The Pearly Gate

 

by Gary Giuntoli

 

    I couldn’t believe it—the line stretched as far as I could imagine. I assumed, as is typical with any organization that doesn’t have to worry about offending its customers, it can take all the time it wants.

    “Our heavenly father”—that’s what my mother used to say when­ever in distress.

    “Fuck, shit, piss!” That’s what a fellow I once worked with used to say. It’s funny, I didn’t like the guy, but he sure passed along a useful phrase. I use it a lot; mostly internally, whenever other words won’t fit.

    “What’s going on?”

    I turned around. A man with a few days growth of beard was trying to see what was ahead. I don’t think he had bothered to comb his black curly hair for a few days either. His corduroy jacket was wrinkled, and his shirt wasn’t tucked in his pants. The tails in back were longer than the back of the coat.

    “What d’you think’s goin’ on?”

    “Can’t tell.” He moved his head from side to side trying to look through the crowd ahead.

    “No one ever told me it’d be like this.”

    He stopped his search and looked at me. There was something about him I liked. Even though I shaved that morning and had picked up my sport-coat from the cleaners yesterday.

    “This pisses me off.” He said.

    “Why don’t you two shut up?” An old lady with a babushka looked at us angrily. “If you have bad thoughts, you don’t have to share them with anyone else.”

    The way the other people shuffled their feet, and deliberately avoided looking at the three of us, let me know they had heard every­thing. They were both interested and scared they might get pulled into something they didn’t want to be directly involved in.

    I gave up a few places in line to stand next to the fellow with the rumpled jacket.

    “You have a watch?” I tried to start a conversation.

    “Sure. Don’t you?” Maybe I shouldn’t have given up my place.

    “I do.” The lady still had a stern scowl on her face, but she raised her arm to check the time. “It’s three-twenty.”

    “Thanks.”

    “Do you think it makes a difference?” A young kid, with a baseball hat put on backwards, asked.

    “It’s a reference point.” The three looked at me blankly, like they had no idea what I meant. “You know, at least knowing the time, we can understand how long we’ve been at something.”

    “I bet you were a lawyer.” The three laughed.

    “What does being a lawyer have to do with anything?”

    “Mine used to charge me by the hour. $200 an hour. Even when I went bankrupt, I still got the guy’s bills.”

    It appeared like they were unified against me. The three of them together, as a little group, examining me.

    “I was a tax consultant.”

    The bearded one laughed even louder. “Tom Marietti.” He put his hand out.

    “Pete Sangiacomo.” He laughed again.

    I was accepted. We formed a circle, as we pressed forward.

    None had much to say. I think we all had noticed the corner of the large wall jut out, and the way the line quickly brushed past, it was conceivable we were near the front gate.

    “What time is it?”

    “Would you quit asking!”

    “Three-twenty.”

    Tom looked at the kid. “You’re a Bulls fan?”

    “What?” He grinned, like I remember I did as a kid. Too embar­rassed to do anything else. The kid reached up and pulled the bill around to the front. “I guess so.”

    “You guess?”

    “I like the colors.”

    “I don’t like the colored.”

    “That’s not right.” The lady scolded Tom.

    We were only a few feet away from the corner. The fine mist in the air made the gray wall appear black. I hadn’t realized how foggy it was before. I suppose when we anticipate something about to happen, we loose track of what’s immediately around us.

    “What’d’ya think?”

    “We’re close.” The kid said.

    I wasn’t sure. I’ve never been sure of anything, so why start now?

    “I hope so.” I think the woman was getting tired. She sounded some­what resigned.

    We reached the corner and as a team, bent our necks to see what was there. Nothing more.

    The line. The fog. Nothing else.

    I turned around. Why is it that whenever I’m in a long line, I seem to be the last one? This must be related to the Peter Principle.

    “Fuck, shit, piss.”

    I said it out loud.

    The kid grinned, the lady pretended she didn’t hear me, and Tom cocked his head to the side, like he was saying he was in total agree­ment.

    I said it again, but it really didn’t offer any relief.

    “Feel better?” Tom smiled very broadly. He obviously knew the an­swer.

    “You know what I need?” He said.

    “What?”

    He kept smiling, and motioned me to start guessing what he was thinking.

    “A beer.” I said.

    “No.”

    “A doughnut and coffee.”

    “Nope.”

    “A lazy-boy chair; on a conveyor belt.” The kid tried.

    “C’mon.” He encouraged us to keep guessing. “If I had twelve cups of coffee, eleven beers, all while never leaving my lazy-boy, what would I want.”

    “Why are you thinking that?” The old lady told Tom he was being crass.

    “He’s the one that keeps taking about ‘pissing’.”

    “I am not.” I protested like any teenager would.

    “What did you say?”

    “Well . . . that was more of a philosophical expression of anger.”

    “Oh yeah? ‘An expression of philosophy.’ Were you a professor too?”

    “Don’t call me names.”

    Tom cocked his head to the side, in effect, pointing back around the corner.

    I played dumb. He hit my shoulder a few times. “C’mon.”

    “That’s it.” The lady turned away from us, and if it only was a sym­bolic gesture, joined the others in line.

    I looked at the kid. Maybe he was still too young. I mean, since he was not yet an adult, he shouldn’t be dragged into a situation that could get him in trouble.

    “Are you with us?” The kid said this to me, as if he were the adult, offering the encouragement a youngster needs to enter the adult world.

    “Hell . . . I’m with you.”

    We stopped walking forward, letting the others inch away from us. We casually started to step backwards, and finally turned and ran. For once, luck was on our side. There weren’t any signs of any other people. The mist had become thicker, and it would be almost impossible for anyone to see us.

    We laughed as we approached the wall. Without a word, we could easily guess what we had in mind. All for one and one for all. Unity! Above all else. That’s what there was; a feeling of unity.

    “Hold on!” An idea came into my mind. I ran back around the corner, and needed to study the area a bit before I could see the line. I ran after it.

    “Ma’am. Ma’am!” I called out. She heard me and turned around.

    “You’re not with them.” She sounded disappointed.

    “Yeah, I am.” I needed to catch my breath. “We know you have a few mechanical problems. It’s easier for us. We just want to know what you’d say, if you were there. We’re a team.”

    “Well.” She was still shuffling along with the line. “It’s nice of you to think of me like this.” She was speaking while trying to organize her thoughts. I could tell she was interested.

    I bet she was eighty, if not older. I could tell she had been through much more than me.

    First, there was her age. This alone meant she went through twice as much as I have. Second, and most importantly, was her very appear­ance. Maybe you can tell people by their covers.

    For me, there was the unlikable boss. There was the wasted time after high school. And of course, there were all those times that are supposed to be ‘character building,’ but only remain as excess baggage.

    She smiled. “Just say it’s for everything.”

    Maybe there is such a thing as mental communication.

    I smiled too, and ran back to find Tom and the kid. I almost thought I wouldn’t be able to find them. I managed to catch the corner of the wall, more than slightly to the left of where I was headed.

    “We thought you got lost.”

    “Are we ready?”

    We did our duty. It was right. It felt good physically and mentally. It felt good enough to resemble the boy scout motto—for god and our country.

    We turned and were walking back to find our place in line. The only problem was, we couldn’t see the line. After a few minutes, when we were deep within the mist, we finally understood our condition. The line was gone, and so was the wall.

    “Now what?”

    Forever lost, however right. It’s an irony suitable for any occasion, any location.

    Before you go, ask your friends just what they want you to pass along. Think of it this way, it’s a clever way to tell the man in charge to fix the god-damn plumbing.