CHAPTER 6
Around 10PM, Mama Cass escorted her new friend to Seven Beaches, the restaurant and bar near the Super Wheels bicycle shop on Tannery Brook Rd., a tributary right off the main drag through town. As befitted its name, the décor of the establishment was mostly Caribbean in nature. Large, full color photographs of shell-littered, white sand beaches and pristine, blue seas hanged on every wall. A few live palms were sitting in various clay pots around the eatery. Even the wait staff, themselves attired in breezy Bermuda shirts, matched the surroundings perfectly. Within seconds of arriving, they followed the greeter to a polished, driftwood table near the back not far from a small stage now occupied by a ballad-performing singer/guitarist.
“Your waiter will be right with you,” the greeter informed them, then laid menus on the table and exited.
“Nice joint,” Gregory remarked. “There sure are a lot of eateries in this town. Kinda surreal.”
“Who’s got time to cook?” she asked. “It’s not like we have the best equipment anyway. Our pots and pans are just adequate enough to get by for a quick snack, but preparing really nice food takes pretty experienced chefs, considering the raw materials we have to work with. What I mean is, you don’t buy eggs; you concoct it yourself. Meat-type products? Most people, when they try, end up with something that looks like road kill. Better to let the culinary guys do their things. That’s why there are so many bistros. No one cooks at home; not that much, anyway.”
“Wow,” the PI said. “I gotta get used to that.” He started scanning the environs. Pretty high tech,” he noticed, “even though it’s just bricks and wood. Who’s the singer?”
“I don’t know,” she swore. “They have different people here every night. It’s like a showcase bar, you know, like The Bluebird Café in Nashville, except this is a little bigger.”
“He sounds good.”
Gregory continued reading the room, scanning faces as if expecting to see anyone familiar. Unfortunately, he didn’t. He did, however, notice that…
“They’re mostly men in here,” he whispered. “Is this a gay restaurant?”
“Not hardly,” she told him. “How many female rockers do you know?”
“Well, let’s see,” he recalled. “The Bangles, the Go-Go’s, Heart…”
“But they’re not dead, though.”
“Oh, the older ones. Well, there’s…um…”
“Exactly,” she noted. “Not very many. It’ll grow in time.”
Just then, their waiter, a dead ringer for the lead singer from Queen, came over with a basket of warm bread with small jars of assorted jams and jellies, and placed it on the table between the dining duo.
“I’m Freddie, your server,” he introduced himself. “Can I get you something from the bar to start?”
This face Gregory recognized. “You’re Freddie Mercury, right?”
“In the flesh, so to speak,” he answered. “What’ll you have?”
“How about a song?”
“No.”
“You know what?” Gregory told Mama. “Those eggs really did fill me up. I’ll just take a bowl of ice cream,” he instructed Freddie. “Something citrus-y, like lime or lemon.”
The mustached waiter turned to Mama Cass. “What about you, Mama?”
“I’ll have a Muscatel,” she ordered. “Any kind, Freddie. Surprise me.”
“Thank you,” the singer/pianist/showman/waiter said. As he turned to exit straight to the bar, Gregory changed his mind.
“You know what?” he called Freddie back. “Nil on the ice cream. I’ll just take a glass of light beer.”
“Very well,” the mustachioed server nodded, then left.
“Muscatel, huh?” Gregory mused. “Pretty classy.”
“Yeah,” Mama snorted. “I wish. I just like their sweet complexity. In some of them the aromas of tangerines and apricots dominate. I’ve had those that tasted more like raisins and figs. At least they don’t get me shit faced like vodka or gin.”
“Hmm,” he mumbled, tapping non-consciously on the polished table. “I also can’t help noticing I never saw any kids.”
“You can’t procreate here.”
“Yeah, I know,” he said. “L’Da told me that. But some do adopt, right?”
“They do,” she acknowledged. “You just got here so you haven’t seen them yet. They go to the school up near the monastery. All the kids you will see around here were adopted.”
“There’s only one school?”
“Uh, huh. There are not really that many kids up here to begin with.”
“For K to 12?”
“I’d say most, if not all,” she replied, “of the adopted kids are around the same age – from babies to 12 or 13. The older ones are pretty much set in their ways and can be too much of an unnecessary challenge, especially since, you know, they don’t grow up. Kids forever. Some heavens are like Peter Pan Hell. Anyway, the classes go from K to middle school.”
Just then, Freddie Mercury returned with their drinks. “Ready to order?” he asked, laying their beverages down before them.
“I didn’t even look at the menu,” Gregory apologized. “I’ll just have a deluxe burger and fries. They have that?”
“Yes,” Freddie promised. “What about you, Mama?”
“I’ll go with the traditional surf & turf,” she requested. “Medium on the turf, please.”
“Thank you.” Freddie scooped up both menus and exited.
“You know, Mama,” Gregory resumed, “I bet a lot of people here would rather raise their own flesh and blood.”
