The Dream

I died. Yes, dead, kaput, mort, no longer among us, pushing up daisies, pennies on the eyelids - dead. What the heck had happened? One minute I was here, the next I’m standing in front of the Pearly Gates waiting for them to open. Dead? How can this be. I was in relatively good shape. Sure, I didn’t exercise on any regular basis, unless you count rushing around the house looking for the tv remote, or bending over to see what was in the refrigerator. And my diet did include fruits - that is if strawberry ice cream counts as a serving of fruit - and pizza with mushrooms and olives should be counted as vegetables. I was going to do something about my cholesterol just as soon as it hit four hundred. I figured I had a few weeks to go before that milestone. But, here I was, dead.

I stood at the Gates wondering what I was supposed to do next. I didn’t see any bell to ring or any other way to alert them, whoever they were, that I had arrived. Surely, they would have some high tech advanced warning system to alert them to the fact a new arrival was waiting to get in.

I examined the gates and walls more thoroughly. The gates, tall elaborate patterns of gold bars, interlaced into intricate shapes, were tightly closed. The walls, approximately twelve feet high, appeared to be made of solid gold. Everything was polished to a high sheen, reflecting the light to the extent that it was almost painful to look at them. I wedged my face between the bars of the gate trying to see if anyone was close that I could ask for help. There wasn’t anyone to be seen. I extracted my face, sat next to the wall to the right of the gates, and waited.

"Hey, buddy, you can’t sleep there."

"What?" I answered, jumping up. "Who said that?"

"You can’t sleep there," a man standing at the gate said.

"I wasn’t sleeping. I was just waiting for someone to come and let me in," I stated, trying to explain myself and why I was there. Where had this guy come from? "Are you St. Peter?" I asked, excited to be meeting one of the original Apostles.

"No, he is on vacation. My name is Al," he explained.

Vacation? I wondered where one living in Heaven would go for a vacation. I decided not to ask.
"Al? I was expecting St. Peter."

"I know, I get that a lot," he said, looking through some sheets on a clip board. "What can I do for you?"

The question set me back. "I guess you could let me in," I suggested.

He glanced through the sheets again. "Nope, I don’t see you here," he eventually said. "Sorry."

"What! How can that be?"

"You’re not on the list. Sorry." He turned to leave.

"Wait," I yelled. "There has to be a mistake."

He turned and looked at me for a moment. He leafed through the papers on his clip board again. "Nope, no mistake," he declared.

"No, now wait a minute......Al....do you mean....I’m supposed to be.....down there....?" I said, pointing down. That can’t be.....can it? I mean, I’ve tried to be good.....most of my life, mostly, kinda....you know, there were those few times when......well, eh......alright, maybe more than a few times, but I wouldn’t think that would be enough to keep me from getting in.....would it?" I was stammering, trying to think of anything to persuade Al to reconsider. I was becoming frantic.

"Apparently," was all he said.

"No, wait, listen. I’m sure there is something we can work out. Surely, there must be something."

"There is nothing. And don’t call me Shirley." He turned to leave again.

"No, wait! I want to see your supervisor." I demanded.

Al turned to face me. "My supervisor?"

"Yes, your supervisor. I want to talk to him." I tried to sound as if I carried some weight. I wanted to let him know he couldn’t push me around.

Al walked back to me. He put his hand on my shoulder as if he were a grandfather giving his grandson some sage advise.

"He rarely makes appearances outside these walls and since you aren’t coming in, you can’t see Him," Al explained. So much for having any pull here.

"Your supervisor is....Him?" I asked, incredulously.

"Yes, now go on about your business."

"Wait, I have no idea what my business is now. And I don’t know how to get to.....well, you know,....heck,"I said, not wanting to say the real word while standing so close to heaven. Besides, I didn’t want to hurt any chances of some sort of clemency.

"Sorry, I can’t help you," Al said. "That’s not my department. I’m in charge of the gate and letting people in."

"So, who do I talk to about getting.....there?"

"I think that is....oh let’s see.......is it Bob?" Al answered looking at me as if I was going to affirm his answer.

We both stood staring at each other while Al rummaged through his brain. At some length, the various brain cells came to a consensus.

"Yes, Bob is in charge of that department," Al finally declared.
"Then can I speak to Bob?"

"He’s inside and......"

"I can’t come in," I finished for him, shaking my head in agreement. "I know. So, how do I see Bob?"

Al seemed stumped by that question. I was beginning to think that Al must have worked for the government at some point in his life and his bureaucratic thought process had hung over to the hereafter.

"Did you work for the government on earth, Al?"

"No," Al answered, " I drove a cab in the Bronx."

"Well, Al, maybe you can summon Bob to come down to the gate here and give me some advice. What do you think?" I suggested.

"Wait here," Al instructed.

I turned to return to my spot next to the gate thinking I’d be waiting awhile, when Al spoke.
"This is Bob," he said.

It hadn’t been but a second and here they both stood. Apparently, things moved fast in heaven.
Bob, thinner and taller than Al, stood at Al’s left side. He too had a clip board. He spoke. "What can I do for you?"

"Al tells me I can’t come in, so, I need to know how to get to....the other place."

Bob shuffled through the papers on his clip board. "I don’t see you here," he said.

"What!" I exclaimed. "If I’m not supposed to be in Heaven and I’m not on your list for the other place....where in the he.....heck am I supposed to be?" I yelled, almost forgetting to be on my best behavior.

"That’s just it," Bob replied, "Your not supposed to be at either place. If you’re not on either list, then you aren’t supposed to be dead yet." He looked at me as if that settled the issue.

"But, here I stand," I said reminding him of the problem we were trying to solve.
He shuffled through his papers once again, studying one in particular. "Ah, here it is," he said reading it to himself.

"What?" I asked.

He read to himself a bit more. "It says here that you weren’t supposed to die until your cholesterol hit four hundred. You have a few weeks left." he said, smiling. "Just a minor snafu. Here, I’ll give you a pass back and we’ll see you in a few weeks.....unless you make some changes. There, all’s well that ends well, eh?." Bob was quite pleased with himself for finding the answer. It was a bit disconcerting the cavalier attitude Bob and Al had toward my demise, or my pending demise. Either way, they didn’t seem to broken up or concerned that I was dead or about to be. I was about to offer my observations on that subject when Bob wrote something on a piece of paper on his clip board and stepped toward me.

He handed me a piece of paper and as soon as I touched it, I was back in bed, awake, staring at the ceiling. I sat up and looked around. It was a dream, but it seemed so real. But, how could it have been? Was it real? Was it a dream or a near death experience?
What ever it was, it got me to thinking. Maybe I’d better start exercising and watching what I eat, besides just watching it all the way to my mouth. I think I’ll start next week.