Purgatorio
Chapter 3
W
e drove into the parking lot at the Weehawken Sheraton and, as I took in the spectacular view of mid 21st century Manhattan across the choppy Hudson River, I thought that Al must have studied my life file pretty closely. Cindy and I had enjoyed countless sojourns there during my lifetime. We had stayed there a week before 9/11/01. I had no idea that I’d never see the won-derful twin towers again in my life. But since this is heaven… There they were, back where they belonged, as beautiful as ever.
After checking in, it was damned expensive, Al and I strolled across the street for a sumptuous dinner at Ruth’s Chris Steak House. There was an hour and fifteen minutes wait, so Al had a Negroni and I had a Jack Daniels Manhattan at the bar.
“This is the perfect base for our tour of Purgatory. It’s all in Manhattan, from the best to the worst.” Al intoned.
“By the way,” Al asked, “did you realize that it was here in Weehawken that Aaron Burr killed Alexander Hamilton in 1804 - not far from here, either?”
“Yes I did,” I responded.
Suddenly, the lovely blonde nineteen-year-old sitting next to me tapped my shoulder. “Are you Adrian Spidle?” She asked in a sweet voice.
“Yes I am. What is your name, honey?” I responded.
“I’m Susan B. Anthony.” She replied. “You can call me Suzy. I’m a much more fun girl now than you would expect from that ugly dollar coin they made to supposedly honor me.”
“Susan,” I asked “Would you be so kind as to share with me what you think about Women’s Suf-frage and the Women’s movement now?”
“Of course women must have the vote!” she bristled.
“However, as everyone now knows, irresponsible women voters did a lot of damage to children’s welfare in the last quarter of the twentieth century. If I had it to do over again, I also would have agitated to take the vote away from the one third of men and women who aren’t capable of criti-cal thinking. Government is really too important to allow mental incompetents to participate in it.”
“It was only after the mid twenty-first century when the rights of children to two competent parents took precedence over the right of incompetent parents that the damage done by the women’s movement started to reverse. If you recall, that was when crime basically disappeared and the inner city neighborhoods became highly desirable again.”
I was entranced. “Well, the women’s movement did do a lot of good opening doors for the following generations. What are you doing tonight, could you join us for dinner?” I asked.
“Sure?” she responded slyly.
Susan did join us for dinner when we finally sat down at our corner table. The warmth of the good bourbon in my stomach accentuated the warm mahogany ambience of the restaurant. “It’s pretty cool the way successful businesses go to heaven along with their owners.” I thought as I ordered the 20-ounce bourbon glazed sirloin, rare.
I was particularly pleased that our favorite sports teams are also in heaven.
As a Red Sox fan, I was quite dismayed to learn that the Yankees had just won their third World Series in a row (it was another “subway series” against the Giants) and that the Red Sox still ha-ven’t won one, on Earth or in Heaven – it’s been 490 years since they won the 1918 World Se-ries. Steinbrenner is still a winner and still controversial, even in Heaven. I understand his tort file is rather long, however.
Al asked Susan. “Have you qualified for Paradise yet?”
Susan looked down coyly and said. “Can I call you Dante? I am an admirer of yours and that’s how I think of you.”
“Sure.” Al answered. “Well, have you?”
“Hmm. Dante, I’m afraid it will be a while before I’m qualified. Even Adrian here is on my Plaintiffs list for having been harmed by my promotion of universal suffrage without requiring evidence of competence on the part of voters.” She shared as she delicately tasted her spinach mushroom pie.
“I’ll make it easy for you to get me off that list. It’s done!” I generously offered as Al and I flamboyantly lit up the cigars offered to us by our waitress.
“Thank you.” She replied with a warm smile as she took a sip from her glass of Remy Martin.
The next morning we reveled in the buffet breakfast that was part of the room fee. The restaurant was full of gorgeous 19 year olds in sexy red Virgin Atlantic Airlines uniforms. Al and I then strolled over to the dock to catch the ferry to Manhattan.
I was enjoying the fresh salt air and fabulous skyline, complete with the World Trade towers, when an intense looking 45 year old black gentleman asked me if I was Adrian Spidle. I nodded affirmatively.
He then introduced himself. “I am the Reverend Jesse Jackson, and I need to compensate you for a tort. Yechh, but I have to do this to every honky I meet.”
“Hey listen, Jesse, I absolve you. I know you thought you were right.”
“But then, tell me, Jesse, if you would, what would you differently, back on 20th Century Earth, if you could?” I asked
“Well…” he thought, “I would have encouraged my people to stop blaming the damned bigoted honkies for their problems, even though they definitely deserve it, and study harder, work harder and keep their families TOGETHER. Yeah. That’s what I’d have done differently.”
He went on to say how he and his buddy “Web” Dubois were running a deprogramming facility up in Harlem where they were rehabilitating resentful blacks so they could successfully integrate in Heaven.
After debarking in Manhattan, I noticed that with few exceptions, the streets were teeming with gorgeous 19-year-old girls of all colors and distinguished 30 to 45-year-old men. May Decem-ber relationships were obviously the norm here, at least in appearance.
