Jesse was beyond confused.

One minute hed been jogging through Griffith Park, enjoying the kind of beautiful spring day that Los Angeles was famous for, the next minute he found himself sitting in some kind of large, half-filled waiting room. What the hell is going on? he thought. Where the hell am I? He quickly looked around the room -it was about a hundred feet long, with two long rows of identical hard plastic chairs running down the length of each wall- and then down at himself. He was still wearing his usual jogging attire- shorts that had been made from cutting the legs off of some old gray sweatpants, a dark blue T-shirt, white ankle socks and Adidas running shoes. His iPod was still strapped to his arm, but it didnt seem to be working properly. He looked around again- more carefully, this time- for an exit. There were two doors on either side of a bank teller-style window at the far end of the room. Neither door had a handle, and there was no-one behind the window. Jesse started to stand up when one of the doors opened and a harried-looking man in a white robe rushed in. He was carrying some kind of tube thing in his hands, and he had a long white beard. He was wearing sandals, and Jesse was just starting to figure out what the man was holding (Is that really a scroll?), when the old man stopped abruptly and began to address the room in a loud voice. Alright everybody, listen up. We have a lot of ground to cover- I know you have lots of questions and well get to them in just a minute- but first, I need to check everybodys name off here. When I call your name, please raise your hand. The old man held up the scroll and called out about fifty names-everyone was present and accounted for- and then instructed them all to go through the door on the right-hand side of the window. What is this place? a guy a few seats away from Jesse called out, as everyone shuffled to their feet. The old man looked at the guy and smiled wearily. This is Heaven, my friend, he said. The guy in the chair blanched. Bullshit, he said, with a thick accent that screamed Brooklyn from a mile away. This aint no Heaven, mister. This looks more like the fuckin DMV if you was to ask me. The old man gave a long-suffering sigh and rolled his eyes. Dont I know it. he moaned. We couldnt keep doing the Pearly Gates thing, though. You cant keep people out with gates made of pearl. You need iron (and you better believe I told Him so), but He said No, iron just wouldnt lookyou knowheavenly, but then Vesuvius erupted and the citizens of Pompeii were so panicked when they got here, and they justwell, you know

Anyway, as we kept getting busier and busier this really became our best way of dealing with the constant inflow. The gates were okay back when Christianity was new-wed only get somebody once every few weeks, until around the First Jewish Revolt in 66 A.D. We started to get really busy after that, and its only gotten busier. Youre all pretty lucky, this has been a relatively slow day. Someone else: Are you Saint Peter? The old man beamed, and sketched a neat little bow. At your service--the one and the same. Now, welcome to Heaven, folks, and right this way, please As everyone filed through the door they found themselves in a long, windowless hallway, lit by fluorescent overhead lights. There were several doors along the right-hand side of the hallway-some had little signs, like one that said AUTHORIZED ANGEL-NEL ONLY and another that said PURGATORY- and St Peter stopped in front of one of the doors. It had a sign that said simply PARADISE. Alright, all my Muslim passengers, this way to paradise. The door opened, revealing a very tall, very large man in a turban. He was smiling broadly. Welcome, my friends! he boomed in a sonorous voice at the twenty or so people that were approaching the door. Please, come in, welcome friends! Very good, right this way! Lets get you all settled in Okay, and moving right along people, lets go, weve got a deadline here, St Peter called out as the last of the Muslim folks entered PARADISE. The rest of the group began walking down the hall-now about thirty of them- before St Peter stopped at another door. This one had no sign. He turned to the group. Before we go any further, do any of you wish to go back? Everyone in the group looked at each other in surprise. Go back? Back to where, the waiting room? No, said St Peter, with the air of one who had gone through this routine a million (if not more) times. I mean back to Earth; back to good ol terra firma. You wont remember anything, of course, except some lights and tunnels and stuff. Everyone will say you had a neardeath experience. They just wont know that you had a full-on death experience, but since you wont remember anyway it really doesnt matter. So any takers? Everyone on the group looked around again, and again there were some mumbled discussions, before a tall man in a John Deere mesh hat slowly raised his hand. Id like to go back, if I could, he drawled.

If thats what you want, absolutely, said St Peter, and the door swung open; the room on the other side was as dark as a tomb. Hank Tanner, right? he asked the man in the ball cap. Yes-sir, he said. Long-haul driver, right? Tanner nodded his head and stepped toward the open doorway. St Peter put his hand on Tanners arm, stopping him momentarily. In a quiet, urgent voice he told him, Right now the doctors are working on a Hank Tanner that has third degree burns over his entire body, from where his rig rolled down a mountain in Utah and burst into flames. If you go back, you go back to a lifetime of pain and agony. We cant fix that, and we cant change it, but we can give you the choice and let you know what youre walking into. Hank Tanner nodded his head, even though he seemed to be busy studying his shoes. Finally, he took a deep, ragged breath and turned away from the door. He kept his head down, but everyone could see the tears running down his face. St Peter looked at the crowd. Anyone else? he asked. A middle-aged woman in a red pantsuit raised her hand. Sharon Fortunata, right? She nodded her head and took a tentative step toward the door. She hesitatedthen looked over at St Peter. I want to see my kids again, she said. Sharon, your kids were on the same cruise ship you were on, the only difference is that the navy found your body. If you go back, youll bury empty caskets for each one of your kids, and youll never be able to forgive yourself for it. Sharon wasnt listening, though. Her hands were clamped over her mouth, and her eyes were wide. A high, thin sob escaped her. My children, she gasped. Your children are fine, said St Peter, although not unkindly. Youll see them soonvery soon- children dont take as long to process-in when they get here. Aright, times up. Lets go people, right this way. Brooklyn spoke up this time. Yo, where we goin? St Peter flashed a huge grin. Why, to meet the Man, of course. To stand before God... Hey-hey!! Thats what Im talking about!! exclaimed Brooklyn, and the rest of the group twittered in affirmation and approval. and be judged for your sins. St Peter finished, still grinning.

