Sinister: lime

[ian]

(before i start, a brief word of explanation.  zac foley, bass player with
emf, died yesterday.  the cause of his death has not been released, and it
seems to have been more-or-less ignored by the News.  i'm afraid this
is another obituary.  the man deserves one for oh-so-many reasons)



a dream, without sleep...

it is said that every person possesses a chord, and that this chord links
them to the rest of Existence.  some say the chord is white, some silver,
some red.  some say an individual has not one chord but several million,
reaching out from all areas of the body to every conceivable energy source
around them.

some say, if you twanged the chord, it would sound like a guitar string.
----------------------

this can't be saint peter.  he looks younger than me.  he's also blonde,
well-built and sporting a rather large packet in a tightly-fitting pair of
tennis shorts.
still, it looks like the right place.  i try not to look at his crotch as i
step up to the gate

"errr....excuse me?"

with a sigh, he puts down his mobile phone.. "yes?"

"are these the gates of heaven?"

flashing a smile of infinite patience, the blonde puts his arm around my
shoulders, leads me several yards to my right, and points at a placard on
the railings.  i put on my reading glasses, thankful that i brought them
with me in this dream, and try to assume my best Superior Librarian
expression while i read it: "These are the gates of heaven.  Yes, The GATES
OF HEAVEN.  Yes, those gates.   No, they aren't like you imagined them,
because we didn't build them to please YOU"

"oh.... i see....." clearly i'm not the first to ask this question.. "err...
i wanted to talk to saint peter"

"and you are???"

"i'm ian.
oh, i'm not dead-.  not yet-
at least i hope not-"

"i can SEE that.  i do this for a living.   well, you found saint peter"

i look at his face, and try not to imagine it in my crotch..
"you....you're....."

"yes....yes...." another sigh "look, i'm just trying out this new image.
the big guy says we need to update, and i thought this looked
rather....erm....groovy....yeah, that's it....groovy"

i smile, and gape a little more

"you shouldn't think such things about archangels"

telepathic AND horny.  fucking hell "i'm sorry....its just....its just
that..."

"you were expecting something a little more traditional, maybe"  there is
resignation in his voice "i'll go and change"

when he comes back, he has a long white beard and sandals.  i feel instantly
more comfortable, and try and smile to show my approval.  he scowls in
return, snatching a large red book from a floating cherub - "You're not due
yet"

"i'm sorry?"

"what are you DOING here?"

"i wanted to speak to somebody.  he should be here...he came here yesterday,
or perhaps the day before.  i wanted to deliver a message.  i wondered if i
could see him"

i restrain myself from adding "preferably, in the shorts you were wearing
earlier"

"two days, you say?" he chews his pen "nope, sorry.  against regulations"

"....regulations?  but i thought this was HEAVEN?"

"it is.  although we like to call it 'afterlife services' these days.  a
forward-thinking organisation requires regulations.  we have to think of our
viability in an evolving-

"well, when CAN i see him?"

"technically speaking, you can't.  if he's dead.  and you're not.  he can
haunt YOU if he wishes" (there is an unspoken "but there's no reason why
he'd want to" in his voice)

"i can't see him at ALL?"

"you're catching on.  one of the joys of being dead is not having to
interact with the living.  we don't usually let your sort up here.  i have
better things to do with my time.  yeah, there's a few near-deathers every
day but i usually send a close relative out to deal with those.  a simple
'bugger off back to earth' usually suffices"

"....."

"how did you GET here, anyway?"

i point to the elevator behind me.  it appears to be waiting for someone,
for its doors open and close repeatedly and it does not descend.  in the
corner of the machine, cross-legged on a chaise longue, sits an ex-beatle
playing 'my sweet lord'.

"dammit, i KNEW we'd have trouble with that.  what's wrong with ladders?  i
said... they worked for jacob and all his contemporaries.  then it was
escalators.  the big guy saw 'a matter of life and death' and liked the idea
SO much he had them installed all over the place - good movie, by the way,
but it doesn't quite work like -
why am i explaining this to you?  george, get out of the elevator."

a wave of saint peter's hand, and the lift Ceases to Exist.
with a sullen look, mr. harrison picks up his sitar and walks towards the
wall.

i shout after him:  "george...if you see zac foley, tell him..." but he
doesn't look round, as he steps through the wall and into the Magic Kingdom.

