Designing Heaven

The bar was closing in an hour and looked as if it had been closed all weekend.
Thompson, the bartender paced back and forth behind the bar, here and there wiping a
spot mark that probably wasn’t there.

Susan, Marguerite, John, and I sat in a corner booth behind a wall of pint glasses and
empty fry baskets. Clapton danced through the dining area from an old ’72 jukebox. and
wove himself through the maze of barstools and clean mugs where he hovered gently on
our earlobes. Four glass pints slammed down onto lacquered oak.

“Alright,” John began “let’s get deep.” John’s eyes stared seriously into each of our eyes,
right hand still gripping firm his empty mug.

“Pssh,” Susan replied with surprised spittle. “Ok, John. Get deep then, reeall deep.” She
cooed.

“Alright, alright,” I interrupted, I was interested to see where John was going. “Explain
yourself, John. What do you mean by let’s get deep? I mean, unless Susan was right to
imply that your remark was simply a boner in a tuxedo, so to speak?”

“Well,” said John, talking into Susan’s chest. “that’s not exactly what I had in mind—not
that I’d say no, babe.” He winked. “but I mean conversation wise, let’s get deep.
Marcus, you’re always talking about crazy deep stuff, aren’t you? Well, let’s get deep.”
John made a head nod down to my right hand, which sat atop a copy of Manly P. Hall’s
Secret Teachings of All Ages.

“Ha, alright John.” I replied. “What do you want to talk about?”

“Oh brother.” moaned Susan.

“Heaven.” Said John matter-of-factly.

“Heaven?” I asked..

“Heaven.” He said, even more matter-of-factly.

“Ok,” I said, “what about Heaven?”

“Well, first off: Do you believe it exists?” John asked.

“Do I believe in Heaven?” I repeated

“Yes.” replied John, beginning to annoy beautifully.

“Yes, I suppose you could say that I believe in Heaven.” I replied.

“Well, what do…” John began, but was cut-off by Susan, who in a spasm of excited
nose-butting spilled a half pint of Francikanser onto the table. Thompson, the bartend
quickly grabbed a towel from behind the bar and came over to clean—he was just happy
to have something to do.

“Ah shit, sorry Tom.” Susan giggled. “Now I’m all wet.”

Thompson’s eyes lit up, then dimmed when he realized that Susan was looking at John.

“But, anyways I wanted to say that I want to be part of this conversation.” Susan’s head
wobbled back and forth as she spoke. I had this hankering feeling that she might even be
bobbing in rhythm to her own speech—but I wasn’t sure just yet.

“Ok, then.” I said, seizing the moment. “Do you believe in Heaven, Susan?” I tried to
speak into her eyes, but only made it up to her mouth where a stray dob of catsup on a
stray lip hair caught my attention.

“Of course I believe in Heaven,” replied Susan, “it says so in the bible.” I had forgotten
about Susan’s slightly country drawl, which had mostly vanished since she moved to the
city, until she said the phrase it says so in the bible where it stood out like a Swedish man
in Sudan.

I smiled warmly at Susan, then quizzically at John—who winked.

Susan’s blonde curls bounced on her shoulders like bobbing sunflowers in an autumn
breeze. Her white blouse barely buttoned around her cleavage and her teeth were so
white I was beginning to wonder how she had ended up in this group of pseudo-
intellectual drifters.

John was a big man, six-eight and thick as a tree. His barn red and black flannel shirt had
last been washed in 1994 when Kurt Cobain killed himself. He had long, black hair and
you would swear by looking at him that he was pure blooded Indian. Mexican, he says,
though he speaks not a lick of Spanish. I met John at a local spoken word show
downtown. He was in the back of the bar as far away from the stage as possible and I
had stumbled up next to him full of Jim Bean laughing loudly about the incredibly large
amount of audacity someone like the guy on stage behind us must have in order to read
such petty shit out loud in front of people. John liked me right away he said, and I grew
to like John over time. It’s hard not to like a guy who will, and does, knock out guys
around you that you may have pissed off in the men’s room with drunken remarks and a
loose zipper.

