No Credit in Heaven

No Credit in Heaven

By Mark Phillips

Copyright 2014 by Mark Phillips

Smashwords Edition

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For John Steinbeck, who wrote about inequality in a way that I could only hope to.

Part I-In which our hero dies

There are a lot of things people don’t remember. I don’t remember my grandmother’s middle name; I don’t remember the name of the first girl I kissed. I remember her golden hair in those pigtails that only eight-year-olds can seem to wear with any credibility. I don’t remember when I was born, but I remember when I died.

I always hated flying, but I had done it a few times over the course of my life when I absolutely had to. When I was in high school, I’d popped my flying cherry when our German class took a flight to Berlin. It’s not a flight that I recommend for a first timer. Everyone had warned me about take off, but that hadn’t been too bad. It was a bit like a roller coaster. Landing was a breeze because by then I was so grateful we hadn’t crashed that I didn’t even care that it had been a little rough.

It was being in the air that I couldn’t stand. I was very aware of the weakness of gravity.

So when I stepped on the flight to go see my childhood friend, Ben, in Las Vegas, I knew what to expect. Everything seemed to be normal at first.

Take off, easy

Mid-air, fine. At least, it was at first.

They turned off the fasten seatbelts light and people pulled out their laptops or their tablets or their phones and did what people do, watch things.

Some of them were looking at YouTube; others were watching movies. The young couple in front of me popped in a DVD of the Office. They shared the headphones, the guy had the left one in his left ear and the girl had the right one in her right. Their heads tilted together and they laughed at the antics of Michael Scott.

Across the aisle from me a woman sat looking at her phone, while a boy and a girl sat on either side of her playing their DS’s.

I didn’t have any electronics with me. My laptop would have done me no good because the battery was faulty and it needed to stay plugged in to remain on. I had my phone on me, but I had yet to enter the world of smart phones and it wouldn’t support the internet.

I needed a cigarette and the bulk of my pack of Parliament lights was an irritant against my thigh. Panic coursed through my body, but not the high anxiety kind like in the movies where someone needs to be restrained. It was a low-level panic.

Alone in my little section of three seats, I sat next to the window with the hard plastic barrier closed. Every once in a while I would open it and look down at the ground. This would last about three seconds or so before I had to close it again. Then five minutes later I’d be opening it and looking down again.

The sight was always dizzying to me. The ground below looked like a patchwork quilt. A section of corn here, a section of grass there. I couldn’t see individual houses, but every once in a while there was a section of urban sprawl.

One of the amazing realizations about flying cross country is the amount that is still farm land. I thought of all those natural resources and pondered our good fortune to live in a country so blessed. For all our bitching and political posturing we really were lucky. We could live in a desert wasteland with corrupt warlords, like the people of Africa or we could live in a country where the only things we’d get to see on our cell phones and tablets were what the government told us was acceptable, like North Korea.

I was in the middle of this internal dialogue when the plane started to shake. It was just a few bumps at first, I took it as turbulence. Everyone else must have thought the same thing because no one was freaking out at first.

Then the plane jerked hard, downward and to the left. To my side of the plane. That was when people started looking up from their internet world and started to pay attention to what was happening in the world we were actually in.

Ladies and Gentlemen, we seem to be suffering a minor difficulty, the captain cracked over the speaker. We will be making an unscheduled landing in Omaha, but there is no need to worry and we’ll get everything sorted out once we’re on the ground.

I could feel my heartbeat in my ears. I looked around, some of the others on the plane had gone back to their phones, others were looking around, now as alarmed as I was.

The couple in front of me closed their laptop without shutting off the DVD and I saw her hand slip into his. Their heads never moved, they stayed leaned against each other.

The plane took another one of those sharp dips and now the listing of the plane to my side was apparent to everyone. We weren’t slowing down, but actually seemed to be picking up speed. I opened the cover on my window and wished I hadn’t.

I could make out houses now, roads too.

I looked to my right. The woman was clutching her children in both of her arms. The girl, who looked about five-years-old, had her head buried in her mother’s chest. The boy, who was older, probably seven, with fine blonde hair and large, deep-set blue eyes, looked right at me.

I’m sorry, I mouthed to him. For what, I had no idea, for the fact that he wouldn’t see his ninth birthday? I don’t know, but I felt very sorry for everyone around me at that moment. They were all going to die.

The fact that I was with them and was going to die as well never really occurred me. This all seemed to be something that was happening to these people and I was just watching it.