"he can't hear you.  unless he chooses to.  and his hearing aid is switched
to 'ignore', i can see it from here"

"oh"    bastard.  we'll have words in the afterlife.  i BOUGHT one of his
fucking records.  he OWES me... "sure you can't deliver a message for me?"
the angel is texting someone called 'elijah' on his mobile and doesn't look
up "i'll make it worth your while.."

"fucking hell, why does he never have his phone switched, on?......  worth
my while?" a laugh of derision from a Big Boss Angel is a very humbling
experience.  i feel very small as he adds "what could you possibly have to
offer me?"

thankfully, i brought my bag with me in this dream.  i dig inside for
Somethng Worth Giving An Angel.  all i can find is a battered copy of
'tigermilk'.  with some trepidation, i hold it out to The Man.  he snatches
it from me, looks at it curiously, and tosses it over his shoulder.  after a
few seconds delay i hear it land, with a loud clatter, on a rather fey and
winsome boy called colin several hundred miles below.

"hey!  that's a good album!  its one of my -"

"album?" another derisive laugh "dear boy, we have JANIS JOPLIN, TIM
BUCKLEY, ELVIS PRESLEY up here.  tonight, i'm going to see mama cass and
john phillips sing together for the first time since he fell off that stool.
nice woman, cass, but she's a bit odd.  got very upset when i offered her
some of my baguette the other -

"i'd like to see them play"

"i can arrange that.  but i'd have to kill you.  offer me something better
or fuck off"

what have i got?  a dig in all my pockets reveals....nothing.  time to rely
on an old fall-back :-   "fifty quid and a bag of maltesers..... err...
'cept i haven't got fifty quid, but i can give it you next month, after
pay-day, i'll write you an i.o.u"

"maltesers?"

"yes."  is the Keeper of The Gates of Heaven really going to be taken in by
cheap chocolate?  as if by magic, i find a packet of the honeycombed-balls
in my hand and, tentatively, i raise it to the level of st peter's beard.
lifting an eyebrow, he tears the packet open, dropping a couple as he does
so.  he looks at them with disdain and puts one in his mouth.  his
expression changes utterly.  is that the Light of Heaven in his eyes?  he
pulls me towards him and embraces me..

"these are WONDERFUL.  oh, joy.... heaven has nothing to compare...  they
just melt in the mouth, don't they?"

"yes, and they're lighter than ordinary chocolate"

"you mean.... paradise will be full, but i WILL NOT?"   blimey.  don't they
have sweets up here?  i nod my head in what i consider to be a sage manner,
and he beams again
"of COURSE i will deliver your message"

fucking hell.  what was my message again?  oh yes....  i grab a handful of
cloud as it drifts serenely past, and i implant a kiss in it.  "zacary foley
was an inspiration to many of us.  in some, the emotion aroused was utter
joy at the fact that he lifted them out of their heads for a little while,
that he tugged on the chords of their existence and pulled them to a reality
without worries, thought and pettiness.  he pulled them closer to YOUR
reality, peter (if i can call you that) the reality you, and the big J
espoused.  he helped them, for a second, just to BE.  in me, the emotion
aroused was generally best expressed with my right h-"

the angel appears to have nodded off.  i re-think my message.
"just give him this" i pass the cloud with the imprint of my lips on it
"and tell him he's remembered.  by people who didn't even know him.  oh,
and -"

no, that's enough.  saint peter nods, gravely, and stores my cloud somewhere
beneath the flow of his robe.  i hope he is, like a librarian, always as
good as his word.  i'd hate zac to think he'd been forgotten by The World.
i'm turning to walk away and i hear my name being called.  st peter is
smiling plaintively...

"ian.... come and visit again some time.... and bring some more of
those...chocolate ball thingies.... yes?"

i consider this.  i don't really want to come back here for a while.  "tell
you what...why don't you visit me?  i'll stick the kettle on and buy as many
substandard cocoa-products as an angel could possibly eat"

"weellll, i'm not really allowed to, but.... next friday?"

"fine....oh and peter?"

he smiles "SAINT peter, please.  don't forget where you are"

"sorry.  i just wanted to say thank you.  and, when you visit...."

a raised eyebrow

"come as the blonde"


i try not to look at his expression as i grab the handrail, and, feeling
strangely like david niven, place my foot on the escalator.

above me, somewhere, i can hear the opening chords of "i believe"

ian
-----------------------------------------------

(a bit longer, that, than i meant it to be.  for information on why this
mail is called 'lime' or to learn more about zac foley in general, try
typing his name and the name of the citrus fruit into google, and see what
it comes up with)


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