Marguerite showed up at this bar exactly three weeks ago in the middle of a The Rolling
Stones’ song Sympathy for the Devil. She just came right in, sat down next to John at our
corner booth and ordered a whiskey and water, top shelf. Introduced herself as
Marguerite and told me that it was not polite to have my elbows on the table, nor to chew
with my mouth open.
John and I had just looked at each other, looked over towards the wall where a picture of
Tom’s dad holding a buck head hung and where the jukebox lay behind, and shrugged.

Three weeks and all we knew was that her name is Marguerite. That she shows up here
every night at 5:55 pm sharp and drinks whisky and water like, well, water. She never
acts drunk, she doesn’t speak often, unless we make some mistake in our manners for
which she happily obliges with sharp correction. She smiles a lot, so that’s nice.

Myself, I was born in this bar. I was reborn in the men’s bathroom twenty-two years
later when I “died” of alcohol poisoning. They resuscitated me obviously, but there were
repercussions for coming back like I did, and for dying like I did. Before that thirty-
whiskies and a case of beer night I was a college student; and I was lonely, in love,
horny, young and hopeful.

When I woke up at the hospital and they told me I had died for two minutes—I told them
to fuck off.

I didn’t see any white light. I didn’t feel any amazing presence of God or see any angels
or heavens. All I could remember was the taste of Jim Bean and Mexi-melt tacos on the
way up my esophagus and into my mouth.

My first thought, to my own surprise, was that heaven and god and infinite love did not
exist after death—they existed now, and they were hiding.

After that bout at the hospital and the subsequent three days of walking around dazed and
smiling like a clueless puppy searching for its tale, I was put on Valium and Zoloft—for
my mood.

When reality wore off and the drugs kicked in I had realized something profound and
wonderful and ultimately disastrous for someone with future aspirations of social
greatness—I realized that there was nothing more than what we create around us, in front
of us, at this very moment. And it occurred to me that this fact made everything around
me and everyone I held important and unimportant and close and distant and that I loved
and hated and thought I needed—totally divine. And also totally insignificant.

Funny how that works.

“Well, Susan. What is Heaven?” I prodded.

“Well, Heaven is where good Christians go after they die. Eternal happiness.” She
responded with a trailing sigh.

“Well, what goes on in Heaven? What does it look like?” I prodded deeper.
“Well…hmmm. What goes on…in Heaven.” She repeated, her eyes darting from eye to
eyes to whiskey to hand to mouth. She took a drink and responded: “Good stuff?”

“Hmm, broad. But we’ll start there.” You have to start somewhere.

“Ok,” I proceeded. “Do we all agree that Heaven is where good Christians go after they
die, and is where good ‘stuff’ takes place?” I asked and John smiled back.

“Well,” said John. “I agree that Heaven, if it exists, is a place where ‘good stuff’ takes
place; however,” He was grinning, almost stupidly, “I don’t think it is only for good
Christians’.” He was so proud of his answer. I felt the sudden urge to give him a cookie,
or a piece of bacon.

Susan stared right into John’s dark eyes and then directly at his crotch, and then back to
his eyes: “Ok,” She said. “you can come, too, big man.” She smiled.

“Besides, I’m likely going to hell anyways.” And her dimples rose.

“Ok,” I said. “So far we have that Heaven is a place where good people go after they die
and good stuff takes place there. Now let’s get deeper.” I smiled at John. He smiled at
Susan’s breasts.

“Let’s define good.” I said.

“Alright.” said John, “good is opposite of evil. It’s not hurting people. Not killing
people. Not stealing. Not sinning. Fucking too. Fucking’s damned good, eh, eh.” I’m
pretty sure I heard John’s zipper straining against his excitement. I knew Jaeger was a
bad idea.

“Ok, those are good points.” I replied, “Though some people see fucking, outside of
marriage at least, as a bad thing. What do you think Susan?” Again I tried to look at her
eyes while I spoke, but the driblet of catsup had now made its way down a piece of white
lace below her chin, right above her cleavage.

“Well, the bible says that having sex outside of marriage is a sin; but, I don’t necessarily
believe that.” And it was obvious by the way she was looking at John.

“Ok, so can we agree that good is the opposite of bad, then?” I asked, certain neither of
them was really listening.

“Alright.” John said casually, “What’s bad then? Beside the opposite of good, that is?”