The oxygen masks dropped down from over head. A few people struggled to put them on; most just let them dangle and swing in front of them.

I could feel speed now. I looked back out the window, we weren’t far from the ground, I could see the colors of the cars on the highway below.

In front of me, the couple exchanged quick kisses in between proclamations of love. They were both crying.

The crunch of the plane was deafening. For a moment my vision was a swirl of colors and shapes as the cabin spun and then I heard a tearing sound as part of it started to break away. A fireball ripped through the plane, I hugged the seat in front of me and watched as the little boy’s hair caught fire. In an instant it spread to his face and his mother and sister. They writhed as they burned.

I felt heat from behind me and then the cabin broke in two and the flames really started. I whiplashed into the window and saw no more.

As I slipped from consciousness I only felt gratitude.

That was how I died. I’ve never forgotten it, no matter how hard I tried.

The next thing I was aware of was standing in a line. There was a tall black man with large arms, covered in tattoos in front of me. I looked behind me and saw a squat old woman with ragged grey hair and wild brown eyes. The line stretched back farther than I could see. I leaned to the left and caught glimpse of a gate. A small desk sat in front of it, but I couldn’t see anyone standing there.

Excuse me ma’am, what seems to be going on?

She looked at me as if I were an alien. We’re in Heaven son. Don’t you remember dying?

I shook my head. No, I don’t, a lie. Do you?

Of course, her voice was jagged, exasperated.

No shit, I said. It was my lame attempt at humor, it didn’t work.

Don’t curse in Heaven you heathen.

I shrugged my shoulders and turned around. I tapped the man in front of me on the shoulder.

Quite a line-up for this, huh?

The man turned slightly, only enough for me to see the profile of his face. There was a large tissue-colored scar running down his face. He said nothing.

How did you get here?

Prison. Flat, simple.

Killed in a prison fight?

Executed for murder.

I clapped in on the back. Good news for you, guess you were innocent, right?

He said nothing.

I turned back around. So how did you die?

The old woman glared at me.

I guess not saving a puppy from a burning building.

The line shuffled forward at a steady pace. As we approached the front of the gate I could see a man in a long white robe with a red beard. He had kind, blue eyes and a warm smile. Just seeing him seemed to create a comfort in me that I wouldn’t have thought possible after what I’d just been through.

The tall black man stepped up to the gate.

Do you know who I am? The man asked.

I would guess that you’re St. Peter, the man said.

Yes, and you’re Marvin Starr.

I am.

Falsely imprisoned for first degree murder and executed by the state of Texas on June 29th 2015.

Yes. There was a growl in Marvin’s voice.

I’m sorry for your misfortune. I trust that you will fare better on the other side. Peter indicated the gate.

Thank you, sir.

The gates parted then and I watched as Marvin inhaled deeply before he stepped through. After a few steps he grew translucent and then disappeared. The gates swung closed and I started to step up.

Before I could do more than get one step forward I was bumped from the left. It was the old woman, pushing passed me.

Oh, St. Peter! she cried as she fell to her knees. I am here for my final reward.

You are Eleanor Phelps. Peter said. It wasn’t a question.

Yes! Everything I’ve done has been for this moment. The power of God has spoken to me all my life. I can’t wait to be in his presence.

Stand, Peter said. She rose to her feet but her gaze remained on the mist that covered whatever it was we were walking on.

You were a pastor in the West borough Baptist Church.

Yes.

This is you? Peter asked and indicated an area above the gate. An image appeared there showing Phelps holding a placard. She was standing near the steps of a church amid a smattering of others holding signs. Phelps’s sign read, God Hates Fags, in large red letters.

A middle-aged couple walked down the steps of the church. Their heads were down and they were dressed in black.

Your son is burning in the fires of Hell! Phelps screamed. God has come to punish you for the evil that you raised!

The image faded and Peter returned his gaze to the woman. That was the funeral of one David Marcus, a nineteen-year-old boy beaten to death outside of a bar.

Yes, another Godless homosexual murdered in the name of the Lord.

Would it surprise you to learn that David is in there? Peter asked. He indicated the gate. His eyes had gone from that warm gaze to an icy fire.

That…can’t be, Phelps stammered. God hates fags.

Peter shook his head. No, he doesn’t. Nor does he hate you, but his will is saddened by your hateful delusions.

Peter lifted his arm and a chasm opened in the mist next to Phelps. Vague, dark shapes swirled around it.