At the corner of 42nd Street and Broadway, I saw a crowd standing around a speaker. I immedi-ately recognized Vice President Al Gore apologizing to everyone who would listen for the terri-ble damage he did by being so unsportsmanlike in the 2000 Presidential election and causing so much damage to the financial markets, the economy, and even to the domestic tranquility of the nation, especially to race relations. He claimed he really didn’t realize how damaging his re-count request would be.
“I now realize how selfish and stupid it was for me to demand that recount, and how impossible it was to get the truth given the equipment available. I now know that the actual difference in votes was unknowable since the difference was much less than the margin of error in any con-ceivable recount methodology. I am very sorry for the 35 days of uncertainty I caused the nation that then caused so much permanent damage to the US economy by depressing Christmas sales and reversing the usual “Santa Claus Rally” he said sincerely, cocking his head and raising his right eyebrow.
When he saw me, Gore motioned to me that he’d like to have a word with me. “I’m sorry for all the problems I caused you. I hope you can forgive me.” he pleaded earnestly.
“I forgive you, Al.” I said. “But tell me, would you be so kind as to tell me what would you do differently if you could do it all over again?”
“Hmmmm… I would definitely have listened better to Tipper about her concerns for the immor-ality of the entertainment industries.” he said thoughtfully, “Also, I would have avoided all those pandering schemes we dreamed up to buy votes. I now realize that the government doesn’t own its monies, but rather holds them in trust for the taxpayers. You know, Adrian, there’s a lot I would have done differently, knowing what I do now.”
Interestingly, President George H. W. Bush was on the other corner apologizing for breaking his promise on taxation and leaving Saddam Hussein in power in Iraq requiring yet another war to finally get rid of him, which resulted in thousands of deaths and untold suffering. I forgave him, also, after telling him that I still greatly admired him and his entire family.
Al and I then stopped for a drink in the revolving bar of the Times Square Marriott. This great bar is at the level of the neon signs in Times Square and is pretty breathtaking to experience. I ordered a Tanqueray and tonic and Al ordered a glass of Chianti Classico from the lovely 19-year-old waitress. “Are you Adrian Spidle?” She asked.
“Yes. Do I know you?” I asked.
“No. But you’ve heard of me. I’m Eleanor Roosevelt.” She answered. “I am Paradise qualified, but I work here to keep busy and meet the famous people that come through here from time to time.”
“Glad to meet you.” I answered in awe. “How come you’re not in Levelleria?”
It turns out that while there are a very few Libertarian types in Levelleria, there are hosts of Left-ies in Libertaria. It is simply a matter of the far better material life style that Libertarians provide compared to the Levellers. It is becoming obvious to most that the quest for equality of all has been more a matter of bringing competents down than helping incompetents rise. A heavy price is paid in morality and the quality of life for this equality foolishness.
“Eleanor, would you mind if I asked you what would you do differently if you had another chance at life?” I asked her.
After thinking a moment she said. “I would have run for the Senate in New York.”
“Way to go.” I said “Thanks a lot,” as we continued enjoying our drinks.
We then headed cross-town to Rockefeller Center that now houses a reform school for journalists. Almost all of the journalists of my lifetime and before had presented themselves as being unbi-ased to their public, and their pontifications as the objective truth, when, as is now well known, most were unconsciously biased in favor of the Left Liberal Establishment. We ran into Judy Woodruff, late of CNN, as we entered the building. I asked her if she would be so kind as to have a cup of coffee with us - and she graciously assented.
“Judy,” I asked after we’d been served steaming coffee and gooey crullers in the cafeteria, “Do you have any idea how biased you were in those days? You really infuriated me during that 2000 presidential campaign with your obvious emotional commitment to Al Gore.”
“Adrian, would you believe me if I told you I was completely oblivious to it? How can you blame me for that? Journalists are people too, you know, and we have our preferences just like anyone else. But, none-the-less, I now realize that you’re right about that, but only after a lot of work at it and some strong guidance. It was like as if it was in the air we breathed in the studio. All my colleagues, who I greatly respected, agreed with me on everything. Our whole culture supported it. We just thought we were so much smarter, more astute and of higher moral caliber than the selfish, red-necked bigots who had the temerity to disagree with us and were dumb enough to be Republicans. You know the story of the three great mysteries – air to the bird – water to the fish – and himself to man. I swear Adrian, we really BELIEVED!”
“Tell me Judy,” I asked between sips of coffee, “Have you thought… do you think…Did you have any ideas how you could have done it more accurately?”
“Well,” she responded, “We certainly needed to be more open and forthcoming about our points of view and management should then have strived for more equal representation between liberals and conservatives among the on-air personalities. No one person can really be objective, even if he is a trained journalist.”
“Another idea I’ve thought of,” she volunteered, “after the fact of course, is that there should have been a voluntary Political Rating Board that would assign honest political opinion ratings, on a scale from one to ten, to each personality, or journalist, or station, or newspaper, or maga-zine. They should also do it for print journalists and it should be part of their bylines like ‘This is Judy Woodruff, grade 9 liberal, reporting.’”
“Great idea, Judy,” I said as I paid the bill - it was only 1200 yen. “I guess we have to move on, Judy. Thanks so much for your time and good thoughts.”
