Moist Heaven

The night was moist. Horror was common. Stupors were a thing of the past. ‘Love’ was hard to live with—and live without, for that matter. For the sake of appearances, she would go out with him. After years of disappointment she learned to love him. Time loved ‘em both. They were old creatures when God finally took them home. In the afterlife he grew to hate her. Everywhere he looked, she was there. Heaven became Hell. Suddenly he found himself wanting Earth more than anything else. This ‘sharing’ shit was for the birds. He wanted a good fuck. He never would’ve used the word ‘fuck’ though. He called it ‘spreadin the wealth.’

    God heard his wishes and sent him back to Earth. God kept the bitch. He returned to his job at the factory. People asked him where he’d been. Everything was fine for a while.

    One night, while he was sleeping, he received a faxed letter. It was from the bitch. She said God had been taking good care of her. She also mentioned that she missed him. He faxed a letter back saying that he was doing everything he could to forget her. He received another fax. This one was covered with tears and otherwise blank. He jerked off on a sheet of paper and faxed it to her. He received no further response.

    That morning, he woke up, took a bath, and went to work. Around 9:23am, a steel press took his hand off, and he bled to death on the scene. He left this world again.

    He awoke as a cockroach. Cockroaches he didn’t know were crowded around him. He was on his back, looking up at them. They were chanting a name—his name.

    “Bi-i-l-l-l-l Mo-n-n-n-s-o-o-o-n.”

    Or was it Bill Manson? He wasn’t sure. Regardless, they repeated the name over and over again.

    His vision had been doubled, even trebled; now it singled. Only one cockroach remained and Bill recognized him.

    “Sammy!” Bill cried out with a smile.

    Sammy looked relieved.

    Sammy said, “I was worried about you. Thought you had got hold of some of that boric acid or something.”

    Sammy helped him home. Home at the time was a paper bag filled with rotten oranges.

    The next day, Sammy was mashed into the kitchen linoleum by a booted foot. No funeral services were held. In all of his lives he’d been surrounded by tragedy. With a mouthful of irony, he screamed at the sheetrock heaven: “Thank you, God. May I have another?”

    A sneaker came down on top of him.

Written in the fall of 1995. -JPJ

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