Buried Feelings

Hey, Dad. It's me. Bob. Guess I don't have to tell you that, though. You know, given the circumstances. I mean, after all, this visit, my talking to you here, is nothing more than an expedient. A de

Hey, Dad. It's me. Bob. Guess I don't have to tell you that, though. You know, given the circumstances. I mean, after all, this visit, my talking to you here, is nothing more than an expedient. A device. Something my shrink claims'll help me work through some crap. You know, "Resolve some issues." But there's way too much heathen infidel in me to think you're actually hearing any of this. You're dead, dammit.

Besides, you weren't much of a listener when you were vertical and breathing.

So. How are things with you? That's rhetorical, heh-heh. "Laid back," I'm guessing. Heh-heh. Unless, you know, I'm all wet on the "no afterlife" philosophy and you're in the middle of your zillionth lava enema. On, uh, the other hand, though, maybe you're watching lesbian angel porn on cable in the Jesus Christ Suite of the Lord God Almighty Omni. Who knows? I mean, hey, I don't presume to know your Final Destination. How could I? Verdicts are tough enough to call in the physical world. Celestially? Forget it. Too many variables. Too much nebulousness. 'Cause it's altogether possible that where you spend forever isn't determined simply by your score on the compulsories ­ read: the Commandments. Could be, surprise!, that non-Top 10 items like the Golden Rule and "Love thy neighbor" are equally BFDs. Or maybe some minor Biblical Jazz you interpreted as "suggestions" turn out to be His private hot buttons. And how a person fares on that whole "eye for an eye"/"turn the other cheek" contradiction, well, that's strictly a coin toss. Throw in the atonements and the take backs and the death bed conversions and the "all forgiving ... with some exceptions" blah-blah-blah and you could just as easily wind up in a hot tub sipping a tall ambrosia with St. Francis of Assisi and Carole Lombard, because you always tipped 20 percent, as you could be spending eternity serving as Satan Jr.'s biology class lab specimen as retribution for eyeballing the panty lines of the U.S. Women's Volleyball Team in the 1986 Olympics for 10 seconds too long.

Sorry. No doubt that tangent was apprehension. A stall tactic. A sidestep of the issue. Probably I should just ignore the unknowable crap ­ things like if your hearing's 20/20, where you are, whether you have to wear your funeral clothes for eternity or whether you get a robe and, however that works, aren't you afraid that'll eventually really bug you? I mean, after wearing and/or seeing the same outfit for, oh, say, 10 centuries, wouldn't Heaven start seeming like some kind of fashion Hell? But, or, if you do change clothes every day, how's that happen? Is there a tailor? Or a store where you buy off the rack? I'm curious, because both scenarios require labor, meaning some people not only have to work their whole lives, they have to work their whole afterlives, which I don't get because it totally undermines the whole paradisiacal aspect of the place. Think about it. How many folks'd you have to ask "What's you're idea of Heaven?" before somebody tells you "Selling jeans at the Gap"? Or are the Gap workers Helldwellers but that's where Heaven shops? Hmm. 'Course, maybe it's as simple as you thinking of new duds and poof! they appear, like a David Copperfield trick ­ hopefully without all the steam and the percussive soundtrack that sounds like Genesis on a bad day. Though, I have to say, that possibility turns sour when I envision a Heaven that looks like a hub-city airport in high season, filled with tasteless tourists decked out in their favorite, comfortable, downright ugly ensembles rendered in horrendous colors, busy patterns and polyester.

Uh, wait, hey, Dad, listen, all of a sudden, I really gotta pee, so I better take off. But before I go, let me say what I came to say. Short and sweet. Without the digressive bullshit, either, because the piss urgency is Code Red. Actually, Yellow, I guess, heh-heh. Got prostatitis, the doc says. Actually, the nurse practitioner at the doc's office says. Which is a whole new development since you've been gone, Dad. The nurse practitioner, I mean. To me it's like going to see Santa and being told to just leave your list with an elf. But that's health care these days. Health care. Now there's an issue you've probably lost interest in, huh? Anyway, the reason I came. Basically, our relationship was dys... I'm sorry. I can't wait. Look, there's no one in this whole cemetery, I'm just gonna let fly right here where I stand. OK?

Ahhh. This feels so fantastic!

Think I should mention that to the shrink? ©

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