MIKE LEE - PURGATORY BEACH

 Mike Lee is a writer, labor journalist, editor and photographer based in New York City. Fiction is published in The Avenue, The Ampersand Review, The Solidago Journal, West Trade Review, Paraphilia and Visions Libres.

Photo: Donna Rich

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                                                           Purgatory Beach
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ONE
I was stunned by the speed at which I arrived.
I stretched without relaxation and rose to my feet.  Yellow sand caked my soles as I stepped hesitantly, my legs rubbery.  I nearly fell on my third step, but caught my balance just in time.  In a flash, I thought I saw Enthyie running toward me.
DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAADDEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!
With a gasp, I turned in the direction of the sound.  I looked upon an endless stretch of sand dunes, immense in their vacancy, rising steeply to an empty blue-purple sky.  On my left was a sea languidly lapping against the shore.  With a growing sadness, I walked slowly up the sand.  It became finer with each step I took, and soon I had to crawl on my stomach.  
I hoped I was not alone, but I became resigned to the possibility.  I never should have tried to body surf in a low tide during a full moon—and in front of my child, too.  I was so stupid.  I had this calm realization that yes, I can die, so after several attempts at swimming against the vicious undertow, I raised my hand for the lifeguards.  I believe they saw me, but they must have failed to reach me in time.
In the moments hanging above Oblivion, between Life and Death, it was all explained to me.  Because I was a lapsed Catholic raised on the Baltimore Catechism, I dialed into Christian Heaven—or so I first thought.  My vast array of venial sins kept me from angel wings and an electric lyre.  I had been told multitudes of stories concerning Heaven, Hell, even Limbo, but hardly Purgatory.  My impression had been the place was little more than a dirty waiting room where we marked time before gaining entrance into Heaven, while the prayers of our loved ones down on Earth gave succor.
As I crawled to the summit of the dune, a hand grasped me firmly by the shoulder.  I expected him.  My voice was lilting, like I had been traipsing down a grassy mountainside with an attractive girl.  “Oh hello, Saint Lawrence.”
Saint Lawrence was my patron saint.  My mother named me after her favorite church.  The building itself was beautiful, a stunning piece of neo-Byzantine basilica architecture out of place in downtown Asheville, North Carolina.  The roof was the largest freestanding brick in existence; I was always afraid one would come down on me.
When I was little, my grandmother told me Saint Lawrence was the patron saint of comedians.  I learned later he also was of cooks.  This likely helped during my long years toiling in restaurants.  Twelve years as a waiter, and I never dropped a plate.  
My Saint Lawrence arrived dressed in a blue and white plaid sport coat with black Farah slacks.  His expressionless but ruddy face, marked by an eagle nose and steel-rimmed tinted glasses, completed a look that distressed me greatly.  He looked like a tile salesman circa 1979.
“Come here, my boy,” he said gently, his rasping voice clear and distinct.  “Let me take you to where you need to go.”
As his grip tightened around my shoulder, I began to sense my half-buried body levitating to perhaps an inch above the ground.  Saint Lawrence then half-carried, half-walked me to the top of the sand dune.  When we got there, I had expected more wasteland, but instead there lay before us a narrow strip of two-lane blacktop surrounded on either side by tufts of high grass.  Bits of quartz glistened diamond-like under the sunless sky in the closely packed sand.
The road was a straightaway, reminding me of the old highway between Odessa, Texas and El Paso.  It tapered off until almost the horizon, where it curved at a ninety-degree angle.  As my eyes followed the direction of the highway, I spotted several buildings rising alongside it.  My heart jumped into my throat.  I squinted.  At the horizon, I saw what I thought to be the skyline of a small city.
“There, you see.  There are others.  Plenty of others.”  My companion obviously knew what I was thinking, but from the weary tone of his voice, I got a sinking feeling that there was a catch.  “Yes there are others,” he said, shaking his head slowly.  “And you are now among them.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
“I am surprised,” he mused, scratching his chin.  “Usually the first question we get is, ‘What did I do to deserve this?’  I think you have achieved the amazing feat of starting off on the right foot.  I am most impressed.”
Saint Lawrence reached into his jacket pocket and fished out a set of keys.  He tossed them at my feet.  “Then go.  Just go.”
With that, my patron saint turned to leave.  Silky and translucent wings sprouted from his back.  He raised his arms as if signaling a touchdown.
I ran to him.  “Hey, what am I supposed to do?”  He was already several feet off the ground, out of my reach.  “What is it I have to do here?”
Saint Lawrence shrugged.  “You already know.  Just ask the driver for directions when the bus comes to pick you up.  Then think about it!”
He gave out a hearty laugh, flapped his wings once, and spiraled upwards into the sky.
I turned toward the road and began walking.  I saw the bus stand soon enough.  I was alone, now.

