Parting Glances: My 10 Minutes In Heaven (Pt. 2)



By Charles Alexander
Originally printed 5/15/2014 (Issue 2220 - Between The Lines News)

My cellphone says 12:03 a.m. My second afterlife minute in heaven. (This brief account is probably an LGBT first.) DISCLAIMER: Unlike many straight accounts, my intent is not to make big bucks on the New York Times Book List. Tho' I'm tempted.

I'm now in front of the Many Mansions One-On-One Temple, greeted by some diva-like creature who by beatific Botox, turns looks like the Red Queen from Alice in Wonderland, Christine Jorgensen, Lady T Tempest and Tallulah Bankhead. (But not necessarily in that angelic order.)

Archangel Diva DeLuxe, as she I.D.s herself, has a thousand radiant stars in her tiara, and as she speaks, she scatters patchouli scented daisy chains around me.

She kisses me gently on my forehead, says "May the Eternal Mary be with you! Glitter and be gay! Enjoy your stay, however brief your afterlife taste of things to come! Oh, yes! Cloud 9 Drag Queen Bingo is 24/7 here!"

As I drape a daisy chain around my neck, I suddenly, exhilaratingly, feel transformed. I selfie myself, pleased to discover I now look a svelte, youthful 25, am 75 pounds lighter and underneath my ever-so-radiant, designer D & G (David & Goliath) choir gown with snow-white angel wings, I - it's too good to be true - have a 32-inch waist.

I'm sure it's a habit I haven't outgrown yet, but even here in the afterlife I have to check my cellphone. Weather: Eternally sunny. Caressing winds. San Diego 75 til noon. Palms Springs 80 til 5. Ferndale 70 for Evening Vespers.

My instructions are to go to the Seventh Heaven Condos, corner Oscar Wilde Boulevard and Alice B. Toklas Avenue. Winks Archangel DeLuxe, "Ask concierge Bobby Short for an Alice B. Toklas brownie when you check in. They're heavenly!"

My euphoric mood as I float above the afterlife streets of this sparkling, rainbow glowing, technicolor, Blue Ray, 3-D, surround sound, stereophonic, multi-Broadway, YMCA! chorus enhanced, dreamlike extravaganza, somehow is momentarily jolted.

Below me is a lone personage, appearance nondescript, dressed in what appears to be a drab, gray striped suit. He's busy polishing the gold, engraved cobblestone memorial markers of which there are thousands upon thousands.

He looks up. Ever so world weary. Embarrassed. His name tag reads, F. Phelps. Purgatory 10,000 years. I wave.

Charles@pridesource.com
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