The group let out a collective gasp of horrified dismay that would have been comical under any other circumstance. What? Dont act all put-out. The whole standing-before-God-in-judgement deal was humanitys dumb idea to begin with. You know what God originally wanted? He wanted it to be like a trip to Hawaii- a nice cool drink, with one of those little umbrellas in it, when you arrive, a lei draped around your neck by a pretty little hula dancer in a grass-skirt, and then later on wed have a nice pig roast. But you know what? You people ruined that idea. I mean, we cant even do the pig roast without making the Jews feel left out (and who ever heard of a nice kosher luau?), so now its all fire and brimstone and judgement. No one spoke. This is your Heaven-this is what youve preached about, fought wars about, and destroyed lives about for two thousand years now, so dont get all bent out of shape at me about the day of judgement now that its your turn. Capice? Everyone nodded, suitably cowed by St Peters sudden outburst. He turned around and stalked toward the door at the end of the hall. After a few steps he stopped and looked back. The group was still standing where hed left them. Come on, come on. Its really not that bad, he said. Hes mellowed out a lot, over the years. As they walked down the hall, St Peter explained: Back in the old days, God answered every prayer. Only there got to be too many prayers, taking up too much of Gods time, and he started to get really stressed out. And when God gets stressed out, St Peter said, He gets really crazy. Like so crazy that He finally snapped and sent a great big flood to wipe out mankind so that He could have a little peace and quiet, and maybe even finish writing His novel. The flood failed, though, so God decided to out-source the prayer-requests. St Peter was explaining about the prayer center where the angels now received and answered prayers every day. Every prayer gets answered, but over the last fifteen-hundred years or so weve had to send our prayer surplus to purgatory. The only problem is that the folks in purgatory really dont care one way or the other (thats kind of what got em into purgatory to begin with), so weve had some pretty questionable prayers answered over the years. Oh!-which reminds me: sorry about both Stevie Ray Vaughan and Phil Hartman. Everyone looked at each other, unsure how to respond. Anyway, staffing the prayer center will be your chief duties

Hold on, Jesse broke in. You mean to tell me that Heaven is an eternity working in a call center? Its a prayer center, not a call center, thank you, and its only for a century or two at a time. Besides, its not that bad. You hear a lot of orgasms, so it can be pretty amusing. Jesse cocked an eyebrow. I bet, he thought, as a couple of people chuckled, but he wasnt one hundred percent convinced. That doesnt sound like Heaven. That sounds more like Hell, if you ask me, quipped Brooklyn. Nope, said St Peter, Ill tell you what Hell sounds like: the more talented half of both Lynyrd Skynyrd and The Beatles, backing up Janis Joplin. Oh! -and they have free beer and all the drugs you want. You just have to deal with all the politicians and televangelists. God really doesnt like televangelists. When they reached the big door at the end of the hall St Peter informed them that this was as far as he was going. A suicide bomber had blown himself up in a park in Tel Aviv, so he had some VIPs that were arriving any minute now. They were to wait outside the door until Gabriel came to get them. As soon as he finished this speech and headed back down the hall in the direction that they had just come from, the door opened and Gabriel stuck his head out. Hell-oo yall! he said. Just sit tight a few minutes, and well be able to get started. Will we get to meet Jesus? someone -Jesse wasnt sure who -asked. Gabriel threw his head back and laughed. Puh-lease! Maybe if your government at this he looked right at Jesse -would ever let Him out of Guantanamo Bay. Everyone in the group gasped, shocked. Jesus in Gitmo? How in the world could Oh sure, He went to New York right after 9/11 to do His usual gig, you know, healing the sick, raising the dead, and anyway, the Feds stopped Him right near Ground Zero. Remember, Hes from the Middle East, walking around New York City with no ID, no passport, no visa, and saying hes Jesus Christ. What do you think the Feds did with Him? Oh, sorry to bother you Lord? Right. Theyve got Him on a bread and water diet -which sounds a lot worse to you and I than it really is for Him. Remember, bread and water in Jesus hands can be mahimahi and a nice wine all day long. Anyway, I think hes been enjoying being off the radar for the last couple of years. This is unreal, Jesse thought, as he sat down with his back against the wall, stretched his legs out in front of him and waited. And waited.