TWO

Instead of Ellis Island or Kennedy Terminal A, Purgatory Beach's arrival gate was nothing more than a tin-roofed shed beside the two-lane blacktop.  The city was a collection of shabby early to mid-20th century architecture with handfuls of Napoleon Revivalist scattered about for spice, stretching out for miles along a coastline, a turgid sea on one side and an endless desert on the other.  Purgatory Beach was a conventionally middle American mid-century city, in the unpretentious inelegance of its inhabitants and the charms it offered.  I discovered upon arrival that I was seventeen again.  That was a good year for me.  I guess that was the point.  All the souls were young, but there were no children or older people.  We were ageless.  I grew comforted by the familiarity of my new home.  I rather liked the atmosphere.  At the very least, I could count on the afterlife to be a safe harbor of sorts.  Perhaps there embedded was my punishment.
I “lived” in one half of the top floor of a whitewashed five-story wood frame pseudo-Victorian building, which was in better condition indoors than out.  My apartment consisted of a living room, a separate full kitchen, a bathroom, and a bedroom large enough for a writing desk that I rarely used for its intended purpose.  It remained somewhat clean thanks to an unseen maid service that came in when I was out.  While the hardwood parquet floor was swept, I saw dust clouds gathering in the corners.  
The best parts of my quarters were the archaic brass fixtures.  I always made a point to polish the bathroom and kitchen spigots.  They gleamed when the light hit, a kaleidoscope of colors reflected off the walls.  In the afterlife, cheap magic continued to amaze.
I once read a smarmy New Yorker cartoon which explained that in the afterlife, we get back the possessions we lost.  When I entered my apartment for the first time, I half-expected I'd get the Wire album I loaned to an ex-friend in 1980.  I got that, and more—from the mechanical musical koala bear I received for my first Christmas, to the silver bangle my wife gave me for our second wedding anniversary that I lost on a MetroNorth train several months before my unfortunate demise.  I stored most of these items in a box at the bottom of the walk-in closet in my bedroom.  Total lack of joy regarding sentiment: another punishment.
I did listen to the Wire album.  French Film Blurred was my favorite song.
From conversations with my fellow denizens, I learned early on that Purgatory Beach was only one of numerous sites in which we dead resided.  I concluded that this one was where the people who constantly say “life sucks” washed up.  The intended punishment was an indeterminate amount of time accepting the mediocre. We passed that time dwelling on rumors in the street, in the cafes, in our bedrooms.    
Thriving on half-truths and wishful thinking was part of the concept of Hope, which is the driving force that replaces Logic once we have left the Living.  The hope was, simply, that one day we would leave.  Some of us did move on to that better place.  Lately, however, fewer and fewer had left.  The story around town was few of those among the living cared enough to pray for our redemption.
Many attempted to purge themselves of their sins by living as sorrowful hermits; these guilt-wracked souls invariably wandered off into the desert wastelands outside of town.  I thought they were ridiculous, as did others, but we kept these musings to ourselves.  One never knew who would be tuning in.
My suffering seemed distant.  I once thought all mysteries would get explained after death; instead, I became more confused and more concerned for my soul.  Perhaps my indifference was predestined.  If that were the case, Free Will did not exist, and there shouldn't have been any reason for me to be in Purgatory.  
I spent the majority of my time alone.  Mornings, I stayed in my rooms, reading mostly fictional fare checked out from the local library.  As I had expected, being a failed writer of sorts myself, the stacks were filled to capacity with the unfinished, never started, or lost works of souls who were or remained here.  Some of my reading was quite good, though most deserved oblivion.  There were only so many Proust and Kerouac rehashes I could take in one eternity.  Much of the rest was moody detective-type stuff.
I spent my afternoons and evenings driving a dark green 1952 Buick I found parked in front of the house of a soul recently passed upwards, my explorations never-ending.  There was a lot to see, and I had time to look around.  Beach Avenue was the quintessential downtown drag, stretching for miles along the shore.  On both sides were a variety of images straight out of post-war America: gaudy neon signs advertised jazz and swing clubs and red brick bar lounges in various states of repair.  Plate glass and aluminum burger joints with booths colored nail polish red or HoJo green beckoned the hungry for grease with fries on the side, attended by souls humbling themselves by living the lives of fry cooks and waitresses.  I swore I saw Frank Sinatra jerking sodas once, but I didn't ask.  Scattered amid the debris of this hepcat heaven were a number of art deco movie theaters, always showing triple features of movies never made on Earth.  I sat in the air-conditioned nightmare of the Rialto to watch Joan of Arc with Katherine Hepburn.  I got up in the middle.
What made Purgatory Beach so tolerable was the routine existence of the inhabitants who didn't flee into the desert.  They did what they could to maintain a stable situation.  Folks who grew up during the Depression and World War II, former Florida retirees with a second chance at their respective salad days, predominated.  Sprinkled about were a number of 50s drag racing greasers and individuals like me, apparently dropped out of their time—perhaps for amusement.  Alongside the shore was a strip of seedy-looking dance halls and carnival attractions.  I found it pleasantly quaint, and dived into it with the passion of a country bumpkin.  It was valuable to be the smart guy swimming in a sea filled with guilty innocents.  For once, I wasn't the gullible one.
I couldn't figure out why I ended up here.  I was not particularly nostalgic for swing music or the interminably fatiguing stories about war and economic depressions.  There were only so many tales of woe I could take, and after a few weeks I withdrew from most contact.  I had made several attempts at picking up “skirts” with varying degrees of success.  The problem with these women was that all of them seemed to wind up with the men they married—or close.  It also wasn't helpful that I knew so much more than they did.  In their naiveté, they confused my “post-modern” sophistication with abject perverted sleaziness.
One night, I pulled over to hang out at the arcades.  The mechanical wonders buzzed, flashed, and spun magically.  To me, they were the most real things in this metaphysical place.  The machines were there to be grasped and manipulated, the effulgent metal warm to the touch.  However, despite my experience with the archaic five-digit pinball machines when alive, my efforts with these ancient contraptions came to naught.  I kept trying until I became unusually frustrated and left.  I felt claustrophobic, and for the first time since it happened, I had that trapped rat feeling from when I drowned.
When I got my bearings, I realized I had gone quite a distance.  The row of arcades was far behind me, and directly ahead were the lights of the permanent carnival built on stilts above the beach.  My gaze focused on the Ferris wheel, its flashing yellow and green bulbs burning brightly in counterpoint against the measureless emptiness of the starless night sky.  I could not avoid being mesmerized by its enervated movement.
As I watched the turning wheel, my mind teemed with a belated awareness.
A life treading water.
In death doing the same.
Rolling, turning, sliding--
THREE

I woke the following morning ready to vomit, but by the time I reached the bathroom sink, I felt well enough for my obligatory face washing.  Cool water penetrated my pores, shocking me.
I felt an urge to cry, but gave it up.  It knew it wouldn’t do anything but give me a headache.
The rain came down hard.  I could smell it—like steel burned with a blowtorch.  The clouds thundered a staccato verbiage.  It rained early and often in Purgatory, though by the middle of the morning it would pass into clear light.
I stared into my reflection.  My features had attained the consistency of cookie dough.  I resembled a wax bust just beginning to melt under the glare of television studio klieg lights.  As I probed my flesh with my fingers, I thought of a quote from Lenin about mush and bayonets.  I couldn't remember what I did after finding the Ferris wheel.
I showered, standing under the cascading hot water until I realized I had let the plug fall in and had backed the water almost to the brim.
I shut off the spigots and unplugged the drain.
The day moved slowly, much more so than usual.  I had attempted to keep track of the time since my death in a spiral notebook on top of the desk in my bedroom.  Before turning in at night, I would write down the facts of the day.  Upon opening, I discovered that I had neglected to fill in dates for some time and, judging by the nature and detail of some of the recent entries, I had also skipped several days.
I felt as if I had been transported into a Trans-Antarctic wasteland.  I sat ensnared in an immobilizing grip, unable to do anything but stare ahead with opened eyes at a depthless nothing.  For a while, I thought this was it, the moment I was waiting for.  I was getting out of this wretched place.
My mind reeled.  Fragments of voices soared and twisted like confetti around me.
Sitting at the right hand of the Father—Through Him, in Him, with Him—I hate you—get out of my—hallowed be thy name—I don't think you understand--
DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAADEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!
Next thing I knew, I was on the floor in fetal position, crying uncontrollably.
“I want to get out of here!  I want to see my daughter!”
I didn't need Him to tell me the answer.  I understood it would be an emphatic no.  I cried for her anyway.  
He had a lot to say.  I only wished He had at the very beginning—that way I wouldn't have built up all that false hope.  Maybe He was only trying to do a poor soul a favor.  Yeah, sure.
The advantages of being dead were incalculable.  One could eat here, and we did, as well as perform all other human functions, like going to the bathroom, sleeping to dream, getting drunk, catching a cold, achieving an orgasm, and weeping—but one did not need to.  We could hold down a job if we wanted to, paint a picture, hang a fishing line off a pier, drive a car, smoke a cigarette, dance like a maniac, or do absolutely nothing at all for as long as we wanted.
That's what I did—nothing.  I stayed inside for many days, spending most of the time lying in bed like a slug after a March rain.  I thought about leaving for the desert, but never got motivated enough to put on my shorts.
One morning when it didn't rain, I spotted a manila envelope lying halfway under my front door.  I returned to my bedroom.  I didn't want to deal with surprises.
After a day, I went over to the envelope and picked it up.  I opened it and pulled out the contents.  Upon viewing the photographs, I decided without hesitation that I needed to get out of my apartment.
My suits, neatly pressed, hung in my closet.  I chose a dark green Italian styled two-button suit, a white Oxford collar shirt, and a green and gold striped tie.
My car remained parked on the corner, a bit spotted from rain, but a little polish solved that.  An advantage to Purgatory Beach was that there were no cops.  After stopping off for a haircut, I drove to the peninsula.
It was a typically bright day.  I rolled down the window, taking in the cool breeze blowing in from the sea.  I wondered where the wind originated, but was reminded again of miracles.
I hit the lonely stretch of highway leading to where I had first arrived.  Dotting the sandy landscape were a few rude structures and tattered tents held together with little else than one's faith.  Here had lived some of the radically humble souls who had gone over the edge.  They looked abandoned.
Further down, I saw a wild-eyed creature in rags walking along the road.  I pulled up and called out to him.
“Where is everybody?”
He turned to me and said, barely audible, “Gone.  All gone.”  He then quickened his gait, shambling over the dune and out of sight.  I needn't have bothered asking, but I wanted to hear confirmation that these children of God were leaving.
The wind kicked up as I restarted the engine.  I rolled up the window to keep the sand from blowing in.
“Jubilee is coming,” I murmured.  “Too damn soon.”

