CHAPTER 7
Gregory woke up in his clothes again the next morning, not like that’s a problem given his history of doing just that in various alleys and parks over the years. The first time he’d blown a perfectly good date was when he finally grew the stones to ask Lucie Brezewski, a knock-kneed half-Lummi brunette from his sophomore Introduction to Political Sociology class at Western Washington University in Bellingham, out for dinner and a movie. Choosing blindly, they ended up at the Willows Inn, a seafood restaurant on Lummi Island, a 9-square mile rock, population of 1,000, just west of Bellingham and accessible by a brief, open air ferry ride.
When the pair of students hopped on the boat, they ignored the first clue that showed this was going to be an expensive date – they were the only people in their 20’s on the vessel; everyone else looked like they just came from a performance of Mahler’s 4th at Benaroya Hall. Not realizing they’d needed to make a reservation at the upscale Inn, the sophomores went there anyway. Luckily, there was space so they weren’t turned away and stayed for all the fixin’s. Big, fat, gargantuan mistake. What the ambitious young man didn’t know was that the dinner was prix fixe – at $195 a pop, with wine pairing costing another whopping $90. Since Lucie opted for the $40 juice menu, Gregory found himself out of a cool $520 plus tips for one evening of culinary pleasure. What that meant, of course, was he would have to get used to Ramen noodles for the next two years or so, because that was all he’d be able to afford; that and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.
The dinner went well, but afterwards, on the ferry back to Bellingham, Gregory was fit to be tied, and it showed. Here it was he simply wanted to impress Lucie but ended up spending half of his student loan on a rich meal that, in a few minutes, was going to be rejected by his bowels anyway. Because the vibes he gave off reeked with negativity, Lucie opted to go home instead of going out for drinks with him, which suited him fine as he couldn’t afford to entertain her anymore, anyway. Typically, he’d go to a bar where the other college students went, but the idea of dropping $2 or $3 for a bottle of light beer made no sense, so he bought a 12 pack of the cheapest lager he could fine (Rainier), sat in a park, and threw them down one by one. By midnight, he was, as they say in Liverpool, fooked. Barely able to move, he gathered some leaves together into a makeshift bed in a quiet, dark corner of the park and caught some Z’s.
And so marked the beginning of his alcoholic slide. In the future, he would find himself waking up hung over beside dumpsters, athletic fields, train depots, warm exhausts of clothes dryers outside various hotels, and other places. When he finally became a cop, he slowed down on his inebriation, but whenever he went on a date that went south, his excessive drinking began again. It was like this up until his police chief couldn’t take his indiscretion any longer and reluctantly showed him the door. It’s been five years since he’s been off the force and four years since he’s been a PI. The money, he found out, wasn’t steady. His was a hustler’s job. The PI firm where he worked never seemed to get many clients; perhaps they had a bad reputation or weren’t that effective. In any case, he advertised his services to many attorneys around town and did get work, albeit inconsistently. At least he had enough for the important stuff – rent and booze. He did get close, once, to marrying a woman he’d met during a case, but she later changed her mind when she saw how much he drank. All his promises to slow down, or stop, eventually fell on deaf ears. His work ethic was good; his personal life, however, blew chunks.
The morning sun, flowing like a golden orb in the faultless blue sky, was bestowing its good graces on the little town of musicians. Just a few clouds dotted the skyline, nothing more. As this Woodstock was as isolated as the other heavens, there would be no airplanes in the sky, weather balloons, zeppelins, drones or helicopters to sully the lower atmosphere.
Gregory absorbed as much of the brittle morning air as he could while ambling gingerly down Playhouse Lane towards the Woodstock Playhouse. It was almost 10AM. He could see some of the new arrivals to Heaven walking towards the 320-seat theatre flanked on the sides and back by large, thick, almost impenetrable pines with a manicured lawn in the front framed by perpetually blooming apple blossoms. Because he wasn’t a musician, or even a big fan of the genre, he barely recognized any of the faces save one, Prince, atypically attired in a light blue knee-length tunic, white pyjamas and hemp boots. When Gregory was a teen he’d seen Purple Rain in the theatres. For a moment, it inspired him to pick up the guitar, but when he found out he was all thumbs and no fingers, quickly abandoned the idea for something a little more practical, basketball. Even though he was nowhere near the caliber of, say, Michael Jordan, LeBron James or Kobe Bryant, he could still keep the other students in high school on their toes if necessary. He was no scrub, but he wasn’t Class A material, either.