“Hmm, good point big man” I said between a sip of Jim. “So we have a problem then. If
we each define good differently; and, we each define bad differently—then we are at
stand still.
“We’ll don’t that mean that they’re subjective? Good and evil that is?” Susan frowned
into her glass of ice as if concerned as to where the whiskey went. “That’s the term,
right? Subjective?” She looked at me. The catsup drop was on the move.

There was silence. Maybe because of Susan’s statement, though more likely because
Susan’s left foot had wandered up John’s leg. John was strangling his left wrist like it
had pulled the trigger on Cobain’s shotgun.

John then smiled warmly at Susan and turned my way: “Alright. So what if they are
both subjective. What does that mean?” Another shot of Jaeger coated John’s throat.

“Well,” I began, “it means that if there is no absolute good nor an absolute evil, than the
idea of Heaven as a refuge for good people, as opposed to bad people, becomes irrelevant
—and we’re back at square one.”

“Hold on Marcus,” John’s left arm twitched and then Susan frowned playfully. John shot
her a hard stare that straightened her—I laughed on the inside and took a shot of Jim on
the out. John then shot me a long look to let me know he was still interested.

I smiled.

He continued:

“If we just established that bad and good are subjective. That is, different to different
people. Than what is real? What’s subjective? We’re too shallow Marcus—we gotta go
deeper.” His smile seemed extra smooth as it wove his sandpaper voice into something
surprisingly intelligent sounding.

“Well, god-be-damned, John. Excuse my language, as it is between such a heavenly

discussion; but, I think you have just struck a damned good point, my thick necked
friend. What is real? What is subjective? Susan?”

Susan’s head eventually bobbed its way over to my direction where it said:

“What?” With an extra emphasis on the wh.

“What is subjective Susan, dear? And what is real? Or do you not have an opinion?”

“Oooohhh.” Her glass wobbled, her blouse was slipping farther down her mountainous
chest and John and I said nothing. “You guys wanna know what I think is real. And what
I think is just o-pin-ion?” She sat straighter and took a sip of her wine.

“I think that these here,” she grabbed the sides of each her breasts, “are real.”

John and I looked at each other and nodded.

“Ok.” I said

“Uh, huh.” John agreed.

“And I think that this here wine is real. And I think the bulge on John’s left thigh is
real.” She winked terribly in John’s direction.

“Annd…I think anything y’all say and anything I say, or anything anyone else says…is
bullshit.”

She smiled.

“Well, fucking alright Susan. Sounds good to me. How about you John? You agree,
you big skeptical bastard?” I smiled at John who was smiling at Susan, who was still
holding her breasts.

“Uh huh. Yeah. I mean anything anyone says is opinion. And everyone is full of shit.
‘Course, I’m not too sure that I believe those’re real.” He said as he nodded to Susan’s
tits.

I laughed and ordered another round of drinks. Someone had to keep this godforsaken
place in business.

“Alright, ok. So we’ve established that people’s conceptual ideas of things. That is to
say, what people think about things is subjective. There are no truths that can be spoken.
And, I think what Susan was trying to say with her tits metaphor, was that what we can
feel, see, taste, hear and overall experience—is real. Because we all know damned well
that there is no way that those tits are real Susan.” I looked at Susan and shot her a wink,
who then shot John a wink. Who then asked:

“Well what about science?”

“What do you mean John.” I inquired.

“I mean science is all words. It’s all ideas written down or taught about. And they’re
proven ideas, too. They’re words and symbols based on experience…right? So is
science real?” John’s voice was rising.

“Fuck Marcus, is it?” John was starting to worry himself into agitation. For such a big,
burly guy he was really easily worked up.

“Whoa, calm down John.” I said. “It’s cool man. No reason to freak just yet.” I knew
Jaeger was a bad idea.

“I think some might say that nothing in science is proven. And what they mean is that
science is the pursuit of knowledge, of understanding. It is an attempt to explore and
understand the world around and inside us. What is the main goal of science but to attain
all knowledge and complete understanding of the known and still yet unknown universe?

However, and this is the tricky part John, if the goal of science is to attain all knowledge
and complete understanding; and science was to take into account the relatively primitive
position of our society in relation to the immense possibilities within our universe—than
science itself would have to agree that they can by no means declare any of their findings
or positions as completely proven. How can an instrument designed for perpetual,
infinite dissection ever claim its findings or positions as absolute?” I smiled, quite
satisfied that I had not slurred.