FOUR

I spent the remainder of the day at the shore, sitting behind the wheel of my Buick and dwelling on the absurdity of my existence.  The surf was harsh.  It reminded me of that day at Rockaway Beach with my wife, and my daughter.  I had a life then, admittedly a not very good one and without much hope, but that existence had belonged to me, and I wanted it back.  I might as well have wished for a golden chariot and a team of unicorns.
I sat waiting for the night.  I wanted to meet her, the woman who left me the note and the photographs.  I opened the envelope again.
She had sent a set of eight black and white glossy pictures of me in various candid poses.  In one, I was banging an upright pinball machine that had drained all five chances.  A poignant one showed me leaning over a jukebox, holding a barrel glass of Irish whisky in my hand, staring sad-eyed at the selections.  Another had me sitting at a table outside the front door of a café, looking pensively up at the night sky, as if expecting a comet to come streaking by above.  The most disturbing were the pair from when I arrived.  One was at the bus stand, the other the bench where I sat waiting patiently for the bus.  It looked as though she had been photographing from across the street.  I remembered no one being there.
I knew who she was before I read the letter.
I put the car into gear and got back on the road.  I watched as a gust of wind blew over several of the abandoned tents dotting the dunes.  On the horizon, the shadows began shrouding the city, the assembling darkness beckoning me.
Mysteries swirled through my mind.  I tried to decide which question to ask first when I met her.  It was perplexing to me that she had spent so long following me around before letting me know she was here.  At that bitter thought, I nearly went home, but I sped on anyway.  I reached Beach Avenue as the heavy curtain of darkness fell across the empty sky.  The lights brought artificial solace.  I mused on what the dead did to brighten their nights in the pre-Edison afterlives.  They probably screamed in madness.
I turned on the radio.  Something called the Cab Driver’s Lament was on, playing blues and old be-bop hits.  After a superlative Cab Calloway cover of “Flat-Foot Floogie on the Floy-Floy,” the smooth talking DJ spoke of driving down the loneliest mile.
I pulled into a gravel lot situated in front of the widest expanse of beach, a mile below the main arcade.  It was a different spot than my usual.  I felt like breaking a habit.  One had to in eternity.
I walked with the panache of a sleepwalker, shuffling quietly, oblivious to the masses surrounding me.  Their faces had long melded into one.
The red and green neon lights on the sign hanging above the door said it all: THE BIG SANDY NOTHING.  Upon entering, I nearly tripped over a potted fern set too close to the cigarette machine.  Like all new taverns, it was three deep at the bar.  I pushed my way through, wondering if I would find her.  I spotted a dent in the crowd near the wait station and, stepping forward, I felt a set of fingers wrap around the lapel of my jacket.  I looked to see who did the pulling.
“Hey there, honey,” Irene purred.  “What's shaking?”
“Oh God, you're really here,” I gasped.
She laughed, throwing her brown hair aside.  “Good answer.  Have a seat.”  Irene was almost eighteen again—the time we first met.  She had the classic Oklahoma Scots-Cherokee look, circa 1979.  Her dark brown hair fell about her shoulders, framing her freckled face, the high cheekbones, the narrow nose, and the green eyes to kill for.  Irene was always the most glamorous and charismatic woman I ever met.  Dead, she was even better.  That scared me.
I sat on the empty stool beside her.
Irene nudged me, pushing a beer in front of my hands.
“Drink up,” she snickered.  “Cheers, honey.”
I caressed the cool glass before putting it to my lips.  Part of me wanted to embrace my first girlfriend, while the other desired to flee out the door.
Irene sighed, twisting the swizzle stick between her fingers.  “I was hoping for something melodramatic.  You always were one to disappoint.”
“Sorry.”  Years later, she still had to get her digs in.
Irene picked up her glass and rattled the half-melted cubes.  Absentmindedly, she parted her lips, took the swizzle stick between her teeth, and slid it from one side of her mouth to the other with her tongue.  Using the tip of her tongue, Irene lifted one end of the stick so that the other end rested against her nose.  Closing her mouth, she bent the plastic, and blew hard.  The swizzle stick flipped away, landing in the glass.  It stood straight up for a brief moment, then dropped to one side.
I grinned.  “Nice trick.”
“I had a lot of practice.  I'm still learning to twist the thing into a pretzel in my mouth, though.”
“I’ve only heard of that, never saw anyone pull it off.”
Irene tipped her head, shaking her bangs from her eyes.  “Says a lot about the company you keep, Lawrence.”
“I'm not so sure, considering what you're wearing.”
Automatically, Irene got up from the barstool and dropped her hands to adjust the hem of her skirt.  She sat back down, blushing.
“I was only kidding, Irene.  You look fine.”
Irene replied, flustered, “You’re making me self-conscious.”
"Gee, I didn't know I had that effect.”
"You do—or did.”
"Thanks, I guess.”
Irene Rogers had cast a long shadow on my existence.  First loves do that.  For years, she haunted me.  Now we had a chance to spook each other.
Irene's life was a seemingly endless series of stumbles.  Like me, she complained to her diary instead of doing anything about it.  She shared my general detachment from the mundane aspects of life and ambivalence about leaving good impressions on strangers.  Both of us were wanderers in our own minds, which meant we avoided admitting what would be obvious to others.  It was no small miracle we survived our teens.
Irene looked hard for scapegoats for her inner discontent and lack of follow through, and I certainly fit the bill.  I was the morosely dark kind of guy women spent years of therapy recovering from.
The last I heard anything about her, in the spring before I died, a mutual friend told me of his amazement at the depth of her bitterness.
“So,” I wanted to get her answers quickly.  “What brought you here?”
“I wrecked my truck outside Kingsland, on the way to visit my sister.”
“How's Anne doing?”  Her kid sister was also a knockout.
“I don't know.  I didn't get to find out.”
She was the same old Irene.
My head dropped to my chest.  “Sorry, I'm no good at this.”  I was fading fast.  I should have stayed at home.
“I heard you.  But stop mumbling.”
I spoke up.  “How did you find me?  I mean, I didn't even know you’d croaked.”
“I don't know.  Luck, I suppose.”  She paused, then let out her breath slowly.  I used to allow Irene few opportunities to speak—that alone was enough to get her in a rage back then.  Only later did I become a good listener.  
“When I got here, I was totally out of sorts.  Even with my sweet guardian angel trying to guide me through this mess, I was so horrified at the prospect of a near-eternity in this place, I ran off into the desert at the first opportunity.  I wandered around the dunes in rags, raving like a moron, praying for my misbegotten soul.  One afternoon, I spot you at the bus stand, hanging around with a thumb up your ass, and it snaps me back into reality.  I decided to return to the city and eke out a more favorable existence.  For that, I thank you.”
“Then how did you get my picture?”
“I had found a camera in an empty tent.  Taking pictures was something to do—to pass the time when I wasn't feeling sorry for myself.  Then I see you looking hopeless and I have to say, well, I was inspired.”
“Gee, thanks.”
She continued, “After I settled down, I went looking for you.  It was easy—all I had to do was hang out at the arcade.  Sure enough, one night you appeared.”
“And so—here I am.”  I spread my hands over the bar, stretching my fingers toward hers.
“There you are.”  Her fingers brushed against mine, and she smiled.
I tried to phrase my next statement right, without putting her on the spot, but I just blurted it out anyway.  “You had to see me.”
Her answer was straight.
“Yeah Lawrence, I did.  I shouldn't be alone anymore.”

