Bruce Golden

He drifted out of Redemption Hall into the sublime sunshine and took a long last look at the heavy double doors closing behind him.  He felt like a new man, and, thanks to the divine guidance of the Holy Father’s 1,012-step plan, he was as new as a rosebud about to bloom on a spring day.  New as the first tinkling laugh of an infant.  New as the glossy coat on a freshly painted ’65 Mustang.  New as . . . well, you get the general idea.

Yesterday’s Jesse was gone, cleansed of his rancor, his negativity, his derision.  No more would he ride the storm of discontent.  He couldn’t wait to embrace the world–the warmth of its breezes, the music of its soul, the puppy-dog playfulness of its children.  He was also very hungry.

However, before he could decide if he finally wanted to try the Sacred Cow Buffet or just stick with the Celestial Cafeteria, his mentor approached.  He fought off his demon first impulse to think What now? and greeted her with spurious enthusiasm.

“Hello, Priscilla.”

“Good day, Jesse, and congratulations on your graduation.  I thought you might want to take advantage of your new A-3 status, and have a look through the Earthfinder.”

He’d always been curious about the Earthfinder, but hadn’t been permitted to use it.

He was anxious to find out what wonderful and glorious things mankind had been up to over the last few decades.

“Far out,” he replied. “Let’s go look.”

She led him down the hall, where he thought he caught a whiff of lemon meringue incense, past the guardian, who didn’t so much as glance their way, and right up to the edge of an enormous crystal sphere.

“Do you know what you’d like to see first?” asked Priscilla.  “What do you miss most?”

“Well, I sure miss singing the blues.  There’s not a lot of call for that up here.  I guess I’d like to see how the rest of my old group is doing.”

“Then look.”

Jesse looked into the sphere and, as the smoky haze cleared, he saw his old friends.  They were all together, and they were jamming.  That surprised him.  He hadn’t expected them to still be making music after all this time.  He figured they would have found something else to do–gone on to bigger and better things in their old age.

They look ridiculous, he thought, with their gray ponytails and potbellies, trying to be hip.  The sphere’s audio became more distinct and he was able to hear them.  They were playing one of his old songs!

“Look at them.  I come out after three decades of soul-cleansing and there they are, playing the same tired old tunes, looking like poster children for a geriatric jamboree.”

“Jesss-seee,” admonished Priscilla. “Where’s your sense of charity, your willingness to be tolerant towards others?  Have you forgotten your lessons so soon?”

“Oh, yeah . . . I mean no.  I was just, uh . . . joking with you.  I think the old farts are, uh . . . cute.”

Now Priscilla was an A-2, only a cherub’s breath away from being promoted to A-1, and Jesse realised he couldn’t pull the wings over her eyes that easily.

“Until you’ve walked as many miles in their snakeskin boots as they have, you have no basis on which to judge them.  Even then–”

“Judge not, lest ye be judged,” Jesse replied, as if by rote.

“That’s right,” she said, “but I think you need to do more than mouth the words you’ve learned.  You need another kind of lesson.”

“But I just finished–”

“Now, Jesse,” she said before he could go on.  “Consider this the first step towards becoming an A-2.”

Boy, he thought, you’d figure they’d let a guy enjoy being an A-3 before they started pushing him out of the nimbular nest toward A-2.

“It’s not about enjoyment, Jesse,” she said, reminding him for the umpteenth time that she could hear his thoughts as plain as his speech.  “It’s about a willingness to learn. So . . .”

So wham, bam, thanks a lot, ma’am, Jesse found himself back on terra firma.

He realised right away how good it felt.  Walking on air with his head in the clouds had always made him a little queasy.  He did, however, experience a brief sensation of claustrophobia.  Four walls and a ceiling were a bit much after all that time in the infinite expanse.

He became aware that Priscilla had outfitted him in his trademark black leather pants and he was enjoying the smooth sensations when he realised he’d been transported into the recording studio where he’d seen the guys laying down some tracks.  They were so busy arguing, they didn’t notice him.

“Can’t you guys ever agree on anything?” he asked, waiting for their reaction.

“Jesse?” they called out simultaneously in amazement.

“Rick, Joe, Rollie, good to see you guys again.”

“But . . . how?” sputtered Rick.

“I know this must seem like a weird scene after all this time,” said Jesse. “But don’t worry, I’m still dead.  I mean, I did die, you know, way back when.  I’m just visiting.”

“Where–?” asked Joe, and Jesse pointed up, anticipating the rest of his question.

“Why–?” began Rollie.