Walking into the orange, yellow and brown building, he was greeted by a worker in a reddish, loose fitting tunic suit who asked for his name. The diligent worker then checked it off a wooden clip board while a second worker gave the PI a blue, novel-sized, hardcover book which, oddly enough, had no pages. Before entering the theatre, he helped himself to a few cubes of faux cheddar and Swiss cheese, grapes, crackers and apple juice from catered tables, then proceeded to the warmly lit theatre.
By his estimate, there were about 60 people, mostly men, in attendance. These soft, rather comfortable, light brown cloth seats have a steep recline; dangerous, he thought, if I was sleepy. It’d be embarrassing for a neighbor to wake him up for snoring too loudly. Baroque music was streaming from several speakers high up on every wall. A lot of work went into the design of the Playhouse, especially the ceiling with its exposed cross beams, indirect vaulted lights and sound absorbing chambers. The decorated hemp and flax carpeting, mainly colored in hues of yellow, orange, red and brown, was so clean it looked like it was only laid down just that morning.
Reclining in his chair in the middle of the theatre, the PI watched as two gentlemen walked to the stage, the angel L’Da and his brown-haired compatriot, Ba’al’figor Duçaj. L’Da was carrying a clipboard while Ba’al’figor had a cloth-covered attaché case in his right hand. The chatter amongst the guests in the hall ceased, as did the music in the speakers, when L’Da tapped the microphone in the middle of the stage.
“Good morning,” he began, his tenorous, attention-getting voice echoing through the chamber. “Welcome to Rock & Roll Heaven, or R&R, as everyone says. My name is L’Da. The gentleman to my left is Ba’al’figor Duçaj. Some cultures know us as devas, or malaikas, or Tenshi, anxo, meli’akumi, tenger elch, or as they say in Kazakh, periste. Most of you here are predominantly English so we are simply known as angels. We are here to assist you in your passage through the heavens. You are here because, well, you did something right in life. Now, some of you I already know because you’ve been here for months, like Dale Griffin, David Bowie, Glenn Frey, all you guys from Viola Beach and CounterFlux…where are you?” Scanning the audience, he saw the members of CounterFlux near the back to the right. “How are you guys doing?”
“Not bad,” Kyle Canter from the Ohio-based hard rock band answered.
“Where’s Viola Beach?” the angel asked.
The members of Viola Beach, an English indie rock band sitting near the back to the left, raised their hands. Their manager, Craig Tarry, who also died with them in the car accident back in February, also raised his hand.
“Oh, hey guys,” L’Da greeted them. “Good to see you’re doing better.”
“Yeah,” Ba’al’figor chimed in. “We were worried for a minute. Glad you’re doing okay.”
“So,” L’Da continued, “before we begin this brief orientation, I just wanted to apologize for making some of you wait for months for this meeting. As you know, there was a major incident here, one of which we’ve never had before, and it has unnecessarily absorbed most of our time. Before I continue, are there any questions?”
“Yes,” Glenn Frey answered, standing up. “I put in my petition to visit Countr
y Heaven weeks ago, and I’m still waiting for the okay.”
“Yes,” a few other musicians grumbled. “What’s going on?”
“You’ll be happy to know, Glenn,” Ba’al’figor explained, “that the transfer station is almost operational now.”
“We’ve heard that story before!” came an anonymous voice from the back. “Always next month! Next month!” A few of the attendees voiced their agreement.
“What about Funk –R&B Heaven?” Prince shouted, standing up. “I’m suffocating here.”