FIVE

After we left the bar, we walked arm in arm down the boardwalk.
“Yeah Irene, I was at the end of my rope.  I was very unhappy.  I felt my life was at a dead-end.  It got so bad, I began to fear for my child's future.  I had to stay, you see, but I realized that I would have to go eventually.”  I paused and sighed.
Irene shook her head sadly.  “You took unnecessary, stupid risks.  While you may not have consciously intended to kill yourself, death was obviously somewhere in the back of your mind.”
“It wasn’t as if I tried to die, it's that I didn’t try very hard to live.”
“Same difference.  I drew more inward after my parents died, and as I grew older I got careless.”
“What, you tried to kill yourself?”  I didn't think Irene was the type.
“I thought about it a lot.”  She said no more on the subject, letting the words fly as the seagulls rose from the shore beside us.  “I have another question,” she added.  “What did the animals do to get here?”
I shrugged.  “Theology isn’t my forte.”
“Then I can't ask you about your recent visit to Him.”
That stopped me in my tracks.
“I know all about it.  I was there, too.”
I leaned against the railing, resting on my elbow.  “I had suspected everyone got the call.  Obviously, nobody wants to talk about it.”
“Yeah, it's too touchy a subject.”
“No one likes knowing their soul is in peril of oblivion.”
He had grabbed us to announce the Good News, that God had enough of playing around and intended to shut everything down—with no explanation.  Why he bothered to grant us fair warning was mystifying.  I had a feeling He was giving us one last roll of the dice to make our individual souls worthy of surviving His Judgment.  I doubted God would be so flippant regarding his innumerable creations.  
There was no assurance that the lot of us in our corner on the shore would be moving on to the right hand of the Father.  The certainty was that God planned on tying up the loose ends soon.  I hoped that included my wife and daughter, but God didn't hand out concessions or promises.  Anyhow, Irene complicated things.  Her arrival at this juncture had me leaning into metaphysical territory I knew nothing about.  I feared the potential ramifications.  It became evident that, Oblivion or Heaven, Irene and I were twinned.  When we were teenagers in love, we used to talk about that.
Eyes downcast, Irene asked, “Do you think it’s tonight?”
    I pushed off the railing and put my arm around her.  “Oh, it could be tonight, next week, next month, or next year—whatever, as much as I hate to be reminded, time is always relative around here.  This will happen when it happens.”
“That's not reassuring.”
“I'm not God.”
We stopped at a photo booth for a picture; the photograph came out perfectly.  It reminded me of one taken of a teenage couple standing in the driveway of a mobile home in 1979.  It must have rained, because everything was so green, the grass was practically sparkling.  The girl wore a vintage purple suit with a pleated skirt falling slightly below her knees.  The boy wore a pair of black baggy pants, black oxfords, and a wrinkled white T-shirt.  They were holding hands, clutching tightly, as if a tornado might suddenly touch down and sweep them apart forever.  They were leaning slightly forward, looking at the camera with an intensity peculiar for their age.  Both were smiling and thinking Heaven was just around the corner.
Our heels clicked on the wood at our feet, the sound reverberating above the general din.  Irene wanted to stop in front of the carnival where I had my nervous attack the night before the Visitation.
I stared at the Ferris wheel turning slowly above, jutting against the infinite darkness.
“Such is my fate,” I murmured.
“I'm drawn to it too,” Irene replied, moving closer to me.
I stared at the colored lights, marveling that such a shoddy contraption could work.  The rusted, creaking metal, flaking paint, and broken and fading lights were the true center of this land of the dead.  Embedded into the molecules of the bolts groaning under the weight of the slowly turning wheel were billions of middling triumphs and spectacular failures.
Through the wire mesh fence, I reached out and touched the cool surface of the rusted metal.  I pulled back my fingertips, turning them over to see the flakes of blue paint and rust.  I remembered finding my first lucky penny and popping my first wheelie on my bicycle.  I turned, facing Irene's gleaming eyes.  They were the brightest ever in my memory.  She leaned over and kissed me.  Her warm, wet mouth enveloped me; I began to remember the feeling of slowly being pulled underwater.  I wanted this to never end.
Irene rested her face against my shoulder.  I caressed her hair, running my fingers through her brown locks.  I suddenly remembered her perfume.  I had bought her a bottle with my last paycheck from the Texaco gas station I worked during my senior year in high school.  The bottle broke before I gave it to her.
Then it struck me.  I reached down and pulled out a box from my jacket pocket.
We bought our tickets at the gate and waited patiently for our car.
The rest of the riders were a motley collection of humans as disparate as they were desperate.  Neither of us engaged them in conversation.
As the gate shut beside us, Irene spoke, her voice filled with a wonder she probably hadn't felt in ages.  “Once you’re on one of these things, you could ride forever.”
“Tonight, I think so,” I told her.
As we rose above Purgatory Beach, we held hands, my grip tightening on hers while I looked down.
The lights below us began to go out, one by one.