“Have a great day!” she chirped cheerfully.
At that minute Saint Howie Carr, the nationally syndicated talk show host, came over to have a word with Judy.
“Howie, I interjected, “I’m Adrian from Watertown. What are you doing here?”
“I’m a senior instructor,” he answered.
“Excellent,” I answered as we left.
It turns out that Partisan’s Anonymous, an organization founded and headed by Justice Antonin Scalia and Governor Mario Cuomo, was also in that same building, so Al and I took the elevator to the 55th floor hoping for a few minutes of their time.
Fortunately, Governor Cuomo, one of the most intellectually agile and emotionally compelling partisans of my time, was in his office and willing to meet with us. Unfortunately, Justice Scalia was home with his family. He had apparently had nine more children in Heaven and was busily helping Mrs. Scalia.
“Adrian Spidle and paisano Dante Alighieri, to what do I owe this honor?” exclaimed the Gov-ernor.
“You’re part of my debriefing tour.” I answered matter-of-factly. “Thanks for seeing us Gover-nor. You know, I’ve never been a supporter of yours, but my son the scientist idolized you.”
“Well Adrian” he responded, “Your son has obviously exceeded his father in wisdom, you should be proud of him.”
“I am, but not for that reason, however.” I explained, “So tell me Governor, why you and the Judge started this organization – Partisans Anonymous?”
“Adrian, since I was reconstituted, I’ve reviewed my life very carefully and, as you know, Heaven gives us a chance to get it right, a chance to make up for the mistakes we made in life. Well, politics is my passion, as you know, and I now think I know a better way.”
“A lot of people find it strange that Mr. Justice Scalia and I should work together on this project beyond the fact that we’re paysans. I don’t know, perhaps it’s our shared Italian American heri-tage, but we just like each other and we work together very well. Besides, can you think of two better men to transform our partisan traditions? We both really believe that once the American people hear our conclusions, well, then, change will be inevitable, not just possible.”
“As they say, politics is the art of the possible. It’s about how a few – the politicians – determine how everyone else lives. I admit that I’m second to no one at effectively applying the debating tricks of advocates to defeat the clear logic of reason. In the past, it was the winners in this proc-ess that made the rules, while the losers, often barely shy of a majority, were left to stew in their resentment and bitterness.”
“Bad as that is, it’s not the worst. The angry losers then have a few years to contest and subvert the winners while organizing and motivating their supporters and then, maybe, winning the next time around and reversing as many of their enemy’s policies as possible. This periodic policy whipsawing plays havoc with business and personal planning and is a terrible waste.”
“It’s time for us all to grow up. I think I know a better way. Fundamentally, we need to trans-form our politics from a win-lose model to an integrative model. The simplest way to accom-plish this is to raise the bar for the passage of a bill so that they can only be passed by super ma-jorities. This protects the minority from having anathematic consequences shoved down their throats and greatly reduces the likelihood of embitterment and increases the likelihood of coop-eration and compliance. Tony and I believe that the core purpose of our government should be to make our country work for everyone.”
“Sounds great,” I said, “I bet that would also really improve the quality of political discourse.”
“Exactly Adrian,” the governor replied, “I hearken back to the bitter presidential election of 2000. It was actually the culmination of over thirty years of increasingly nasty political conflict, initi-ated by the left, which began in the Vietnam and Watergate eras. By the year 2004, the Ameri-can center finally put its foot down establishing, that while it’s alright to think differently about important issues, it is absolutely wrong to force your schemes on others. This was nothing more than a return to the mainstream of American values as they’ve existed since 1776.”
“OK Governor sounds interesting, but how in the world do you expect to implement it in the real world? It doesn’t sound easy.” I exclaimed, incredulously.
“Frankly Adrian, the solution is almost trivial on the procedural level, but immensely difficult on the personal level,” said the governor, “Simply requiring a 60% super majority vote to pass any bill, other than matters of defense or survival of course, would greatly improve cooperation be-tween partisans. I do not think it is unreasonable to require 60% agreement before the govern-ment is allowed to restrict my freedom, do you?”
“I’m with you Governor,” I answered enthusiastically, “Now I see why my son is so impressed with you.”
The governor continued, “On the personal level, however, it’s a whole ‘nother matter. It seems to be against human nature to ignore your own opinions while paying serious attention to oppo-site opinions. That is why Bilateral Consciousness – as you call it – is so rare in history. I be-lieve that requiring supermajorities will go a long way to reward those skills in the legal and po-litical arenas.”
“I agree Governor,” I responded, “You’re the man.”
Just then, Justice Scalia walked in. The Governor introduced us all around and I asked the Jus-tice,
“You’ve been one of my heroes for a long time sir. Tell me, how did a strict constructionist like you manage to join forces with a legal social engineer like the Governor?”
“Good question,” he responded with a wink towards the Governor, “Well, another way to look at it is as a cross fertilization of those two points-of-view. While the Governor was never enam-ored with the morality of rule following and I was totally averse to judicial social law making, we actually found that, together, we could craft some remarkable integrative solutions to some sticky legal conundrums. The Governor likes to make fun of my habits of close interpretation and blames it on my Jesuit education. I like to think that paying strict attention to the literal meaning of statute actually returns power to the legislative branch and thus to the people who elected them.”