No! Phelps screamed. No, God hates fags! I only did his will.

Now his will is done, Peter said and Phelps fell into the abyss.

I stood there, frozen, not knowing what to do as the chasm closed and the mist once again replaced it.

Peter lifted his head and looked at me. You are John Oliver Ballard.

I nodded, unable to speak.

Killed in a plane crash on July 18, 2015.

Yes, sir.

Do you feel as if you’ve lived a virtuous life?

I was struck by the question. I tried to recall the details of my life and could remember precious little at that moment. I suppose so.

Is there anything you’d like to say before judgment is passed?

My mind raced. It seemed very important that I say something, but what? What was there to say when the fate of your soul was on the line?

I tried my best to be a good person, I said. Given more time I might have done more with my life.

Peter’s eyebrows lifted. Is that so?

I’d like to think so.

I wasn’t sure of anything at that moment.

You lived a fairly ordinary life. Are you saying that you wished for more?

I suppose that’s what I’m saying.

Peter nodded his head. Are you ready to enter the kingdom?

Yes sir.

Then let it be done. The gates parted and I glanced at Peter who nodded at me. I stepped through the gates and could hear them close behind me. When I turned to look, they were gone. The line was gone, Peter was gone. I was alone.

I turned back around and saw that I was wrong, there was a woman standing in front of me. She had long dark hair and a perfect shape. She wore a long brown robe.

Who are you? I asked.

Call me Miss T, she said. Her smile was inviting, beautiful.

What now? I asked.

I will give you a tour and then we’ll go and inventory your possessions.

What?

The things you were buried with. The things you’ll bring with you in Heaven.

I glanced back over my shoulder as if to look back at the mortal life that I’d left. I…that is…we’re supposed to bring things with us?

Miss T shook her head. You didn’t bring anything with you?

I don’t know. Buried with stuff? I was trying to wrap my head around the concept.

The Egyptians may have been incorrect about their theories of polytheism but they were correct in their thoughts about bringing what they acquired with them to the afterlife. What do you people suppose being on Earth is for?

I balked. So much was happening so quickly and I felt badly out of depth in this conversation. We don’t know. I think most people think of it as a test.

Miss T laughed. Paradise isn’t free Mr. Ballard. You should have prepared yourself for your eternal rest.

So what am I supposed to do?

Let’s take the tour first, Miss T said. We’ll stop and see what your family buried you with at the end and then will go from there.

She demurred and held a small smile on her face. There are some things that can be done, but that can take time. Although, I suppose time is the one thing you have in abundance now.

Miss T turned and walked. I followed.

We came to a small door standing in the middle of nothing. Miss T produced a key from her dress and opened the door.

It was gorgeous. People walked here and there on fine cobbled streets. There were giant houses lining the streets. I looked up. There was no sun, or course, but a light filled the sky. It wasn’t blue, there were no clouds but it felt right. The light had no color that I could discern.

There was what appeared to be some shops and people carried bags and boxes with them. An older woman with wispy gray hair walked with a Chihuahua with no leash. She had two bright red bags in each arm and a huge smile plastered on her face.

To the left was a chain link fence. Inside were all manners of automobiles. Most of them looked like wrecks. A short, tan man with a wild shock of black hair was bent over one of them holding some sort of tool I’d never seen before.

Who’s that?

That’s not really a part of the tour, but if you’d like to say hello, we can.

Okay, I said. My brain was muddled, it really didn’t seem to be working correctly and I wondered if it was some kind of a side-effect of the way I died. That seemed unlikely, but who was I to say. I came from a culture that apparently didn’t have the good sense to pack their possessions with them for the other side.

There was a gate that led into the junkyard and I followed Miss T through it.

The man looked up at the sound of the gate opening and smiled at us. He wore a pair of cutoff jeans and nothing else. His tanned body was cut with muscle.

Ah, mother how are you?

That’s your son? I asked Miss T.

She smiled and shook her head. No, that’s just what Judas likes to call me. It’s his little joke. There was a hint of irritation in her voice.

It’s no joke, Judas said. It’s the title you’ve earned.

Judas, I said. As in, the guy from the bible?

It’s always nice to meet a fan, Judas said and stuck out his hand. I shook it, unsure of what else to do.

But you betrayed Jesus. Why are you in Heaven?

The smile disappeared from Judas’s face. Hey, buddy I was forgiven. Besides I was only playing my part in what needed to happen and those thirty pieces of silver bought me this place.