John frowned. Quite upset.

“Alright, so your saying science bullshit then?” Asked John, slightly confused and
showing it in the twitching of the left side of his upper lip.

“Well, sort of. More like science is refined bullshit. Less smelly, but still full of
uncertainties and still with a certain tendency to clear rooms when too much of it is
present.” I smiled and took the shot of whiskey that Thompson had set down in front of
me a minute earlier. I didn’t order it, but he must have heard our conversation and
assumed I would be needing it at some point.

“Anyways,” I said. “Back to Heaven. We’ve agreed that good and evil are subjective;
that is, what is good to one person may not be good to another. With that in mind--think
we can all agree that what Heaven is like is most likely subjective?” I stared straight at
John—locked eyes. Susan burped and giggled and John’s upper lip curled up on the left
like a corner piece of parchment writhing in flame.

“Yeah, alright,” said John.

“Mmhmm,” cooed Susan.

“Alright,” I said. “Now, what’s your Heaven like Susan?” I smiled at the droplet of
catsup dangling above her half exposed areola.

Susan made thinking noises intermit some burping and another glass spilling.

“Myyy, Heaven is in a gii-normous, no, infinite sized Georgia mansion. With infinite
rooms. And infinite people in the rooms to meet with and drink with.” She paused,
burped and winked at John, “and who are all really, really nice and hot.” She shot John a
look that would have embarrassed his mother and continued:

“I would get to see my grand-mama and Pappy Jim, also. And I’d tell them all about my
life after they died and we would have picnics under the stars. With Jesus and Gandhi
and Hemingway.” She smiled as one does when lost in a fantasy far more enjoyable than
reality.
“What about you John?” Susan asked. “What’s your Heaven like big boy?

“My Heaven,” John straightened up a bit, his head seemed heavy on his body, “is being
able to explore the whole universe and have sex in and with every species of woman” he
stared heavily at Susan, who smiled and straightened her top. The catsup fell. Free.

“And to be able to taste all the foods and recipes of the world. And to see Kurt play,
obviously.” He took a sip of water from a cup poured four hours ago and stared at the
wall where the jukebox lay behind.

Strange Brew, by Cream began dancing and singing through the bar.

“Is that it?” I asked.

“Yeah,” said John, he seemed distant and drifting farther off.

“Well,” I began “my heaven is reaching an awareness of self that allows one to transverse
the multi-verse, throughout all possibilities and to experience all possibilities.

“From the life of a neuron spark to the life of a bacteria riding on the breath of a fly. To
the life of a God. Everything.” I paused for effect.

“From men, to women, to rich, poor, happy, unhappy, to beyond human life. To different
worlds, different possible worlds. To be gods, to be demons, to be angels and cupids and
dream-weavers. To meet the Norn, dream the clouds into the sky with paint brushes full
of dancing water molecules. I want to experience everything—and be aware of it.” I
took that shot.

“That is my heaven,” I smiled at John “Infinite conscious awareness.”

“Alright man, then what?” John asked sardonically.

“And then I start over.” And I smiled so hard my right leg twitched.

“That’s why I’ve always said that when I die, I want my tombstone to say ‘See You Next
Time.’” Symphony for the Devil, by the Stones began sauntering through our glasses.

I chuckled from my gut; and then Marguerite coughed.

Marguerite whom we had all forgotten about.

Marguerite who had steadily been sipping whiskey waters and listening to our banter,
never speaking, never laughing or coughing or sneezing. I don’t think I had even heard
her place a glass down on the table, despite the twelve shot glasses in front of her that
cared to disagree.
Marguerite was smiling at me so hard it made my left leg twitch.

“That’s beautiful.” She said. Something about hearing someone speak for the first time
in a while, it gives their voice an extra melodic cadence. It was for this reason, I
assumed, that Marguerite’s words came out sounding like warm strawberry Taffee.