“Yeah,” said Tony Lopez, a gay, 21-year-old half-Latino, half-Korean saxophonist and guitarist sitting near the front, sarcastically addressing Prince, “because they got too many men, not enough chicks for you, right?”
“Oh, man,” Prince groaned, sitting down angrily. “Be quiet.”
“Hey Prince,” Tony yelled again, “why don’t you and me hit the town tonight?”
“What you driving at?” the Purple One shouted.
“You know what I’m talking about,” Tony exclaimed. “I read you use to think people like me are the bomb, but when you found religion, we became an abomination. You made a fortune cross dressing your entire career, now we’re the freaks? How come you’ve never explained that?”
“I’ve said my piece,” Prince roared, defending himself.
“Where?” Tony asked.
Having had enough, Prince got up and stomped out, steam practically bellowing out of his ears. Some of the guests started mumbling to each other, unsure of what just transpired.
“People, people,” Ba’al’figor quieted them. “You’re all brothers and sisters here. Tearing each other down is not the way. Those of you who’ve been here for a while are aware of how huge this past unsolved incident is. The fact that they’re even contemplating a “stop placement” on Heaven, how unprecedented is that?”
“What’s ‘stop placement’?” Sir George Martin, premier music producer and all around good guy who was sitting next to David Bowie, asked.
“Well,” L’Da answered. “That’s bad news for Earth. It means they’ll stop taking admissions to Heaven till this issue has been sorted out.”
“So where will the dead go?” the famous 5th Beatle queried.
“Unfortunately,” L’Da replied, pointing downwards, “they wouldn’t have a choice.”
General consternation erupted in the hall again. L’Da quieted everyone down by tapping loudly on the microphone. “Folks,” he continued, “we’re not to that stage yet, and we hope never to get there. Until then, we need to go over a few points. Do you all know what your credit cards can and cannot be used for?”
Most everyone in the audience nodded or answered in the affirmative except Tony Lopez.
“I just got here yesterday,” the young man notified the angels. “I haven’t gotten my card yet.”
“Do you know who to see?” L’Da asked him.
“Karen Carpenter,” the musician answered. “I think I just missed her last night.”
“She’s in her shoppe all day today,” the angel informed him. “Just see her after this.” He then turned his attention back to the audience. “So, what I was saying before is that you do not need your card to pay utilities. I’ve been hearing around town that some of you would like clothes and food added to that list. If that was up to me, I’d say sure, but some things we cannot change. It’s all tied into the penances that help you travel upwards through the heavens; completely out of our hands. For those of you who are very new, your actions, bad or good, affects the level of credits in your cards. Ba’al’figor, can you tell them some of the things that decredits them?”
“Littering decredits you,” Ba’al’figor explained. “Lying, cheating and stealing decredits you even more. Greed and gluttony decredits you. Anger, hatred, jealousy and ego decredits you. Do not threaten, punch, insult or blackmail anyone. That will automatically decredit you. Learn these ten virtues – Forgiveness, Humility, Candor, Contentment, Truthfulness, Self-restraint, Austerity, Renunciation, Non-attachment and Chastity. Of course, encouraging chastity from a rock & roll crowd is like asking a lion to give up antelope steak, but at least the attempt won’t cost you any credits.”
“And don’t forget the jobs you can do around town to improve your rating,” added L’Da. “Housekeeping, maintenance, gardening, private tutoring, personal health care, companionship, shopping for the elderly, volunteering at the food bank, volunteering at the flax farms, chopping wood, rickshaw rides, digging in the ochre dye mines…”
“Anything positive, really,” Ba’al’figor added.
“Have any of you met the other angels yet?” L’Da asked. “The Reaper of Souls? The Purger of Souls? The Watcher of Souls? Make sure you catch up with them later at your own discretion. You may learn a thing or two about karmic matter and how to prevent it from collecting on your souls. Everything you need to know is in your manual. Does anyone have any questions?”
“Yes,” Gregory answered, standing. “My book came without pages.”
“I assure you they’re there,” L’Da retorted. “They’re virtual.”
“Virtual?” Gregory asked.
“Just reach in between the covers and turn the pages.”