“So would I,” she said, sipping her drink, “but remember, these bodies are pseudo-corporeal, representative of what they once were. Since they’re not the real deal, they can’t reproduce themselves; can’t even be cloned.”
“Ah, that’s too bad. I hope this burger won’t let me down.”
“It won’t.”
“You guys did tell me there are no animals up here because they lack the consciousness of knowing right from wrong.”
“That’s true.”
“But what about kids, though?” he wondered. “A one or two-year old won’t know right from wrong, so how would they proceed through the heavens?”
“On their adoptive parents’ guidance. That’s why the older ones aren’t here because they go out of their way to challenge everything. But you know what? A lot of the kids from around 6 to 12 start getting depressed because there aren’t more kids to play with so they end up back in Children’s Heaven.”
“Children’s Heaven,” Gregory chuckled. “Sounds like a fairy tale.”
“It is, actually. But because there are so many of them, billions and billions of kids, they live in huge group homes with responsible caretakers and eventually don’t yearn for parents. And, of course, no child would ever be abused. Not one. Ever. They learn pretty quickly that to hurt someone is to hurt yourself.”
“Wow. So, I guess disabled kids would be kept out of general pop so the others won’t pick on ‘em.”
“No disabled kids,” she assured him. “They arrive whole.”
“Really?”
Mama snapped her fingers. “Just like that; fully repaired. No wheelchairs, no canes, no blindness or deafness, no cancers, learning disabilities, nothing. Of course, there are hospitals, but those are for injuries sustained up here. They heal fairly quickly, though.”
“So, a two-year-old will always be two years old and never reach the top, so to speak.”
“Unfortunately, yes. That’s why even on this level they are given the best treatment possible. It is sad they also don’t have real pets, but the toymakers are geniuses up here. They make robotic cats and dogs that are pretty realistic. They sure fooled me. They even have zoos, too. Pretty big ones filled with all kinds of animals.”
“All robotic.”
“But you can’t tell the difference,” she vows. “They act, jump, do everything the same as real ones, even piss hydraulic fluid.”
“That’s gro
ss.”
Freddie Mercury, singer extraordinaire, rolled up with his wooden cart of their orders. “Surf and turf for the missus,” he announced, placing her plate on the table then removing a bottle of Worchester sauce from his black apron and sitting it on the table. “Hamburger with everything for the gentleman,” he smiled, winking at Gregory, then taking off with his cart.
“You know,” Gregory mused to his host, “I bet a lot of the guys up here flip over to the other side, huh?”
“Hmph. More like coming out of their shell, if you ask me.”
The duo dug right into their meals without further hesitation.
“Wow,” Gregory announced, juices splashing on his yellow suit. “This is good.”
“Yeah,” Mama stated. “They do a commendable job here.”
“So, what’s your story?” Gregory inquired of his dining partner.
“I’m a singer.”
“I mean your history,” he clarified.
“I was born in Baltimore, Maryland on the same day the Nazis began their siege of Leningrad, September 19, 1941. I have Russian ancestors so I take an interest in Russian history. I went to the same high school as Jim Morrison.”
“Who’s that?”
Mama Cass looked like she needed oxygen. “Jim Morrison? From The Doors?”
“I’m not a big music fan,” Gregory offered, by way of apology.
“He’s a singer and poet. I’m surprised you’ve never heard of him. Anyway, I sang in different bands then hit it big in The Mamas and the Papas.”
“Is that where you’re from? I’ve heard of them.”
“I’m glad. Know any of our songs?”
“Um, sorry, can’t say I do. Crime and punishment’s my thing.”
“You’re a lawyer?”
“Private investigator,” he specified. “I used to be a cop in Seattle.”
“You ever heard of ‘California Dreamin’?”
The PI shook his head. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”
Mama Cass sang the first two lines:
“All the leaves are brown / and the sky is gray.”
“Oh, yeah,” Gregory chimed in. “I’ve heard that. Good song.”
“After The Mamas and the Papas broke up,” she continued, “I went solo and did some acting. I also got into a lot of things I shouldn’t have. You know, the money was pretty good; had to spend it on something. Anyway, back in those days, when you’re a star, you get all the good shit for free. That’s good and bad. But six years later, no more Mama Cass.”
“You have any regrets?”
The 60’s singer took a deep breath and thought of her answer. “You know, I was never happy with my voice. I’m glad people liked it, but I was really self-conscious about that, and my weight, and my looks. I wasn’t a looker, like Tina Turner, Lulu or Lesley Gore.”
“So, you regret becoming a singer?”
Mama shrugged. “Not really. I made people happy. I guess that’s the important thing.”
“What was wrong with your weight?”
“I was a box of cellulite, man,” she swore. “When I got in an elevator it had to go down.”
Gregory giggled. “At least you have a sense of humor about it.”
“Have some of my entrée,” she requested.
“Nah, that’s okay.”
“Go ahead, boy,” she insisted. “I can’t eat it all. The portions are so big here.”