Judas spread his arms to indicate his junkyard.

This is John Ballard, Miss T said. He’s from twenty-first century America.

Nice, Judas said, his smile returning. One of my favorite times. Didn’t bring any stuff with you though, did you?

Not to my knowledge, I said. I was starting to feel very foolish.

Judas shook his head. It took a long time for you guys to learn. Or, from your perspective, it will take a long time for you guys to learn.

I’m giving Mr. Ballard the tour, Miss T said.

Sexiest tour guide you’ve ever seen, huh Ballard? Judas asked.

I blushed and looked down at the dirt on the ground.

Judas elbowed me in the ribs. Don’t worry, mother knows it.

I didn’t ask for this body, Miss T said. It was a gift from God."

Yeah, I’m sure you hate it, Judas said. He turned to me with a large grin on his face. Come on, it’s a tour, isn’t it? I’ll show you around my office.

We followed Judas to a squat building with cracked white paint. Inside was a small desk with two folding chairs in front of it. There were some papers piled on it and several pictures hung on the wall.

I glanced at them. Some were of Judas with people I vaguely recognized. In one he stood smiling next to John Kennedy.

You’ve met President Kennedy? I asked.

Sure, Judas, replied, sitting down. You’d be amazed what being a former President gets you up here. People just give him stuff.

Next to the picture of Kennedy was one of Judas sitting among a mass of chips at a poker table. He saw me eyeing it and smiled.

We have a monthly poker tournament up here. The Egyptians love to gamble and they’ve got a ton of money of course, but they are piss poor poker players. Amarillo Slim takes quite a bit of their gold off of them.

I don’t understand, I said. If this is paradise then why do you need money?

Judas shrugged. I don’t know if I’d call it paradise, it’s just what comes after. Your world is not so much different than here. I mean, you don’t need food and there is no crime or anything like that, but people still need their creature comforts here. I mean you didn’t stop being human. Of course the angels are exempt from that sort of thing, but they’re mostly bastards anyway.

So there are angels here?

Of course, they do their jobs and keep things running smoothly in the name of the big guy, but they all have… Judas seemed to choose his words carefully. Complexes.

The angels are simply a different class of beings than us, Miss T said. Expecting us to understand each other is simply ludicrous.

Judas shook his head. I’ve been here a lot longer than you Mother and you still have a lot to learn. Trust me, I understand the angels. I understand that they’re dicks.

I think we’ve exhausted our time with this unscheduled stop, Miss T said. It’s time for us to go Mr. Ballard.

I nodded and turned to leave but Judas’s voice stopped me. You might have a bit of a hard time in the beginning, he said. I’ll find you though, walk you through the stuff Mother here can’t or won’t.

Thanks, I said.

Miss T took me down what seemed to be the main street. The mansions rose into the weird sky, there were no lawns but some sort of matter that looked a bit like grass surrounded them.

That’s called fregg by the locals, Miss T said, following my gaze. It feels and looks like grass, but it doesn’t need to be watered of course.

What’s it made out of?

Miss T shrugged. Some things just are what they are. There are certain things for which there are no explanations here. It is God’s will that it exists and so it does.

Who lives in the houses? I asked.

Mostly the Egyptians, Miss T said. Ramses and Tut have two of the larger houses, but even some of the poorer Egyptians were buried with modest possessions. Even a little goes a long way here.

We exited the mansions and entered an area of smaller houses. Just beyond those were shacks that looked like they’d been assembled with plywood and sticks.

This is the more modest housing, which hopefully, you’ll be able to afford. If not, the housing just beyond is free.

So I may end up in one of those shacks?

Miss T said nothing, but her face told me all I needed to know.

We walked past the residential district and entered the commercial property. There were some small shops and a large building with blue and white lettering. It read, SellAll.

That’s what you’d call a big box store, Miss T said. It provides everything you could think of. If you want an Allviewer you’d get one there."

What’s an Allviewer?

It’s a bit like a DVR, Miss T said. It gives you the ability to watch any program from any time in human history. It’s very popular at parties.

The commercial district ended and the street was lined with several buildings with no names.

What are those? I asked.

Those are not really on the tour, Miss T said.

Why not?

Miss T sighed. It was clear there were things that she didn’t want to tell me. "They are by permitted access only. One of them is what the locals call the ‘ghost portal’. It allows you to travel back to reality as you know it for observation purposes only. However, if you concentrate