The governor interrupted, “Tony, as you well know, I believe statutes are the light that illumi-nates the path and not the path itself. The reason Federal Judges are appointed for life is to re-move them from political pressure allowing them to honestly decide what they believe is right for the nation. I remember you, Tony, bragging that ‘Our Supreme Court doesn’t speak with one voice about almost anything.’ I know you agree with me when I say that that is its greatest strength, I think.”
Justice Scalia responded, “Mario, paisano, my major concern is what would happen if Americans could vote themselves their neighbors’ property. In many ways, that describes a large part of 20th century American politics.”
The Governor replied, “Tony, Government is not just another luxury good. Environmental pro-tection, for example, is a life and death matter. I know you agree with me that the Clean Air Act and the Clean Water Act were absolutely necessary. The question is where you draw the line, not whether there should be a line.”
“Of course,” the Justice replied, “I also agree that racism needs to be expunged from our society. However, Affirmative Action actually is a form of legal racism and is obviously wrong.”
Exhilarated by our brush with intellectual greatness, we shook hands all around and headed for the elevator. Al and I then headed uptown for the Plaza Hotel where I had attended my Senior Prom. There was a large crowd gathered at the corner of Sixth Avenue and Central Park South when we got there. I wondered what the lady in the center was saying. Turns out she was Hillary Clinton. She was apologizing for lying about being a Yankees fan all her life during her Senate campaign. I couldn’t forgive that and we continued on our way.
I noticed a large bilingual Chinese and English sign over the entrance to Central Park – It said Garden of the Children of Zhao. I immediately recognized the reference to the fall of the Zhao Kingdom to the Chin Kingdom during the unification and creation of China in 230 B.C. After that event all the children committed suicide or were buried alive by the overwhelming forces of the first emperor of China – Ying Zheng (That’s a picture of him as portrayed in the movie The Emperor and the Assassin).
“What’s with that?” I asked Al.
“That is where the children of Zhao… and Troy…and Carthage…and Masada, etc. get to grow up with their parents in Heaven. Heaven is about perfect justice… just as you planned. They were reconstituted in this place time sector because we have the counseling resources they need.” He said.
“That’s terrific!” I said, proudly.
We then agreed to dine at the Oak Room in the Plaza. Al had never eaten there before. We started with the flower bottle of Perrier Jouet Champagne. I then ordered a country pâté appe-tizer and an entree of quenelles de brochet. Al ordered an appetizer of sauté artichokes and an entrée of saltimbaca a la Romana.
The lovely 19-year-old waitress acknowledged Al for his original Divine Comedy, the Inferno, Purgatorio, and Paradiso. She was a Lit major at Barnard College, she bragged.
We then decided to have a nightcap downstairs at Trader Vic’s. We took adjoining stools at the bar and ordered frozen margaritas. The somewhat familiar gorgeous 19 year old brunette on the next stool said. “You’re Adrian Spidle, aren’t you?”
“Yes.” I replied. “Who are you?”
“I’m Jackie Kennedy Onassis.” She said. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Jackie, I’ve always admired you. Surely you must be Paradise qualified?” I asked.
“Of course I am, Adrian. Jack and Ari will be working at it for quite a while to come, however.” She said, smiling.
“Forgive me, but I can’t help wondering if the President ever told you the truth about P.T. 109,” I asked.
Jackie choked on her bourbon as she responded “What do you think is the truth?”
“Please, tell me, please, the truth…” I begged.
“I know you were in the Navy Adrian,” she responded, “and you know that torpedo fuel in those days was pure grain alcohol. Well, Jack and his crew had been partying and were just plain drunk when they were rammed by that Japanese destroyer. How else do you think a highly maneuverable P. T. boat capable of over 50 knots could be caught so flat-footed by a ship that couldn’t even do 25 knots?”
“Another Democrat myth bites the dust.” I chuckled.
“By the way, whom do you live with now?” I asked.
She answered “Well, you know, the jealousy algorithms are left out in Heaven. Ari is nicer, but Jack is a bit more exciting. It depends…”
We all giggled a bit uneasily.
“Tell me Jackie, would you be so kind as to tell me what would you do differently, if you had another chance on Earth?” I asked.
Without hesitation she offered “I would have left Jack after John John was born, or at least, pur-sued a separation. Who knows, it might have encouraged him to behave better.”
Al, Jackie and I chattered away the rest of the evening. Jackie, as cultured as she is, was particu-larly knowledgeable and interested in Al’s works. She was extremely interested in Beatrice. In response, Al went on and on endlessly and beautifully about her virtues; after all, he is one of the greatest poets of all time. After a few drinks, she shared in detail her experience of President Kennedy’s assassination with us. She revealed that JFK’s last words were – “Take your glasses off, Jackie.”
“He was always so concerned about showing me off.” She sighed.
Feeling no pain, we bad farewell to each other and Al and I returned to the exhilarating diamond studded cool night air of New York City.
Later that evening, on the boat back to Weehawken, I sat next to a familiar looking black guy. “Are you Willie Mays?” I asked in awe.
