READ
July 2003
A Huge Rip Off of Dante and Small Rip Off of the Sopranos
by Mary Panza
Hell
I am still a bartender at the Lark Tavern. I am working doubles from now until the end of time. The tips are bad and I am surrounded by every coked up stupid arrogant know it all because they are men and I am working for every woman manager I ever outlived. There were many and they all only had one story: coke, never showing up on time and leaving extra shit for me to do. It is the same old thing over and over again. They make three times as much as me and keep their tips. I am constantly filling salt and pepper shakers and ketchups without a funnel. It is always St. Patrick's Day and I am the only Italian in the place. There are third generation shanty Irish asking me fucked up questions like, "Where is your green? Everybody is Irish on St. Patrick's Day" or saying historically incorrect shit like "What is your problem fat ass, St. Patrick was a dirty fucking WOP like you." I can't hit anyone. I wish more than anything I could.
Satan teases me and lets me attend massage school where I think I will find my answers. Pseudo-intellectual, self-righteous, pompous, Reike practicing annoying "body workers" surround me. They all tell me they can heal my "pain" and "cure" my anger. Fuck them. In the middle of the "healing circle" is the Khaki Messiah. They are all hanging on every word he is saying and committing Idolatry. I realize that is the sin for which I am being punished. He is a money grubbing phony and it got by me because my guard was down and I wanted God to be on earth so bad that I put this ahead of people and happiness. I worshiped money and greed and I missed the point.
I scream for St. Anthony to help me find my way but I have no voice. My body turns against me in a constant fatigue after years of abuse and hatred. I want to wake up and I realize that I have never been asleep.
Purgatory
There is a very long line. There is nothing to read.
Heaven
St. Peter greets me at the Gates of Heaven. He is a cool looking guy but not a jerk. He smiles at everyone. He is truly happy to see us. The gates are not gates at all but big steel doors in a dark funky neighborhood. There are velvet ropes and a red carpet. We are all VIPs. I am well rested and have good color. Nothing hurts. I am a hundred and thirty pounds and I have a huge rack. Although I know it is not important here I feel it is a bonus. My hair is long and curly and not a gray in sight. The way I have always thought I should look. I really am happy. I go through the door and I am a pre-rape four-year-old in my back yard. My mother is hanging out sheets. The pretty ones with the big bright poppies on them and I am laying on the fresh cut lawn looking at the sheets flap in the breeze. I close my eyes and smell the smells of bleach and fabric softener, the grass and my mother. I leave the yard and I am sixteen walking into the 288 Lark. I get in without question because there is no drinking age in Heaven. The smell of beer and smoke fills the room. Nothing is bad for you and cocaine and money don't exist so there is no arrogance. The music is great; there are dead rock stars all over the place. I dance for a while and then I hear words coming from down the street. It is a redone burger joint that is the QE2. It is 1988 and my black dress and black eyeliner are perfect for the place. It is the old open mike night and everyone is there. There is no drama. Everyone is at their best and everyone means it when they say, "That was really great." It is open bar and no one pukes. The toilets work and don't smell bad. The guys that got there before me tell stories. They laugh at how vain and stupid we were.
The diners are always open. The buffets are monstrous. Everybody is a winner. All dorks are cool. We all get to yell BINGO. I am home.