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| Sunday, 13 February 2005 |
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Telling Tales: Mistaken identity "Look, all I know is, this isn't the L.I.E. Can you just tell me where I am? Hello?" I'm quickly getting tired of being ignored. People have been rushing by me all day with these euphoric smiles on their faces, getting directions from fat, grinning babies with wings (Lord knows why they're not with their parents), completely oblivious to my shouting and ranting. The only person who looks like he knows anything is this lanky dude who's sitting up by a big metal gate, but every time I try to go up and talk to him, he keeps telling me to take a number and wait my turn.
"People, can any of you hear me?" I'm waving my hands in faces, stepping in front of people. Nothing. They flow around me like I was a pebble in a river. All right, so I go and talk to this guy again, Peter says his name tag. It's hard to read - all curly, and what not. I keep bugging him, and he has the gall to tell me to take a number and wait my turn, again. That's enough all ready, right? Talk So I step in front of everyone, push them out of the way, and I say, "Look, Peter, I've gotten a number three times all ready, right? So either you talk to me now, or you let me talk to your supervisor." When I say this, I swear, I think this guy's moustache (It's a long moustache, must be down to his navel) is going to stand out straight; his face is so red, like in those cartoons. And he says to me, "Oh, for Chrissakes, Caine. Do we have to go through this every couple of centuries? Look, you can't go in; you can't die, let alone go in - I mean, I know your memory is bad, but this is ridiculous. Does 'murder' bring anything to mind? Mark of God? Exiled to walk the face of the earth for eternity?" I stare at him blankly. "Huh?" "Ah Jeezus, Doma, can you handle this? I got work to do." This big, quiet guy makes a motion for me to follow him, but not before I tell Peter that I'm going to complain to his supervisor. I mean, who does he think he is? I think that moustache was about to burst into flame. Anyway, so this Doma fellow lets me in through this back door behind Peter's big desk, near the gate. The room we go into is, surprise, white (the colour scheme isn't exactly dramatic, wherever this is); it's a waiting room, like in a doctor's office. "So, where is this?" Doma points at a sign, doesn't say anything. "Strong-silent-type, huh?" Purgatory The sign reads Purgatory. "That's cute. How long do I need to wait? And for that matter, who am I waiting for?" Doma shrugs, and points towards a door across the room. It wasn't there a moment before, I don't think. Of course, who knows, this place has so many clouds and weird babies that I could've missed it. The sign reads, Doctor G.O.D., Esq. "You'll need an appointment." "Huh?" Doma's gone, but I look at the receptionist who's taken his place. Desk and all. This place must be a fan of cheesy magic tricks. "You'll need to make an appointment, to go in." "Okay. By the way, what's with the crown of thorns?" "You don't even wanna know. Name?" "Mickey jebawitz." "Caine, Gotcha." "Why does everyone keep calling me that?" "Oh, the memory thing, I forgot. Look, let's just say you had a fight, and the kid managed to land you a good one on the head." "Uh-huh." Who do these guys think they are? I think I know my life a bit better than them, I mean, Christ, I haven't even met any of these people before. "Anyway, the big guy'll see you now." "Already?" Deaf "Yes, already. For my sakes, are you deaf?" I restrain myself from giving the kid a little taste of the skin on the back of my hand, instead I go through the door. An overweight bearded guy sits behind a desk, watching a portable television. "Be with you in a sec." The door shuts behind me. The room has a pervasive smell of sweat and McDonalds, and I wrinkle my nose at the sour odor. "Look, I know you're obviously busy, but I gotta get home, and I'm really not supposed to be here." "Well, I could've told you that!" The man laughs loudly - it sounds like a hyperactive Great Dane with the hiccups. He looks disappointed when I don't laugh. "Sorry, one gets used to ones own sense-of-humor in this job; can be kinda lonely." "I'll bet." I say. "So, Caine-" "Look, can you not call me that?" The man looks weary, "Ah, no-one can talk to you. Look, just answer this question and you'll be on your way. Say, theoretically, there are these two guys. One of'm is a hard-working, down-in-the-dirt farmer, you know? Day and night, that kinda stuff. The other, well he's this shepherd, fat off of his own flock, nice guy though. So one day, they both take these offerings to this tree: a bunch of veggies, and a freshly slaughtered lamb. Now, this one dude, 'He Who is Almighty' and whatnot, decides he likes the smell of the lamb better, and favors the shepherd. So, this farmer falls on his brother (they're brothers by-the-way) and kills him dead, just like that. Do you think it was right of him to do so?" "Well, yeah. I'm vegetarian, though." "I figured you'd say that. I dunno why I bother..." The old fellow waves his hand, and Doma wanders in again. This is really starting to try my patience, I mean, come on, these guys waste my time at a big gate, and then ask me about some people who I don't even have anything to do with? Anyway, I say to the guy, "Look, I wanna go home. And what is with these Goddamned flying babies?" Bumped One has just bumped into me, again. "No, no... they're not damned..." says the old guy, vaguely. "You are going home, just, follow Doma." "Oh. Oh, okay." So I do, and before I even know how we get there, we're back at this gate. And we're at the edge of the clouds when this Doma character decides to kick me off, literally, and as I'm falling I hear Peter say, "I told him he couldn't get in," the nerve, right? I wake up in this tunnel, my car is totalled, and all I know is I'm back on the L.I.E. The craziest thing was there was some kind of drunk hippie who'd hit me, a really old looking guy with some weird mark on his forehead; actually, the crazy part was his name, when we exchanged insurance - Caine, I mean, how about that? It must've been one of those... prophetic dreams, or whatever. Anyways, so I do what any self-respecting Long Islander in that situation does - I go to the nearest bar, and get myself a beer. |
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I keep thinking about snatching that golden thing over his head and
playing Frisbee with it. Maybe these flying babies can catch.