​ONE
I was stunned by the speed at which I arrived.
I stretched without relaxation and rose to my feet.  Yellow sand caked my soles as I stepped hesitantly, my legs rubbery.  I nearly fell on my third step, but caught my balance just in time.  In a flash, I thought I saw Enthyie running toward me.
DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAADDEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!
With a gasp, I turned in the direction of the sound.  I looked upon an endless stretch of sand dunes, immense in their vacancy, rising steeply to an empty blue-purple sky.  On my left was a sea languidly lapping against the shore.  With a growing sadness, I walked slowly up the sand.  It became finer with each step I took, and soon I had to crawl on my stomach.  
I hoped I was not alone, but I became resigned to the possibility.  I never should have tried to body surf in a low tide during a full moon—and in front of my child, too.  I was so stupid.  I had this calm realization that yes, I can die, so after several attempts at swimming against the vicious undertow, I raised my hand for the lifeguards.  I believe they saw me, but they must have failed to reach me in time.
In the moments hanging above Oblivion, between Life and Death, it was all explained to me.  Because I was a lapsed Catholic raised on the Baltimore Catechism, I dialed into Christian Heaven—or so I first thought.  My vast array of venial sins kept me from angel wings and an electric lyre.  I had been told multitudes of stories concerning Heaven, Hell, even Limbo, but hardly Purgatory.  My impression had been the place was little more than a dirty waiting room where we marked time before gaining entrance into Heaven, while the prayers of our loved ones down on Earth gave succor.
As I crawled to the summit of the dune, a hand grasped me firmly by the shoulder.  I expected him.  My voice was lilting, like I had been traipsing down a grassy mountainside with an attractive girl.  “Oh hello, Saint Lawrence.”
Saint Lawrence was my patron saint.  My mother named me after her favorite church.  The building itself was beautiful, a stunning piece of neo-Byzantine basilica architecture out of place in downtown Asheville, North Carolina.  The roof was the largest freestanding brick in existence; I was always afraid one would come down on me.
When I was little, my grandmother told me Saint Lawrence was the patron saint of comedians.  I learned later he also was of cooks.  This likely helped during my long years toiling in restaurants.  Twelve years as a waiter, and I never dropped a plate.  
My Saint Lawrence arrived dressed in a blue and white plaid sport coat with black Farah slacks.  His expressionless but ruddy face, marked by an eagle nose and steel-rimmed tinted glasses, completed a look that distressed me greatly.  He looked like a tile salesman circa 1979.
“Come here, my boy,” he said gently, his rasping voice clear and distinct.  “Let me take you to where you need to go.”
As his grip tightened around my shoulder, I began to sense my half-buried body levitating to perhaps an inch above the ground.  Saint Lawrence then half-carried, half-walked me to the top of the sand dune.  When we got there, I had expected more wasteland, but instead there lay before us a narrow strip of two-lane blacktop surrounded on either side by tufts of high grass.  Bits of quartz glistened diamond-like under the sunless sky in the closely packed sand.
The road was a straightaway, reminding me of the old highway between Odessa, Texas and El Paso.  It tapered off until almost the horizon, where it curved at a ninety-degree angle.  As my eyes followed the direction of the highway, I spotted several buildings rising alongside it.  My heart jumped into my throat.  I squinted.  At the horizon, I saw what I thought to be the skyline of a small city.
“There, you see.  There are others.  Plenty of others.”  My companion obviously knew what I was thinking, but from the weary tone of his voice, I got a sinking feeling that there was a catch.  “Yes there are others,” he said, shaking his head slowly.  “And you are now among them.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
“I am surprised,” he mused, scratching his chin.  “Usually the first question we get is, ‘What did I do to deserve this?’  I think you have achieved the amazing feat of starting off on the right foot.  I am most impressed.”
Saint Lawrence reached into his jacket pocket and fished out a set of keys.  He tossed them at my feet.  “Then go.  Just go.”
With that, my patron saint turned to leave.  Silky and translucent wings sprouted from his back.  He raised his arms as if signaling a touchdown.
I ran to him.  “Hey, what am I supposed to do?”  He was already several feet off the ground, out of my reach.  “What is it I have to do here?”
Saint Lawrence shrugged.  “You already know.  Just ask the driver for directions when the bus comes to pick you up.  Then think about it!”
He gave out a hearty laugh, flapped his wings once, and spiraled upwards into the sky.
I turned toward the road and began walking.  I saw the bus stand soon enough.  I was alone, now.