Complying, the PI did just that. Virtual pages then appeared, allowing him to flip through them as if they were actually present all along.
“Boomba claat!” the ex-officer exclaimed. “Pretty high tech.”
“It’s that way,” L’Da schooled him, “because pages get added from time to time, rules change, and if all the sheets were there, that manual would be too thick to carry around.”
“What about the other angels?” Gregory asked. “Where can we find them?”
“City Hall,” L’Da answered. “It’s where you petition for anything.”
“How does petitioning work?” the PI asked.
“Simple, really. Say you want to travel to Bakers’ Heaven. You come down to City Hall or the police station, we scan your card to see if there are enough credits to travel and also if your behavior in the months prior to your request has been positive, and that’s it.”
“How do people travel?”
“Transfer stations,” the angel informed him. “Operated by those of us with the capability of manipulating time, space and matter.”
“What about going to school and health insurance?” Tony Lopez asked.
“Health care is free,” Ba’al’figor answered, “as is dental care and schooling. The Woodstock Hospital is open 24 hours a day so there are always doctors and nurses available. Their pharmacy is also opened 24 hours, too. If you get a simple cramp in the middle of the night, you can always get help. If, as you’re taking a stroll through the woods, you happen to trip over a root and break a bone, you’ll be immediately transported to the ER.”
Gregory raised his arm.
“Yes?” Ba’al’figor asked.
“I’m confused,” Gregory said. “How does an ambulance operate if there’s no gas here?”
“There are no ambulances or emergency vehicles, per se,” the angel answered, “but there are first responders. This is how it works. First, we trust that, with minor ailments, you can find your way to the ER, but for more serious situations like injuries or overdoing it with the booze, not that any of you guys in Rock & Roll would ever do that, you’ll simply be automatically whisked to the hospital in seconds because of the nature of your bodies being celestial matter which, of course, makes it attached to all substances in Heaven. In other words, the nature of your malady will be detected by HERO, Heaven’s Emergency Response Operation, and their operatives will quickly assess and transfer you to the ER if necessary.”
“How is this detected?” Gregory asked. “Are we being spied on all the time?”
“Hardly,” Ba’al’figor retorted. “Angels involved in the auspices of medical concerns are always on duty. That is their particular assignment – being tuned to aberrations and consequential repair of injured matter. Their machines and i
nstincts are triggered when an anomaly occurs. The physics section of your manual goes into much more details about the process. I believe it is the section on nanoscopic observations and reconciliation of quantum transport systems. Any other questions?”
“No,” Gregory attested. “I’m good.”
“Tuition, as well as school supplies, is also free,” the angel continued. “The gymnasiums are free as are the saunas, tracks, and various swimming pools around town. Many of you have already taken advantage of the free rehearsal and recording studios in Woodstock. Of course, be kind to your fellow musicians and allow others to sign up for time, too. Musical instruments are free to use at the studios, but if you want to take any of them home, even a tambourine, you can either purchase them at the studio or get your equipment in one of the music shoppes around town. For those of you who are recent arrivals, the proprietor of Guitarland is Les Paul and the manager of Mountain Music is Leo Fender and, as far as I know, these two legendary gentlemen are currently taking orders for custom shop models. If anyone’s looking for a custom shop model from Adolph Rickenbacker, I’m sorry to notify you that he became a monk roughly two years ago and will, therefore, entertain no more requests. So, if you have the credits, pay Les or Leo a visit. Also, if you’re looking for a job, you can either ask the manager of any establishment you fancy or read the employment board in City Hall. It is updated every week.”
“Any more questions?” L’Da asked the assemblage.
A gentleman of about 70 with closely cropped black hair and multi-color striped layered clothing stood up. “Hi. I’m Gary Loizzo, engineer and producer from Chicago. I was wondering – our TV’s work on the ultra-high energy gamma ray spectrum. The manual says the frequency is above 10 exahertz which would be 10 trillion cycles per second or, to simplify, 10 to the 19th power. Is there any chance of radiation poisoning?”