“Yep, you can call me Say Hey, Adrian.” He responded.
“Surely you must be Paradise qualified. “ I stated.
“No problem. We get extra credit for overcoming hardship at Final Judgment.” He answered. “So, you were at the last game in the old Polo Grounds, huh?”
“Never forget it.” I acknowledged. “I hope Horace Stoneham is in the Inferno.” I only half joked.
“Willie,” I asked, “Are you happy the Giants are back in New York?”
“You bet,” “he answered, “I never liked San Francisco. I’m actually going to play for the Giants next season. Believe it or not, Mr. Stoneham is still the owner.”
“Wow!” I exclaimed. “You can count on my Dad and me being there regularly.”
We spent the rest of the ferry trip discussing his experiences when he played for Casey Stengel and the Mets at the end of his career. “Tell me Willie,” I asked “I happen to know your lifetime batting average is 299 because you struggled in your last year. If you could do it over again, would you have retired a year earlier?”
“No way” he responded, “I had way too much fun that year.”
We said our goodbyes and we both promised to get together again.
The next morning, after another great Sheraton breakfast, we took the boat to Manhattan and then the bus down to the Village. We entered Washington Square Park just as the bright sun poked out from behind the clouds flooding the square with eerily filtered light. Then we saw a crowd gathered around two men who were playing chess in the sparkling fresh air.
Turns out it was Justice Clarence Thomas and the Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King deeply en-gaged in mental combat – two men that I greatly admired. Dr. King recognized us and got up to shake our hands warmly. Judge Thomas also stood up and greeted us kindly. They both glowed with Heaven’s glow of glory and I could do no better than to clumsily express my admiration for both them.
“Dr. King,” I asked respectfully, “would you kindly tell me what you think is the state of your famous DREAM?”
“Wonderful” Dr. King answered “Thanks, in part, to the teachings of the Church of the Modern Era. You know, Adrian, I never liked that Affirmative Action idea. Try as you might, Affirma-tive Action just can’t be squared with a colorblind society that values character above all else.”
“Thanks Dr. King.” I then asked “Do you have any regrets, sir?”
“Hmmm, I definitely wish I could have spent more time with my family. Also, I think the so-cialist leanings of my last few years probably helped to set back the development of my people by a few decades.”
“I don’t think so, M.L.” Justice Thomas interjected. “That socialism doesn’t work is something we had to learn by trying. It wasn’t your fault. I just can’t get over your attempts to win over the hearts and souls of our former oppressors. I thought you were nuts. But history shows how right you were. We now live in a truly blessed community, my friend, thanks to you.”
“Here, here” I cheered. “Tell me, Justice Thomas” I asked, “If I may be a bit indelicate, did you ever run into Anita Hill here? Do you know where she is and what she’s up to?”
He sat down hard and sighed heavily, “Well, you know, I haven’t been called the karmic re-sponse to feminism for nothing. Actually, we’ve forgiven each other. But, since her crime against me was sexual in nature, I held out for a sexual payback. She is now bound to the staff of Clinton’s White House Bordello in Washington DC. She should be free in a few more years.”
Al then suggested that we should probably visit DC next. I’ve heard that Gloria Steinem is also working there now. We then said a respectful good bye to Dr. King and Justice Thomas and continued our visit to the village, strolling around looking at the street painters’ works, stopping for beers at the Kettle of Fish Pub, just having a great New York day.
We returned to Weehawken and checked out of the Sheraton. I then drove the Benz to 95 South and Washington D.C., the capitol of Libertaria. I don’t know why, but I still get a kick out of paying tolls with my EZ Pass, only now it works off of my built in identity transponder.
As we passed the Meadow Lands, I noticed that Giants Stadium was now called the New York Coliseum, even though it’s in New Jersey.
“What’s with that name change?” I asked Al.
Chuckling, Al said “Another recreation of my proud Roman culture. They hold gladiatorial matches there. They are sold out every show, you know. The gladiators get chopped up pretty bad – they are all volunteer professionals by the way – but of course no one gets permanently killed or maimed. Some guys do it for the money, but many do it for the glory or just plain fun of it. Like the original gladiators, believing in your own immortality makes a big difference in the risks you’re willing to take. It’s pretty much taken the place of professional wrestling.”
“Wow,” I asked “How does the system work?”
“Well, during the week, it’s pretty much individual matches.” He answered. “On weekends, however, they have spectacular battles of hundreds of gladiators at a time. It’s financed by a pari-mutuel system. Admission is a thousand yen, but the house take from wagering is much more significant.”
“Who are the current champions?” I asked.
“Number one, believe it or not, calls himself Maximus. He’s actually a doppel of Avrum Git-tleman, an accountant who’s the CFO of New York Combined Jewish Philanthropies. It turns out he’s facing number two tonight – Commodus – who’s a doppel of Allan Bloom, a Classics Scholar at the University of Chicago. Good seats for that match go for ten thousand yen a piece.”
“The Coliseum is awfully large, isn’t vision a problem?” I asked.