TWO

Instead of Ellis Island or Kennedy Terminal A, Purgatory Beach's arrival gate was nothing more than a tin-roofed shed beside the two-lane blacktop.  The city was a collection of shabby early to mid-20th century architecture with handfuls of Napoleon Revivalist scattered about for spice, stretching out for miles along a coastline, a turgid sea on one side and an endless desert on the other.  Purgatory Beach was a conventionally middle American mid-century city, in the unpretentious inelegance of its inhabitants and the charms it offered.  I discovered upon arrival that I was seventeen again.  That was a good year for me.  I guess that was the point.  All the souls were young, but there were no children or older people.  We were ageless.  I grew comforted by the familiarity of my new home.  I rather liked the atmosphere.  At the very least, I could count on the afterlife to be a safe harbor of sorts.  Perhaps there embedded was my punishment.
I “lived” in one half of the top floor of a whitewashed five-story wood frame pseudo-Victorian building, which was in better condition indoors than out.  My apartment consisted of a living room, a separate full kitchen, a bathroom, and a bedroom large enough for a writing desk that I rarely used for its intended purpose.  It remained somewhat clean thanks to an unseen maid service that came in when I was out.  While the hardwood parquet floor was swept, I saw dust clouds gathering in the corners.  
The best parts of my quarters were the archaic brass fixtures.  I always made a point to polish the bathroom and kitchen spigots.  They gleamed when the light hit, a kaleidoscope of colors reflected off the walls.  In the afterlife, cheap magic continued to amaze.
I once read a smarmy New Yorker cartoon which explained that in the afterlife, we get back the possessions we lost.  When I entered my apartment for the first time, I half-expected I'd get the Wire album I loaned to an ex-friend in 1980.  I got that, and more—from the mechanical musical koala bear I received for my first Christmas, to the silver bangle my wife gave me for our second wedding anniversary that I lost on a MetroNorth train several months before my unfortunate demise.  I stored most of these items in a box at the bottom of the walk-in closet in my bedroom.  Total lack of joy regarding sentiment: another punishment.
I did listen to the Wire album.  French Film Blurred was my favorite song.
From conversations with my fellow denizens, I learned early on that Purgatory Beach was only one of numerous sites in which we dead resided.  I concluded that this one was where the people who constantly say “life sucks” washed up.  The intended punishment was an indeterminate amount of time accepting the mediocre. We passed that time dwelling on rumors in the street, in the cafes, in our bedrooms.    
Thriving on half-truths and wishful thinking was part of the concept of Hope, which is the driving force that replaces Logic once we have left the Living.  The hope was, simply, that one day we would leave.  Some of us did move on to that better place.  Lately, however, fewer and fewer had left.  The story around town was few of those among the living cared enough to pray for our redemption.
Many attempted to purge themselves of their sins by living as sorrowful hermits; these guilt-wracked souls invariably wandered off into the desert wastelands outside of town.  I thought they were ridiculous, as did others, but we kept these musings to ourselves.  One never knew who would be tuning in.
My suffering seemed distant.  I once thought all mysteries would get explained after death; instead, I became more confused and more concerned for my soul.  Perhaps my indifference was predestined.  If that were the case, Free Will did not exist, and there shouldn't have been any reason for me to be in Purgatory.  
I spent the majority of my time alone.  Mornings, I stayed in my rooms, reading mostly fictional fare checked out from the local library.  As I had expected, being a failed writer of sorts myself, the stacks were filled to capacity with the unfinished, never started, or lost works of souls who were or remained here.  Some of my reading was quite good, though most deserved oblivion.  There were only so many Proust and Kerouac rehashes I could take in one eternity.  Much of the rest was moody detective-type stuff.
I spent my afternoons and evenings driving a dark green 1952 Buick I found parked in front of the house of a soul recently passed upwards, my explorations never-ending.  There was a lot to see, and I had time to look around.  Beach Avenue was the quintessential downtown drag, stretching for miles along the shore.  On both sides were a variety of images straight out of post-war America: gaudy neon signs advertised jazz and swing clubs and red brick bar lounges in various states of repair.  Plate glass and aluminum burger joints with booths colored nail polish red or HoJo green beckoned the hungry for grease with fries on the side, attended by souls humbling themselves by living the lives of fry cooks and waitresses.  I swore I saw Frank Sinatra jerking sodas once, but I didn't ask.  Scattered amid the debris of this hepcat heaven were a number of art deco movie theaters, always showing triple features of movies never made on Earth.  I sat in the air-conditioned nightmare of the Rialto to watch Joan of Arc with Katherine Hepburn.  I got up in the middle.
What made Purgatory Beach so tolerable was the routine existence of the inhabitants who didn't flee into the desert.  They did what they could to maintain a stable situation.  Folks who grew up during the Depression and World War II, former Florida retirees with a second chance at their respective salad days, predominated.  Sprinkled about were a number of 50s drag racing greasers and individuals like me, apparently dropped out of their time—perhaps for amusement.  Alongside the shore was a strip of seedy-looking dance halls and carnival attractions.  I found it pleasantly quaint, and dived into it with the passion of a country bumpkin.  It was valuable to be the smart guy swimming in a sea filled with guilty innocents.  For once, I wasn't the gullible one.
I couldn't figure out why I ended up here.  I was not particularly nostalgic for swing music or the interminably fatiguing stories about war and economic depressions.  There were only so many tales of woe I could take, and after a few weeks I withdrew from most contact.  I had made several attempts at picking up “skirts” with varying degrees of success.  The problem with these women was that all of them seemed to wind up with the men they married—or close.  It also wasn't helpful that I knew so much more than they did.  In their naiveté, they confused my “post-modern” sophistication with abject perverted sleaziness.
One night, I pulled over to hang out at the arcades.  The mechanical wonders buzzed, flashed, and spun magically.  To me, they were the most real things in this metaphysical place.  The machines were there to be grasped and manipulated, the effulgent metal warm to the touch.  However, despite my experience with the archaic five-digit pinball machines when alive, my efforts with these ancient contraptions came to naught.  I kept trying until I became unusually frustrated and left.  I felt claustrophobic, and for the first time since it happened, I had that trapped rat feeling from when I drowned.
When I got my bearings, I realized I had gone quite a distance.  The row of arcades was far behind me, and directly ahead were the lights of the permanent carnival built on stilts above the beach.  My gaze focused on the Ferris wheel, its flashing yellow and green bulbs burning brightly in counterpoint against the measureless emptiness of the starless night sky.  I could not avoid being mesmerized by its enervated movement.
As I watched the turning wheel, my mind teemed with a belated awareness.
A life treading water.
In death doing the same.
Rolling, turning, sliding--
THREE

I woke the following morning ready to vomit, but by the time I reached the bathroom sink, I felt well enough for my obligatory face washing.  Cool water penetrated my pores, shocking me.
I felt an urge to cry, but gave it up.  It knew it wouldn’t do anything but give me a headache.
The rain came down hard.  I could smell it—like steel burned with a blowtorch.  The clouds thundered a staccato verbiage.  It rained early and often in Purgatory, though by the middle of the morning it would pass into clear light.
I stared into my reflection.  My features had attained the consistency of cookie dough.  I resembled a wax bust just beginning to melt under the glare of television studio klieg lights.  As I probed my flesh with my fingers, I thought of a quote from Lenin about mush and bayonets.  I couldn't remember what I did after finding the Ferris wheel.
I showered, standing under the cascading hot water until I realized I had let the plug fall in and had backed the water almost to the brim.
I shut off the spigots and unplugged the drain.
The day moved slowly, much more so than usual.  I had attempted to keep track of the time since my death in a spiral notebook on top of the desk in my bedroom.  Before turning in at night, I would write down the facts of the day.  Upon opening, I discovered that I had neglected to fill in dates for some time and, judging by the nature and detail of some of the recent entries, I had also skipped several days.
I felt as if I had been transported into a Trans-Antarctic wasteland.  I sat ensnared in an immobilizing grip, unable to do anything but stare ahead with opened eyes at a depthless nothing.  For a while, I thought this was it, the moment I was waiting for.  I was getting out of this wretched place.
My mind reeled.  Fragments of voices soared and twisted like confetti around me.
Sitting at the right hand of the Father—Through Him, in Him, with Him—I hate you—get out of my—hallowed be thy name—I don't think you understand--
DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAADEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!
Next thing I knew, I was on the floor in fetal position, crying uncontrollably.
“I want to get out of here!  I want to see my daughter!”
I didn't need Him to tell me the answer.  I understood it would be an emphatic no.  I cried for her anyway.  
He had a lot to say.  I only wished He had at the very beginning—that way I wouldn't have built up all that false hope.  Maybe He was only trying to do a poor soul a favor.  Yeah, sure.
The advantages of being dead were incalculable.  One could eat here, and we did, as well as perform all other human functions, like going to the bathroom, sleeping to dream, getting drunk, catching a cold, achieving an orgasm, and weeping—but one did not need to.  We could hold down a job if we wanted to, paint a picture, hang a fishing line off a pier, drive a car, smoke a cigarette, dance like a maniac, or do absolutely nothing at all for as long as we wanted.
That's what I did—nothing.  I stayed inside for many days, spending most of the time lying in bed like a slug after a March rain.  I thought about leaving for the desert, but never got motivated enough to put on my shorts.
One morning when it didn't rain, I spotted a manila envelope lying halfway under my front door.  I returned to my bedroom.  I didn't want to deal with surprises.
After a day, I went over to the envelope and picked it up.  I opened it and pulled out the contents.  Upon viewing the photographs, I decided without hesitation that I needed to get out of my apartment.
My suits, neatly pressed, hung in my closet.  I chose a dark green Italian styled two-button suit, a white Oxford collar shirt, and a green and gold striped tie.
My car remained parked on the corner, a bit spotted from rain, but a little polish solved that.  An advantage to Purgatory Beach was that there were no cops.  After stopping off for a haircut, I drove to the peninsula.
It was a typically bright day.  I rolled down the window, taking in the cool breeze blowing in from the sea.  I wondered where the wind originated, but was reminded again of miracles.
I hit the lonely stretch of highway leading to where I had first arrived.  Dotting the sandy landscape were a few rude structures and tattered tents held together with little else than one's faith.  Here had lived some of the radically humble souls who had gone over the edge.  They looked abandoned.
Further down, I saw a wild-eyed creature in rags walking along the road.  I pulled up and called out to him.
“Where is everybody?”
He turned to me and said, barely audible, “Gone.  All gone.”  He then quickened his gait, shambling over the dune and out of sight.  I needn't have bothered asking, but I wanted to hear confirmation that these children of God were leaving.
The wind kicked up as I restarted the engine.  I rolled up the window to keep the sand from blowing in.
“Jubilee is coming,” I murmured.  “Too damn soon.”

