I’m out here. I’ll do the talking.”

“Yes, sir,” replied Peter with a tone of indignation.

“So,” God began, “no luck kid. Sorry.”

“Well,” said John, “can I at least have one more cigarette before I go?”

“Sure thing. I’ll light it for ya.” God held out his index finger and a flame appeared from the tip. John pulled his Marlboros out from his breast pocket, revealing the bright red pack. He took two cigarettes, holding one while he placed the end of the other in his mouth.

“Would you like one?” he mumbled, looking to God.

“Oh, man, I—” God interrupted himself to bend forward, looking at the ruby red pack now hanging from John’s pocket. “Damn. Reds,” he said. “Really? Man, those are my favorite! Cliché, sure, but for a reason! I mean, I conjure ‘em up here but, still, receiving one from a mere mortal—not to mention a mechanic—is quite the treat. I will say…”

“What’s wrong with being a mechanic?”

“Oh, nothing. Just… forget I said anything. Alright?”

“Yeah.”

“Yep.”

John pursed his lips and waved the tip of his cigarette in front of God’s finger, puffing up an ember. He gave God the other one. God stuck it in his mouth and it lit immediately.

“Damn!” said God, exhaling a cloud of silver smoke. “It’s good to be God, you know? I mean, it gets lonely at the top, but I don’t have to worry about the emphysema… Hey, hey! You want one?” God called over to Peter.

“No thank you, sir. I don’t smoke.”

“Hey now! I’m the boss around here. If I say you smoke you better damn well start smokin’!”

“Yes, sir,” Peter whimpered.

“Go give my friend there a smoke,” God said, puffing away his own cigarette. John obliged, and walked over to the podium. Peter bent way down to take the tiny stick and some matches. He brought it to his lips, lit it, inhaled, and then began with a fit of coughing.

“Ah! Shut the fuck up!” God cried. “It ain’t that bad. You used to rip off the bong all the time. You can’t handle a little dart, can ya?”

“I’m sorry, sir,” said Peter, exasperated, his eyes tearing up.

“Don’t mind him,” said God, turning back to John. God looked down at his cigarette, and then back to the man, and then back to the cigarette again. He took another long drag. “Hey!” he exclaimed, “You know… this is pretty good!” He slapped John on the back with such unmitigated force that the cigarette flew from the man’s mouth and landed on the floor.

“You know what?” said God. “Why don’t you come on in?”

“What?!” cried Peter, turning his gaze to them. He had just put his sunglasses back on, and was adjusting the frames. “Sir,” he began, “you can’t seriously b—”

“Did I tell you to talk or to smoke!?” yelled God. Peter was silent. “Yes. I thought so.”

“Wait,” said John. “Really? I mean…”

“Yeah. No problem. That was awfully nice of you to part with those. You’re a good kid. Seriously.”

“I didn’t…”

“Ah, don’t worry.”

“But—”

“Hey!” exclaimed God, sticking his finger into John’s chest, beaming him a smile, “you keep asking questions and I might just change my mind!” God began to laugh, and John joined him with a kind of nervous, staccato chuckle. Peter looked at the two of them, stupefied, his mouth hanging a bit.

“Now how about we hit the road?” God asked, putting his arm around John.

The two walked side by side into the light, stinking, Stygian smoke fumigating the portal. As they passed the threshold the gate closed behind them, the soulful sounds of Toby Keith echoing through the antechamber.

The door shut closed and Peter laid his arms on the podium. He slumped over it, resting his head in his hands as he waited for the next visitor to arrive.

In the silence, he let out a cough.