Marguerite stared long and hard into some place deep within John’s eyes—who in turn
stared back. He seemed as surprised as I was to hear Marguerite speak, and he seemed
dazed, lost even…

Then suddenly John looked at me—puzzled. His eye had a glint in it, a tiny stream of
light reflecting off some rebellious, prepubescent tear gathering strength and willing itself
to propel down and out into the bright, cold world. He smiled stupidly and if only for a
moment, acceptingly. He looked back at Marguerite.

And then Marguerite looked at Susan whose eyes were on the verge of collapsing into
Dreams embrace. Susan’s eyes caught Marguerite’s stare and reacted as one does when
homeless and thanking a man for fifty dollars.

Susan smiled. Marguerite smiled.

Marguerite, Susan and John looked at me—smiling.

I looked at John. I looked at Susan. I looked at Marguerite’s hand, which was moving
something heavy and metal up her midriff and over the table.

A muffled click made its way around all the empty whiskey glasses and empty pints,
climbed up my right shoulder and tickled my ear drum.

Marguerite looked at me and winked—and by the time I realized that her heavy metal
object was a just recently loaded Magnum, it was too late.

There were now two chunky, sanguine Rorschach paintings on the wall where John and
Susan’s eyes had been.

The one above Susan looked to me like a dripping butterfly being unzipped down the
middle by a drunken piece of raw meat.

I looked at where John’s face had been and shook my head. The top half of his head was
a melting red balloon falling into a dripping, chunky smile on the wall.

I looked at Marguerite who was smiling so hard I thought I might vomit. She pointed her
barrel at me and said:
“See you next time.” And proceeded to spray her brains all over Thompson’s freshly
shined bar top.

A chill ran through my veins like frozen glass, the universe flickered for a moment and
then suddenly I felt much lighter.

The bodies of John, Marguerite and Susan were still around the bar. They were frozen,
lifeless. Susan’s hand still hung slightly above the table, as if time and space had simply
frozen around them all.

I reached down and took the last shot of Jim Bean on the table in my hand and toasted up
to Thompson, who stood polishing the spot on his now soppy bar: “To Heaven.” I said,
downed my shot and smiled at Thompson.

“Well, that was interesting.” I said. “I certainly didn’t expect that.”

Thompson stopped wiping up the blood and gore and looked up at me and smiled.

“Glad you liked, Marcus. I knew you liked the John character, and I was damned
positive you would like the surprise aspect of Marguerite; and, well…we both know how
much you like Susan’s character.” Thompson winked at me.

“Yes,” I said, picking up Susan’s hand and stroking her knuckles, which promptly turned
to dust. “I just wish she would fall for me.” I sighed. “She always falls for the other
character.” I ran my finger up her arm, which turned to dust under my touch.

“Well, you know the rules Marcus. We design possibilities, situations in which things
may happen, not in which things happen. This is just one step, you know? You are free
to create and experience as many situations and lives as you like. But you still have a
goal. You still have things to learn and experience before you move on. Hence all the
experiences.” While Thompson had been talking the room had been cleaning itself up
and resetting itself. Now the bar was back to it’s shining state, all the blood and gore and
bodies gone.

“So, this is pretty close to being on Earth, then? Except, I guess, that I have more say
over the parameters of my experiences and over the duration of my stay in these
experiences.” I got out of the booth and walked up to the bar. Thompson began
polishing his spot.

He looked up over his glasses and said: “Oh, it is exactly like Earth life, except that now
you are more aware that you so much say over the parameters of your experiences.”

I thought about this—and then I looked up from my suddenly full shot glass and began
laughing.
“Thompson,” I said. “if you go about creating situations I desire to experience or
experiences that I design to be situated in; and, if this is all of my creation, my Heaven.
Than are you my creation?” Thompson stopped polishing and looked sharply up at me,
for minute it seemed that he was angry, but if he was it was only for a second before he
donned a boyish grin and answered:

“Well, I suppose that is one possibility, my friend; but who, then, is creating you?”

And then the bar was closing in an hour and Thompson, the bartender, paced back and
forth behind the bar. Here and there wiping a spot mark that probably wasn’t there.

Clapton danced through the dining area from an old ’72 jukebox and wove himself
through the maze of barstools and clean mugs where he hovered gently on our earlobes.
Four glass pints slammed down onto lacquered oak.

“Alright,” John began “let’s get wasted.”