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Somewhere it must be written that any angel will trade a ride into Heaven for a pack of Marlboro cigarettes. We found that the best way to get their attention was to stand before that church on Twenty-Second Street, the one with the colored windows and the steeple-roof. We stood there awhile, blowing our breath out into the bitterness, making ghosts that took form for eight seconds and whooed before vanishing. Soon enough, we felt the brush of angel wings, like damp feathers on a hot day; a breeze that makes waiting out on the porch all night worthwhile. On the last decent day of Fall, it was as if someone had left open a door to let in a gust of cold air.
We had climbed on board the nine o'clock ferry. You kissed me once for good luck; a grand smile. Lovely, being in love like this, I thought. We took some loops through clouds and galaxies that night...
"Faster!" you shouted over the railing and the angels laughed out loud. They let us off on an ancient dock and then we found ourselves down and out on the street's of paradise, panhandling seraphim and martyrs for a cheap cup of nectar or one more cup of rose water. There was plenty of all to go around--the perfect climate. Spend the mornings getting the perfect tan; the parades begin in the afternoon! When one is over, another starts on the next gold-paved street. We shouted and clapped, great dead celebrities riding by on horses and in chariots, fiddlers plucking at their violins, couples making love on balconies above our heads, masques, horror and the scent of dying ghosts. You'll see anyone--or anything--here if you wait long enough; phony saints with flaming beards, women with perfect posture, silent movie stars, men on fire, gold, glitter, the music, naked babies with parakeet wings...
At night, choirs sing at every corner. A grand ol' time! A grand new time, here, in the hereafter. It was probably asking about Elvis that gave us away. Everyone would look and stammer an excuse like, "We're not supposed to say." The guy named Mavis we had met earlier seemed to be the nice enough sort... Three sheets to the wind, but nice to talk to. We had asked him question right after question like, "What happens when one dies? Who really killed JFK? Where are Hitler and all those Popes?" and even, "How many angels can dance on a pencil?"
"Are you two journalists?" he finally asked quizically.
"No. We're just new." We looked at our watches and said, "Good God! Look at the time! We'll miss the next parade!" And we left Mavis behind us in our melancholy path.
We had the Devil's own business running quickly over fluffy clouds. Even though it seemed like it took forever, we were finally arrested after a few too many drinks. We woke up the next morning serving time in Heaven. We were first-time offenders, so we were let off with a warning.
We made out way, hand-in-hand, back to our frugal lives that had not changed since we had left.
But things did change, and this is what I'm asking--to remember the way back. I tried to count the turns, feel the direction of the sunlight and the galactic winds. I walk outside in the evening now and watch the sunset from the fire escape, study the ways the clouds roil when there's a storm coming and remember the fun times... I bet we could do it again if we wanted to...
We could pack a backpack, prepare a lunch, steal a car and drive until we ran out of gas. More trouble. The worst we'd probably get would be a weekend on a cloudy beach. It's a hell of a lot cheaper than going to Florida and a whole lot less humid! But I'm told it's time to give up...
"Don't you want to watch the stars come out?" I ask her. I'm just starting to learn the names of the constellations and the many points, their names, those rough-jointed beasts and the many families in the air.
"It's late," you yawn. You prepare the coffee pot for morning, then set the alarm. Another busy day falling in th East. Another one will be growing in the West. I hear you snoring in minutes after we've made love earlier. Venus looks down at me through the curtains-on-end and smiles down at me through the breeze. It is the wind that whispers to me that it is time to plan ahead. The bugs are getting scarce and a chill is rising from the river. People will soon be tucking their chins into their collars and the wind will gnaw their ears red. There will be nothing to hear until sound thaws itself out in the Spring.
The windshields along the street are shining in the amber streetlights; halos that need to be dusted off. One of those vehicles has our name on it...
I take the phone off the hook, lay the receiver onto the night stand next to our bed and, in time, notice that the phone's beeping has a rythmic beat to it. We could do it again, you know, but for now I will fall asleep and the rythmic harmony of the phone will sing to the stars.
The story Near Wild Heaven is Copyright 1998 by Jack Fisher.
The collection of works called Fish Eggs For The Soul is Copyright 1998 by Brian Rickman.
Copy edited by Sara Fawbush, editor of The Young Writer's Collection.