FOUR

I spent the remainder of the day at the shore, sitting behind the wheel of my Buick and dwelling on the absurdity of my existence.  The surf was harsh.  It reminded me of that day at Rockaway Beach with my wife, and my daughter.  I had a life then, admittedly a not very good one and without much hope, but that existence had belonged to me, and I wanted it back.  I might as well have wished for a golden chariot and a team of unicorns.
I sat waiting for the night.  I wanted to meet her, the woman who left me the note and the photographs.  I opened the envelope again.
She had sent a set of eight black and white glossy pictures of me in various candid poses.  In one, I was banging an upright pinball machine that had drained all five chances.  A poignant one showed me leaning over a jukebox, holding a barrel glass of Irish whisky in my hand, staring sad-eyed at the selections.  Another had me sitting at a table outside the front door of a café, looking pensively up at the night sky, as if expecting a comet to come streaking by above.  The most disturbing were the pair from when I arrived.  One was at the bus stand, the other the bench where I sat waiting patiently for the bus.  It looked as though she had been photographing from across the street.  I remembered no one being there.
I knew who she was before I read the letter.
I put the car into gear and got back on the road.  I watched as a gust of wind blew over several of the abandoned tents dotting the dunes.  On the horizon, the shadows began shrouding the city, the assembling darkness beckoning me.
Mysteries swirled through my mind.  I tried to decide which question to ask first when I met her.  It was perplexing to me that she had spent so long following me around before letting me know she was here.  At that bitter thought, I nearly went home, but I sped on anyway.  I reached Beach Avenue as the heavy curtain of darkness fell across the empty sky.  The lights brought artificial solace.  I mused on what the dead did to brighten their nights in the pre-Edison afterlives.  They probably screamed in madness.
I turned on the radio.  Something called the Cab Driver’s Lament was on, playing blues and old be-bop hits.  After a superlative Cab Calloway cover of “Flat-Foot Floogie on the Floy-Floy,” the smooth talking DJ spoke of driving down the loneliest mile.
I pulled into a gravel lot situated in front of the widest expanse of beach, a mile below the main arcade.  It was a different spot than my usual.  I felt like breaking a habit.  One had to in eternity.
I walked with the panache of a sleepwalker, shuffling quietly, oblivious to the masses surrounding me.  Their faces had long melded into one.
The red and green neon lights on the sign hanging above the door said it all: THE BIG SANDY NOTHING.  Upon entering, I nearly tripped over a potted fern set too close to the cigarette machine.  Like all new taverns, it was three deep at the bar.  I pushed my way through, wondering if I would find her.  I spotted a dent in the crowd near the wait station and, stepping forward, I felt a set of fingers wrap around the lapel of my jacket.  I looked to see who did the pulling.
“Hey there, honey,” Irene purred.  “What's shaking?”
“Oh God, you're really here,” I gasped.
She laughed, throwing her brown hair aside.  “Good answer.  Have a seat.”  Irene was almost eighteen again—the time we first met.  She had the classic Oklahoma Scots-Cherokee look, circa 1979.  Her dark brown hair fell about her shoulders, framing her freckled face, the high cheekbones, the narrow nose, and the green eyes to kill for.  Irene was always the most glamorous and charismatic woman I ever met.  Dead, she was even better.  That scared me.
I sat on the empty stool beside her.
Irene nudged me, pushing a beer in front of my hands.
“Drink up,” she snickered.  “Cheers, honey.”
I caressed the cool glass before putting it to my lips.  Part of me wanted to embrace my first girlfriend, while the other desired to flee out the door.
Irene sighed, twisting the swizzle stick between her fingers.  “I was hoping for something melodramatic.  You always were one to disappoint.”
“Sorry.”  Years later, she still had to get her digs in.
Irene picked up her glass and rattled the half-melted cubes.  Absentmindedly, she parted her lips, took the swizzle stick between her teeth, and slid it from one side of her mouth to the other with her tongue.  Using the tip of her tongue, Irene lifted one end of the stick so that the other end rested against her nose.  Closing her mouth, she bent the plastic, and blew hard.  The swizzle stick flipped away, landing in the glass.  It stood straight up for a brief moment, then dropped to one side.
I grinned.  “Nice trick.”
“I had a lot of practice.  I'm still learning to twist the thing into a pretzel in my mouth, though.”
“I’ve only heard of that, never saw anyone pull it off.”
Irene tipped her head, shaking her bangs from her eyes.  “Says a lot about the company you keep, Lawrence.”
“I'm not so sure, considering what you're wearing.”
Automatically, Irene got up from the barstool and dropped her hands to adjust the hem of her skirt.  She sat back down, blushing.
“I was only kidding, Irene.  You look fine.”
Irene replied, flustered, “You’re making me self-conscious.”
"Gee, I didn't know I had that effect.”
"You do—or did.”
"Thanks, I guess.”
Irene Rogers had cast a long shadow on my existence.  First loves do that.  For years, she haunted me.  Now we had a chance to spook each other.
Irene's life was a seemingly endless series of stumbles.  Like me, she complained to her diary instead of doing anything about it.  She shared my general detachment from the mundane aspects of life and ambivalence about leaving good impressions on strangers.  Both of us were wanderers in our own minds, which meant we avoided admitting what would be obvious to others.  It was no small miracle we survived our teens.
Irene looked hard for scapegoats for her inner discontent and lack of follow through, and I certainly fit the bill.  I was the morosely dark kind of guy women spent years of therapy recovering from.
The last I heard anything about her, in the spring before I died, a mutual friend told me of his amazement at the depth of her bitterness.
“So,” I wanted to get her answers quickly.  “What brought you here?”
“I wrecked my truck outside Kingsland, on the way to visit my sister.”
“How's Anne doing?”  Her kid sister was also a knockout.
“I don't know.  I didn't get to find out.”
She was the same old Irene.
My head dropped to my chest.  “Sorry, I'm no good at this.”  I was fading fast.  I should have stayed at home.
“I heard you.  But stop mumbling.”
I spoke up.  “How did you find me?  I mean, I didn't even know you’d croaked.”
“I don't know.  Luck, I suppose.”  She paused, then let out her breath slowly.  I used to allow Irene few opportunities to speak—that alone was enough to get her in a rage back then.  Only later did I become a good listener.  
“When I got here, I was totally out of sorts.  Even with my sweet guardian angel trying to guide me through this mess, I was so horrified at the prospect of a near-eternity in this place, I ran off into the desert at the first opportunity.  I wandered around the dunes in rags, raving like a moron, praying for my misbegotten soul.  One afternoon, I spot you at the bus stand, hanging around with a thumb up your ass, and it snaps me back into reality.  I decided to return to the city and eke out a more favorable existence.  For that, I thank you.”
“Then how did you get my picture?”
“I had found a camera in an empty tent.  Taking pictures was something to do—to pass the time when I wasn't feeling sorry for myself.  Then I see you looking hopeless and I have to say, well, I was inspired.”
“Gee, thanks.”
She continued, “After I settled down, I went looking for you.  It was easy—all I had to do was hang out at the arcade.  Sure enough, one night you appeared.”
“And so—here I am.”  I spread my hands over the bar, stretching my fingers toward hers.
“There you are.”  Her fingers brushed against mine, and she smiled.
I tried to phrase my next statement right, without putting her on the spot, but I just blurted it out anyway.  “You had to see me.”
Her answer was straight.
“Yeah Lawrence, I did.  I shouldn't be alone anymore.”