“My mentor thought it would be good for me,” said Jesse.

“How long–?” queried Rick, but again the answer came before the question was completed.  He was getting the hang of this consciousness-attunement thing.

“I’m not sure exactly,” said Jesse.  “Probably not long.”

“Well, you look great, man,” said Rick.

“So I should; I haven’t aged a day in 30 years.  Sorry I can’t say the same about you guys!  You know, when I saw you all, I thought you looked pretty ridiculous.  I mean, you’re all pushing 60 and still trying to be rock stars.”

“Hey, some of us still have to make a living,” responded Joe.

“Yeah,” added Rollie. “Not all of us got to be a dead icon.”

“An icon?”

“Don’t you know?” asked Rick.  “Man, you’ve got more fans now than you did when you were alive.  They think you’re some kind of rock ‘n’ roll god.”

Suddenly a great rumble swelled from beneath the floor.  The entire room shimmied and shook as they each grabbed hold of something to steady themselves.

“Another L.A. quake,” said Joe when the rumbling ceased.

“No,” replied Jesse, motioning upward with his head and eyes. “He just has a low threshold for blasphemy.  But look, what I wanted to tell you is, what you’re doing is cool with me.  I mean, who am I to judge?”

“I’m glad you’re in tune with that,” said Joe.  “I was afraid you came back to kick up a fuss about the pantyhose commercials.”

“What pantyhose commercials?”

“We sold a few of our old tunes,” said Joe. “And they’re using them to sell pantyhose.  It’s not a big deal.  They just changed a few of your lyrics.”

“Changed my lyrics for pantyhose?”

Jesse tried to remain calm.  They were only words.  After all, he reasoned, who was he to criticise?  Just to be safe, however, he inwardly recited several soothing mantras.

“The commercials aren’t nearly as good as the lunchboxes,” said Rollie.

“Lunchboxes?”

“Yeah, we got this great merchandising deal,” Rollie continued enthusiastically.  “I used my percentage for hair implants.  Looks pretty real, huh?”

“I think the little figurines are kind of cute myself,” offered Rick.

“Figurines?”

“Yeah, you know, like little dolls, only made to look like us.  The Jesse doll is a real big seller.  You are so like it, man.”

“The Jesse doll?”

Jesse increased the pace of his mantras, but they weren’t having much effect.  He was smouldering inside, and the words that were coming to mind weren’t as virtuous as he would have liked.  He hoped his mentor was out of range.

“You okay, Jesse?” asked Joe.  “I’m not getting very good vibes from you.  You look like you’ve seen a ghost . . . so-to-speak.”

“I’ll be all right, as soon as I get rid of this feeling that someone’s stomping all over my grave.”

“Uhh . . . speaking of graves, man . . .”  Rick didn’t finish, but looked to his comrades for help.  Neither of them wanted to elaborate.

“What?” demanded Jesse in the most spiritual way he could manage.

“What Rick means,” said Joe. “Is the lease on your gravesite in that French cemetery is about to expire, and the locals want to move you.”

“Lease?  Move me?”

“Yeah,” chimed in Rollie. “It seems a bunch of your crazed fans have been dousing the place with booze, littering, and generally desecrating your final resting place, as well as the surrounding gravesites.  The French authorities say they’ve had enough, so they’re refusing to renew your lease.”

“They’re going to dig up my grave?”

“Hey,” said Joe, raising his drumsticks in mock surrender. “You’re the one who wanted to harmonise in the hereafter with all those 17th Century poets.”

“There’s talk of building a shrine for you here, man,” said Rick, trying to find a bright side.  “I think they’ve got a spot picked out in Burbank.”

“A shrine in Burbank?”  Jesse was seething now.  “Are you dudes crazy?  You’re going to let them dig me up and replant me like so much mulch?  I’ve never heard of such an asinine excuse for–”

“Jesss-seee.”  It was Priscilla, suddenly at his side and looking very disapproving.  The instant she appeared, his former bandmates froze like wax figures.  “Where’s your angelic sense of forgiveness?  Your compassion for those who lack your celestial insight?”

“In a hole, six feet down, just outside of Paris.”  Jesse plopped onto a stool like so much dead weight.  “I’ve been kicked out of a lot of places, but I never thought I’d get booted out of my own grave.”

“Look at it as part of life, or, in your case, afterlife.”  Priscilla tittered at her own wit.

“However, I’m afraid this outburst means it’s back to Redemption Hall for another cleansing.  I’ll have to revoke your A-3 standing.”