“TV’s, computers, digital radios, com ports, basically all visual electronics, are holograms projected by a transceiver,” Ba’al’figor answered. “They’re tuned to frequencies so high, and waves so tiny, just half the diameter of an atom or less, that the holograph can mesh with those signals. It then buffers and steps it down to manageable frequencies without exposing the operator to harmful rays. And we’re talking about photon-level particles here which has no mass. Over in Sciences they’ve started looking at even higher frequencies, zettahertz and yottahertz levels which would be 10 to the 21st power and 24th power, or 1 quadrillion hertz. If anything, those higher bands should eliminate the occasional terrestrial gamma-ray flashes that interrupt your reception. Anyway, this line of discussion is better suited for the quantum physics people, definitely not me.”
“I’m reminded of the experiments you humans conducted in the 60’s,” L’Da claimed. You were exposed to psychedelics which allowed you to see beyond normal reality. You look down at your feet but see horse’s hooves. Just outside your swaying window are multi-colored fractals coming directly at you. Not only can you see yellows and reds but you can hear them. There’s cellophane flowers of yellow and greens towering over your head. There’s Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.”
The audience laughed listening to the Beatles reference.
“Seriously, though,” L’Da continued. “What was happening was your brain works at specific frequencies. There are four recognized brain wave ranges – beta, alpha, theta and delta. As it turns out, there’s a faster one, gamma, but it’s unexplored at the moment. The psychedelics allowed the brain to tune into wavelengths it cannot typically receive, excited those cerebral parts that have been long dormant for centuries. Do you know why users always claim they feel as one with the universe? Because, for that moment, they really are. They tapped into a reality that was always there, just existing in a different dimension, if you will, like your holographic sets.”
“So, you’re saying,” Gary queried, “if we can somehow travel at the same ultra high energy frequency as gamma rays we can cross the space and time continuum back to earth?”
“That,” Ba’al’figor stated, “would probably be forbidden because it would disrupt the natural balance of the universe. Remember, technically, the holographic image does not exist. The energy to approximate bursts of those magnitudes would require over 400 kilo electron volts, or keV’s. It’s kind of like sneezing out a quasar through your nose. Not only would your head disappear, but also the Milky Way.”
“I think that’s enough for one day,” L’Da promised the gathering. “Everything we’ve spoken about today is in your manual in detail. Some parts, no doubt, are very hard to understand because of the math and physics involved, but I’d skip those bits for now. You’re in Heaven. That means enjoy yourself. Those of you really interested in this inter-dimensional travel stuff can always visit Scientific Heaven and speak to Nikola Tesla, Karl Schwarzschild and the other geniuses there. They love explaining all their hypotheses. Anyway, have a wonderful afternoon. And be kind to each other.” He then gazed in the crowd. “Where is Gregory Angelicus?”
“I’m right here,” the PI said, standing up as the audience started filing out.
“They’d like to see you in the Police Station after this,” the angel informed him. “Don’t worry. You’re not in trouble.” He then turned to the departing throng. “Everyone else, help yourself to the goodies in the lobby.” As the two angels exited, the music came back on the surrounding speakers. Several groups formed amongst the guests; some exited alone. Gregory, eyeing Tony, zigzagged through the crowd till he caught up with him in the lobby.
“Hey,” the PI introduced himself to the young man. “You’re Tony Lopez, right?”
“Yes.”
“From Seattle?”
Tony furrowed his brow. “How do you know?”
“I arrived here yesterday, too,” Gregory projected.
The realization of whom Tony was speaking to struck him immediately.
“You’re the reason I’m here!” he exploded, throwing up his arms.
“It wasn’t my fault,” Gregory explained.
Lopez was seething with anger. “I had my whole life ahead of me!”
“Feel free to take all your angst out on me,” the PI counseled him, “just know, in the end, it won’t amount to a hill of beans. We’re both here now and there’s nothing we can do.”
“Sorry, man,” Tony apologized. “You can see how fucked up this is.”
Gregory softened his tone to a gentle whisper. “Can we talk outside?”