FIVE

After we left the bar, we walked arm in arm down the boardwalk.
“Yeah Irene, I was at the end of my rope.  I was very unhappy.  I felt my life was at a dead-end.  It got so bad, I began to fear for my child's future.  I had to stay, you see, but I realized that I would have to go eventually.”  I paused and sighed.
Irene shook her head sadly.  “You took unnecessary, stupid risks.  While you may not have consciously intended to kill yourself, death was obviously somewhere in the back of your mind.”
“It wasn’t as if I tried to die, it's that I didn’t try very hard to live.”
“Same difference.  I drew more inward after my parents died, and as I grew older I got careless.”
“What, you tried to kill yourself?”  I didn't think Irene was the type.
“I thought about it a lot.”  She said no more on the subject, letting the words fly as the seagulls rose from the shore beside us.  “I have another question,” she added.  “What did the animals do to get here?”
I shrugged.  “Theology isn’t my forte.”
“Then I can't ask you about your recent visit to Him.”
That stopped me in my tracks.
“I know all about it.  I was there, too.”
I leaned against the railing, resting on my elbow.  “I had suspected everyone got the call.  Obviously, nobody wants to talk about it.”
“Yeah, it's too touchy a subject.”
“No one likes knowing their soul is in peril of oblivion.”
He had grabbed us to announce the Good News, that God had enough of playing around and intended to shut everything down—with no explanation.  Why he bothered to grant us fair warning was mystifying.  I had a feeling He was giving us one last roll of the dice to make our individual souls worthy of surviving His Judgment.  I doubted God would be so flippant regarding his innumerable creations.  
There was no assurance that the lot of us in our corner on the shore would be moving on to the right hand of the Father.  The certainty was that God planned on tying up the loose ends soon.  I hoped that included my wife and daughter, but God didn't hand out concessions or promises.  Anyhow, Irene complicated things.  Her arrival at this juncture had me leaning into metaphysical territory I knew nothing about.  I feared the potential ramifications.  It became evident that, Oblivion or Heaven, Irene and I were twinned.  When we were teenagers in love, we used to talk about that.
Eyes downcast, Irene asked, “Do you think it’s tonight?”
    I pushed off the railing and put my arm around her.  “Oh, it could be tonight, next week, next month, or next year—whatever, as much as I hate to be reminded, time is always relative around here.  This will happen when it happens.”
“That's not reassuring.”
“I'm not God.”
We stopped at a photo booth for a picture; the photograph came out perfectly.  It reminded me of one taken of a teenage couple standing in the driveway of a mobile home in 1979.  It must have rained, because everything was so green, the grass was practically sparkling.  The girl wore a vintage purple suit with a pleated skirt falling slightly below her knees.  The boy wore a pair of black baggy pants, black oxfords, and a wrinkled white T-shirt.  They were holding hands, clutching tightly, as if a tornado might suddenly touch down and sweep them apart forever.  They were leaning slightly forward, looking at the camera with an intensity peculiar for their age.  Both were smiling and thinking Heaven was just around the corner.
Our heels clicked on the wood at our feet, the sound reverberating above the general din.  Irene wanted to stop in front of the carnival where I had my nervous attack the night before the Visitation.
I stared at the Ferris wheel turning slowly above, jutting against the infinite darkness.
“Such is my fate,” I murmured.
“I'm drawn to it too,” Irene replied, moving closer to me.
I stared at the colored lights, marveling that such a shoddy contraption could work.  The rusted, creaking metal, flaking paint, and broken and fading lights were the true center of this land of the dead.  Embedded into the molecules of the bolts groaning under the weight of the slowly turning wheel were billions of middling triumphs and spectacular failures.
Through the wire mesh fence, I reached out and touched the cool surface of the rusted metal.  I pulled back my fingertips, turning them over to see the flakes of blue paint and rust.  I remembered finding my first lucky penny and popping my first wheelie on my bicycle.  I turned, facing Irene's gleaming eyes.  They were the brightest ever in my memory.  She leaned over and kissed me.  Her warm, wet mouth enveloped me; I began to remember the feeling of slowly being pulled underwater.  I wanted this to never end.
Irene rested her face against my shoulder.  I caressed her hair, running my fingers through her brown locks.  I suddenly remembered her perfume.  I had bought her a bottle with my last paycheck from the Texaco gas station I worked during my senior year in high school.  The bottle broke before I gave it to her.
Then it struck me.  I reached down and pulled out a box from my jacket pocket.
We bought our tickets at the gate and waited patiently for our car.
The rest of the riders were a motley collection of humans as disparate as they were desperate.  Neither of us engaged them in conversation.
As the gate shut beside us, Irene spoke, her voice filled with a wonder she probably hadn't felt in ages.  “Once you’re on one of these things, you could ride forever.”
“Tonight, I think so,” I told her.
As we rose above Purgatory Beach, we held hands, my grip tightening on hers while I looked down.
The lights below us began to go out, one by one.