Loophole to Heaven

Loophole to Heaven

I’ve often wondered about the reunion at The Pearly Gates. Are loved ones there upon your arrival to greet you, or do you have to wait around for them? Perhaps it’s like the airport where a guy is holding up a tattered sign displaying your name written with a Sharpie.

What if no one shows up for you? While couples run to each other in slow motion, do you stand by and watch? You could take out your phone and idly scroll, pretending not to notice. Worse yet, what if your loved ones are actually terrible people? Are you stuck with them for eternity?

According to commandment number five, you have to honor your father and mother. Interestingly enough, there is no mention of love, which is the loophole that gives me hope. I am not a good daughter and can honestly say that I do not love my father. I would like to get into heaven, so I honor him with visits. I check for abuse by his home health aides, schedule doctor appointments, and make sure there are enough adult size diapers stacked in the corner. That is how I honor my father. To be fair, someone has to do it.

Will I spend eternity with him? If so, what makes heaven different than its alternative? Not saying that being with my father is exactly like being in hell, but it’s no picnic.

~

I picked up my drink and absentmindedly stared into the glass, keenly aware of the pendulum swinging behind me. Whose fucking idea was it to hang that clock in my office? I am a responsible person. I know my deadlines. I may hit upload at 11:59, but my weekly article has always been published by midnight. Without exception.

Looking back at my open word document, I reviewed the ramblings of my potentially lonely afterlife. I tossed back the last gulp of Jack and 7 and kept typing, despite my unfinished article and rapidly approaching deadline. I’ll get to you, don’t worry, I reassured the tab waiting for attention at the bottom of my screen. I had been to San Antonio enough times to write about it in my sleep. I just had to check it one last time for pesky commas, whose sole purpose was to threaten my sanity.

~

Let’s face it. He’s the bad guy. He’s the one that mothers usher their children away from with a cheery “come on, kids, it’s time to go,” when feeling his unwanted gaze. His vibe was so subtle, it could have been imagined. His smile makes you question yourself as you smile back, holding the children tightly just to be on the safe side. The slight brush of his hand on your thigh as he walks past confirms your initial reaction.

Did my mother know about his wandering eye and nimble fingers? My memory of her was vague, a nervous shape flittering around the house with drink in hand. I don’t expect to see her at The Pearly Gates, but I can’t be certain. Her presence or absence will finally answer my haunting question. Did she drink herself to death on purpose? If she is there, and I can picture her waving to me with drink in hand, then her death was a tragic end to a sad life. If she’s absent, then I’m sorry to say she made her bed. Suicide is no solution, Mother Dear.

Would I be the crying child wandering around the department store looking for someone to claim me? “What’s your name, hun?” The angel looks at me with concern. They page the missing mother, giving her a pass on eternal damnation due to extenuating circumstances. She, like me, found a loophole to enter heaven.

~

I was on a wild tangent, I thought, getting up to stretch. I desperately needed to get some sleep before another long day with Daddy Dumbass. I had promised myself that I would not visit him hungover again. Seeing him in his wheelchair took everything out of me, and I needed to have my wits about me. And that aide, she was judge and jury all in one, shouting ‘guilty’ at me telepathically. I may be a bad daughter, but she had no idea what the kindly old gentleman was like before he had his stroke.

Nothing personal, 7 Up, but my friend Jack Daniels doesn’t need a sidekick tonight. I brought the bottle up to my lips and drank it straight, grimacing as it went down the hatch. I was on a roll of creativity; nothing was going to stop me now. My therapist would be proud. “Journal,” she had said, “you might feel better.” Suddenly I saw her point. As the words spilled out of my soul and onto the screen, I did indeed feel better.

~

Seeing you old and feeble doesn’t make me love you, but it does make me feel something. Perhaps the emotion is simple pity, but there is a sense of satisfaction mixed in when the demons play with me. Sorry, not sorry, to see you at the mercy of others. As fate would have it, I am responsible for your well-being in this strange end-of-life twist.

~

The clock struck twelve, pulling me out of my rabbit hole that started at heaven’s gate and ended in the pits of hell. That’s quite dramatic, I thought, feeling pleased with myself. I would have to remember that line. Opening yet another word document, I quickly typed the words before they slipped away to the land of drunken gems.

Glancing at the swinging pendulum, I was grateful that the clock was set five minutes ahead. I still had time to edit my piece and upload it. I had lost all interest in the current work assignment but desperately needed the cash. Daddy Asswad’s care was expensive, and he held his wad of cash tightly. Another good line. I laughed at my own genius, while typing it onto my list of lines I hoped to use someday.

One more shot of Jack while I reluctantly scanned my article about the sights and sounds of the Riverwalk. It was well written, but nothing special. Next week, I promised myself, I would write something special. Put that spark back into my work. Keep the readers wanting more. No more of this last minute publishing bullshit. I glanced at the clock; my five minute window was closing. Holding my laptop precariously, I relocated from the recliner to my desk in a last ditch effort to get down to business.

“Come on, old girl, pull out all the stops.” I sat up straight and rearranged words here and there on the blurry screen. “That’s better.” I tried to convince myself that the edits moved the story forward, but I knew the words still fell flat. My bland description of the vibrant San Antonio Riverwalk was not worthy of bringing in more paid subscribers. The words were there, but the emotion was lacking, and I couldn’t infuse it with something I could not find.

Three unnamed document tabs lined the bottom of the screen. The swinging pendulum told me to hurry up and get my shit together. I saved my work article as “Publish”, my journal entry as “Ponder” and last but not least, my one-liner list as “Promise”.

Desperate to beat the clock, I logged into the magazine’s portal and hit upload. My blurry list of documents appeared, and with a shaky hand I chose “Publish”. Or so I thought.

~

I would say that I’m sorry for my words, but I’m not. I would say that I’m sorry for uploading the wrong document, but I’m not. It was those words, those hurtful emotions tumbling out of the bottle, that set me free. The surge in paid subscribers after publication was the icing on the cake, I thought, smiling into my drink. The pendulum swung gently in my peripheral vision as midnight approached. I uploaded my article, pleased that my spark was back. “The Tale of The Riverwalk” was perhaps my best piece yet.