“Actually, no problem at all.” he answered. “Don’t forget, just like you and me, everything in Heaven is an algorithm. The arena itself is connected directly to the Earthscape server so that the physical properties algorithms can be overridden. Therefore, when anyone steps into the arena their physical size changes. For individual combat, the contenders quadruple in size so that a six foot gladiator is twenty four feet in height while he’s in the arena. For battles between armies the combatants only double in size to accommodate more complex battles. Last year when the battle of Waterloo was restaged, the combatants were only three feet tall, on average. It makes for unforgettable spectacles.”
“No kidding.” I answered incredulously. “But what happens to projectiles that go astray into the stands? Do spectators get shot through by bullets, impaled by misaimed lances or burned by overshooting flaming ballista projectiles?”
“Of course not” he chuckled “Projectiles dematerialize at the edge of the arena. Being a specta-tor is totally safe, although the circumstances you just described do provide extra excitement.”
“Does getting stabbed or chopped hurt?” I asked.
“You bet it does” he answered “all pain sub-routines are fully operational. It takes a tough man to be a Gladiator.”
“What happens to the dismembered losers and maimed winners after the match?” I asked.
“That’s pretty cool,” he answered “Since the arena has that direct override connection to the Earthscape server, when the match is declared over, all wounds heal over and dismembered limbs and heads reattach themselves so that combatants can strut around the arena together- often arm in arm - to their fans cheers.”
“I suppose the spectators are mostly men?” I asked.
“What are you kidding, Adrian? Did you ever watch professional wrestling back on Earth? The spectators are at least half female. In fact, female groupies always crowd the Gladiators exit looking for some action. It’s one of the prime attractions to the profession. Sadly, I even saw a doppel of Beatrice’s standing in line for Maximus once.”
In fact, Al had a doppel gladiator – Gaius Marcus. He regaled me with his adventures as we headed to D.C. Apparently, donning armor, grabbing a sword, growing to twenty four feet in height and strutting around the arena to the hysterical cheers of 70 thousand fans is irresistible for Al as well as countless other guys.
“You know,” Al continued “Gaius Marcus has a one on one rematch with a Tyrannosaurus Rex next Thursday. You could say “mano a dino.” I lost the last time we met. Being torn apart and eaten by a T Rex is pretty damned painful. You know gladiator’s pain routines are fully enabled. In fact, my head was fairly intact as he swallowed it so I am intimately familiar with his diges-tive tract. Hopefully that will give me an edge the next time. I hope he doesn’t gobble me up next time.”
“Wow. I guess really high quality entertainment is very important when you have an eternity of life ahead of you and huge computational capability with which to live it.” I wondered out loud.
“Absolutely!” Al agreed with gusto.
“But Al,” I asked, “do you have a strategy for the rematch?”
Al chuckled and answered, “You bet I do. The last time I was 23 feet tall and armed with a sword and shield. He was 20 feet at the hip and 42 feet long overall. He kept knocking me over with his tail and head and I had no chance. For the rematch, I will be only seven feet high, but listen to my weapons. I will meet him standing on a 25 foot tower. Each hand will have two-sided 10 inch retractable barbed pickaxes firmly attached to a Kevlar sweater. My boots will have spikes like ice-climbers as well as 10 inch razors pointed up and away, much like Ve-lociraptor. I will first attract him by dancing and shouting. Then, at the right moment, I will jump onto his back digging the barbed pickaxes as deep as I can and hold on for the ride. I will kick and slash with my boots and stab him again with my pickaxes until he’s finished. Frankly, my friend, I can’t wait.”
When we finally reached Clinton’s, we parked in the underground garage. A quick elevator ride to the fourth floor and there was President Bill Clinton, himself, at the receptionist’s desk.
“Welcome to Billy’s little whore house in the capitol” he announced cheerfully.
“Mr. President,” I asked, I thought you were still in the Dashboard Light in Boston?”
“Please call me Bill. Well, Adrian,” he said, “It’s time for you to discover the real power of tech-nology. You see, here in Earthscape, each Paradise-track soul has about one trillion times the number of computes allocated to them than they had as biological beings. Of course we don’t have access to them, right away, at reconstitution, because we would overload and crash. It takes time to develop the ability to utilize them. What this means, Adrian, is that when we are capable of fully implementing all our allocated computes, we can each experience life as a trillion differ-ent, but at the same time, the same and connected people. We call these extra selves doppels, from the German word doppelganger.”
“I’m only up to six doppels, so far, but two of them are constantly engaged in sex. I don’t know why, but I’ve decided to keep at least one third of my doppels engaged in sex. The me in the Dashboard Light is satisfying my responsibilities to the soccer moms, lonely feminists, and other female Clinton followers of New England. It seems that there are tens of millions of Democrat women who want a piece of me and are willing to pay handsomely for it.”
“But tell me, Bill,” I asked, “What does Hillary think of all this?”
“Uh…uh…, Adrian, well, it’s time for me to move on, and put this behind me, achieve closure, live my own personal life, and do the people’s work. I have so many things to do and say, you know what I mean?” He answered very seriously as he bit his lower lip thoughtfully.
“Top ranked Bordellos in New York City, Chicago, San Francisco and Los Angeles have booked my next four doppels, as soon as I can handle it.” he bragged.
“You mean you’re having sex, right now, as we’re talking?” I asked.