Mama Cass cut off a piece of the juicy steak and held it out on a fork for the PI to eat, which he did, with much aplomb.
“Delicious,” he remarked. “Multi-layered, crisp to tender. It’s like aged Kobe Beef.”
“These chefs are magicians up here.”
Gregory wiped his mouth. “Juicy as hell.”
“You should try this lobster, too,” she suggested.
The detective scrutinized his plate like it was evidence. “What’s this stuff made from?”
“It’s a mix of tofu, quorn, camelina, yellow peas, textured veg protein, mustard seeds, seasonings, different things. I used to work here, that’s how I know.”
“Let me see that,” the PI requested, bringing Mama Cass’ plate closer to him. Carefully, he scrutinized the lobster. It sure looked and smelled real. Using a fork, he cut off a piece of the butter-soaked crustacean wannabe and placed it on his tongue.
“Tastes real,” he nodded. “These guys must’ve studied in the best culinary schools.”
“They did,” she acknowledged. “Since there’s no real meat here, these people would be up in arms about it every day.”
After Seven Beaches, Cass and Gregory ambled past a few recording and rehearsal studios, as well as the ubiquitous bistros on Ohayo Mountain Road, finally stopping to rest in the Village Green where a few musicians were sitting around a makeshift fire playing acoustic guitars. The cricket-less, hoot owl-less, cicada-less hamlet was eerie with its animal absence. The moon, hiding behind the clouds, barely lent its silvery light to the evening, the luminescence brought mainly by various street lamps, store fronts, and the fire itself. Sitting on the bench, they, along with other spectators, watched and listened as the five musicians strummed their axes, singing ‘Suite: Judy Blue Eyes’ by Crosby, Stills & Nash.
“It’s getting to the point where I’m no fun anymore – I am sorry-
Sometimes it hurts so badly I must cry out loud – I am lonely.”
“You ever heard this song?” Mama whispered to Gregory.
“I think so,” he said. “It’s been a while, though.”
“I’ll tell you who those singers are. That cute Spanish guy is Ritchie Valens. He breaks my heart because he’s so young, only 17. No telling how big he would’ve gotten. Probably would’ve even headlined at Woodstock. That’s Buddy Holly with the glasses; another young ‘un. Good songwriter, too. I could just see him stoning out, coming up with music as good as Abbey Road, even better. See the guy with the mustache, the Groucho Marx impersonator? That’s Jim Croce. Funny as hell. He missed his calling; I think he would’ve made a great comedian. He had that hit song ‘Bad Bad Leroy Brown.’”
“I remember that one.”
“The other guy with the glasses and cowboy hat you should know. That’s John Denver. He’s a really nice cat. Not a bad bone in his body. I think he shits carnations. That moody-looking young fella with the black hair is Ian Curtis. He was in a band called Joy Division.”
“He looks like he’s having a seizure.”
“That’s how he dances.”
“How’d he cash in his chips?”
“Hanged himself,” she almost hated to answer. “Depression’s a terrible thing. Brought a bunch of folks here, like Elliot Smith, Terry Kath, Nick Drake, Syd Barrett, Michael Hutchence, Wendy O. Williams…it’s a good thing there are therapists up here to deal with all that.”
“That’s interesting to me,” the detective admitted. “Considering how you’d said before that kids arrived here “whole,” you’d thing people wouldn’t suffer from mental illnesses.”
“It’s not as grave as you thing,” she avowed. “The therapists are more like sounding boards to, you know, like Prince said, help you get through this thing called life.”
“Or the afterlife, as the case may be,” Gregory added.
“Or the afterlife,” the 60’s pop singer echoed.
“What about you?” he wondered. “How’d you pass on?”
Mama shook her head. “Heart attack in my sleep. At least it was painless. And you?”
“Car accident.”
“Ouch,” she squirmed. “Let’s change the subject.”
After singing a few songs with the acoustic group at the Green, Mama Cass escorted Gregory back to the Inn on the Millstream, but because she was tired, she opted to go home to sleep. The PI gave her a kiss on the cheek then entered the Inn. The British clerk was watching news on his own holographic TV behind the counter.
“How’d it go, mate?” he asked the new visitor.
“Pretty nice place you got here
,” Gregory complimented him. “I could get used to this.”
“Like you have a choice.”
“What’s your name again?” the PI asked.
“Joe Strummer, mate,” he saluted. “I was in The Clash.”
“What clash?”
“That was a British punk band, mate.”
“I’m sorry,” Gregory apologized. “Punk’s not my thing.”
“Ain’t for everybody,” Strummer admitted.
“Cool,” the PI stated. “Well, I’m beat. I’m gonna call it a night.”
“Likewise, me ol’ Bacardi,” the clerk said, employing a Cockney accent so thick a chainsaw couldn’t cut through it. “I’m off to Bedfordshire as soon as I see a man about a dog.”
“What?”
“I’m just taking the piss with you, Charlie.”
“What?”