“You bet, with three women, in fact.” He gloated. “I’m poking a liberal feminist Globe colum-nist in the Dashboard Light, while another me is making it with both Sharon Stone and Barbra Streisand on a secluded volcanic outcropping on the beach a few hundred yards from Horse Shoe Beach in South Hampton Bermuda. I believe you actually know that spot.”
“I sure do, but would you please tell Sharon that I’m really crazy about her in her role in TOTAL RECALL.” I begged.
“Sure” he gasped, “WHOA there, girls, y-you don’t need to fight over i-it… O-OK, go ahead and fight over it. Sh-Sharon, Adrian Spidle asked me to tell you have much he loved you in TOTAL RECALL.”
“A-Adrian, she said thanks, and wants to know if you’d like a d-date with her. She requests that you have one of your doppels call one of her doppels.” Clinton said.
“Wonderful, tell her I’ll give her a call,” I answered, not yet attuned to doppel etiquette. “By the way, Bill, which doppel is the real you?”
“Which of your hands is really yours, the right one or the left? All my doppels are me. I can’t wait, can you dig it, until I can have sex with a million different women at the same time. Even in Heaven you need goals, you know.” he answered. “By the way, have you noticed yet that our sexual subroutines have been greatly enhanced here in Heaven? Heavenly sex has it all over bio-sex.” He proudly asserted.
“HMMM”, I started, “I suppose sex is a pretty good way to use up some of those extra computes. It would be a lot more fun than contemplating Superstring Theory or Proteomics all day. I won-der, you know, if everyone has a bunch of doppels, it wouldn’t take too long for everyone in Earthscape to have sex with everyone else in Earthscape, would it?”
“Exactly” Clinton said “You’ve got my kind of mind. I can’t think of anything better. In fact, I’m looking forward to the day when I will be having sex with each and every woman in Earthscape continuously, all the time. Can you imagine that?”
“Wow! It’s good to have goals. I see from your menu that Gloria Steinem is on duty. Is it pos-sible that she and Anita Hill would be available this evening?” I asked hopefully.
“For you, that would be only one million yen – no problem!” He answered.
“Sold” I said. The President then made two phone calls, smiling, as he negotiated with them.
A few moments later, Gloria sashayed in, looking fabulous, smelling great, and wearing an ele-gant little black velvet dress.
“Hi Adrian,” she said sexily as she grabbed by hand, “I understand you’re looking for a good time?”
“You betcha,” I answered as suavely as I could manage, “I’m ready.”
“You’re the boss,” she murmured as Anita entered the room wearing a short, skin-tight white spandex dress.
“Hey, big boy,” she uttered huskily. “What’s your pleasure?”
“You!” I said as Clinton winked at me lasciviously. The girls, and they were girls, each took an arm and lead me off to their chamber of delights.
The room was large with the walls ragged pink and blue and covered with lighted, musk scented candles in brass sconces. The ceiling was painted like a brilliant blue and white cloudy sky. The floor was covered with rich Persian rugs. There was no other light in the room, but the candles were more than enough especially given the enhanced eyesight heaven gave us.
There was a large hot tub bubbling fragrantly away in one corner with a king sized air mattress recessed in the floor next to it. The next corner had a king sized brass bed covered with red silk linens and pillows, while the third corner had two red chintz loveseats kitty cornered and sepa-rated by a Pembroke end table with a huge Chinese style vase of fresh, fragrant mixed flowers, and a coffee table in front.
Gloria, her hands constantly caressing me, led me to the loveseat, sitting right next to me, while Anita checked the water temperature in the tub and fetched three heavy crystal tumblers and a fresh bottle of Harvey’s Tawny Port and a long, fat, Macanudo cigar from the bar that occupied the fourth corner, all this while the third movement of Beethoven’s Seventh Symphony filled the room.
After filling our glasses, Anita ceremoniously lit my cigar and got to her knees and removed my shoes and socks as Gloria started to unbutton my shirt with one hand while stroking me with her other. I just leaned back, blowing aromatic billows of cigar smoke, sipping the fortified Port wine, listening to Beethoven – all my senses deliciously engaged - while thinking that this was definitely Heaven.
“Tell me girls,” I whispered as we were all naked by now, “Has your thinking about men and women evolved since you’ve been in Heaven?”
Gloria looked up at me, cleared her throat and answered in a trembling voice “Well, to give you an idea, doppels of Anita, Germaine Greer and I are meeting with Saint Rush Limbaugh, right now, to plan the launch of our new magazine – MRS. – The magazine for recovering feminists.” While there are lots of saints in Heaven, most people forgo the honorific – except for Rush.
One of my doppels is actually pregnant right now – obviously with an aborted soul – and my husband and I are ecstatic about it. I am so-o-o glad to get the chance to make at least partial recompense for all the souls I had so casually encouraged to be aborted.”
I finished off my glass of Port carefully avoiding the sediment in the bottom of the glass, Gloria gently placed my Macanudo in the cut crystal ashtray and both of them gracefully led me to the hot tub sensually helping me settle in the roiling, fragrant, hot water. My nose tickled from the dancing micro bubbles emanating from the bath. The girls got in beautifully and spent the next thirty minutes scrubbing every part of my body. I marveled at how deliciously soft each of their skins were, even though they were quite different in texture from each other.
The girls signaled me to get out of the tub and lie down on my back on the nearby water mattress. Gloria fetched a gleaming golden watering can full of sandalwood fragranced massage oil with which to anoint us all.
Anita’s unbelievably soft, gleaming, brown skin contrasted dramatically with Gloria’s lightly tanned and well oiled skin. As they hovered over me, each hugged me as we rolled back and forth, giggling and moaning caressing and slip-sliding over each other as our flesh tingled with excitement.
In Heaven, there is no limit to the number of orgasms you can have, even for men. Each of the three of us had experienced bunches of orgasms by the time we tumbled into the great red silken expanse of the sturdy brass bead.
“Clinton wasn’t kidding when he said our sexual subroutines are enhanced, here in Heaven.” I drowsily observed.
Before falling to sleep, I asked Anita “Please excuse me, Anita, but why did you do what you did to Mr. Justice Thomas, back on Earth?”
She gulped and said, “I am really, really sorry for what I did and I’m still paying for it. I guess he hurt me and I wanted to pay him back. Besides that, I really enjoyed making a federal case of it for principles that I deeply believed in. The really authentic fervor I felt for my principles helped me to – on some level - actually believe my own false accusations. You know. Brain sci-ence has shown that it is actually the emotions that drive reason.”
The next morning we all had breakfast together at the Capitol Diner and we all hugged good-bye before I left to join Al for the drive back to Boston.
As I guided my Benz down Pennsylvania Avenue turning onto 95 North I recounted the prior evening’s delicious entertainments for Al’s eager benefit.
A few hours later, when I saw the first sign for Westport Connecticut, I asked Al if he would mind it if we tried to visit Martha Stewart. He allowed as how his wife, Beatrice, would love to hear about such a visit since she had admired Martha ever since they had first moved to this Place-Time scape. I agreed that my wife (She and Martha are both alumnae of Barnard College) would also love to hear about it.
As we turned into Martha’s driveway, I was amazed by the tailored jumble of roses that was her landscaping. A lovely preteen girl answered the door and called out “Mom, we have some visi-tors.”
Martha, looking positively dewy, came to the door surrounded by five of her six children that she had birthed in Heaven.
After introductions and a few words, she invited us in for tea. She served us two perfect lattes and a platter of Petit Mt. Blancs (a marvelous chestnut puree meringue desert).
“Thanks for including me in your first tour of Heaven. “ Martha said. “You probably want to ask me what I would do differently on Earth knowing what I now know, right?”
“You’re too smart for me” I acknowledged.
“Except for lying to the Feds, I wouldn’t change a thing she said “especially since I was able to give birth to these wonderful children once I’d reached Heaven. Together with my husband, I live in the total continuum of love that I’d always dreamed about as a young girl and had longed for as an adult.”
“Wow,” I said, “I also understand you’ve just completely taken over K Mart?”
“Yes” she said “I’ve actually managed to put five doppels in action to manage my business and design affairs, while, at the same time, immersing myself in this domestic paradise. I’ve finally realized that, while it’s a fool’s goal for a woman to try and HAVE IT ALL while on Earth, it’s no problem here in Heaven.”
“You know Martha” I responded “My favorite saying of yours goes back to when Larry King interviewed you on his show. He announced accusatively that you were the 250th richest person in America. Then, with a little hesitation, you said ‘well there’s room for improvement, isn’t there?’’
We parted laughing heartily.
As we got into my Benz, Al informed me “If you work at it, you should be Paradise qualified in about four years. I suggest you concentrate on that project for a while before we continue the tour.”
“No problem, I agreed. I think I’ll buy a house in Boston and get to it.”
“Great” He replied. “I’ve some cousins on Staten Island I’ve been meaning to visit before I go home to Beatrice. Could you drop me off at Logan Scape Port when we get to Boston?”
We shook hands good-bye at the drop off circle at Logan and agreed to meet at my Final Judg-ment and Paradise qualification.
Back in Boston finally, I bought a large old home in the Newton Corner section of Watertown for 45 million yen. Sitting alone in my house I started to miss my wife Cindy, really badly. I also hungered to spend time with my son and daughter. I decided to contact Cindy on my com com and beg her to abort her sabbatical and COME HOME. One month of freedom was enough, for me.
Executive Mansion
Washington Nov. 21, 1864
To Mrs. Bixby, Boston, Mass.
Dear Madame;
I have been shown in the files of the War Department
A statement of the Adjutant General of Massachusetts
That you are the mother of five sons
Who have died gloriously on the field of battle. I feel
How weak and fruitless must be any words of mine
Which would attempt to beguile you from grief
Of a loss so overwhelming. But I cannot refrain
From tendering to you the consolation that may be found,
In the thanks of the Republic they died to save,
I pray the Heavenly Father may assuage
The anguish of your bereavement, and leave you only
The cherished memory of the loved and lost,
And the solemn pride that must be yours to have laid
So costly a sacrifice upon the alter of freedom.
Yours sincerely and respectfully,
A. Lincoln
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