Excerpt
from I Never Saw Paris
by Harry I. Freund
Part 1
Shock
Shock
All right, so I listened to my wife. After all, I've been doing it for nearly forty years, I should have stopped now? Boy, is she going to feel guilty.
So there I was standing at the corner of Fifty-seventh Street and Park Avenue, minding my own business, waiting for the light to change. My mission was to buy blue shirts, Jane insisted that I buy more blue shirts, they bring out the color of my eyes, she said, they give me a little color. My luck, there was a sale at a fancy store on Fifty-seventh, go there, she said. So I was waiting at the corner, to my left a great-looking woman in her fifties, a real Manhattan type, all dolled up, loaded with jewelry, great body, great legs. To my right, a handsome young fellow wearing a sport shirt and the tightest jeans I ever saw; I noticed the lady glancing at him approvingly. Me, she didn't seem to notice. At sixty-four, I'm much more age-appropriate for her than he is but, hey, looking is free, let her look. And that was my last relaxed thought on earth because that's when I noticed the car coming straight at us, right onto the sidewalk. An old man was slumped down at the wheel, eyes closed. His was the last face I ever saw in my life.
And now look, an emergency crew is arriving, I can see everything down there on the corner. They're examining me and the others, we're lying there all askew, and for the first time now I see an old black lady on the ground behind me. I had heard her scream, what a shriek, but I hadn't seen her before. After some time, the crew pronounces us all dead. What a waste, those lousy shirts, I could have lived without them. And I had finally booked that trip to Paris for Jane's birthday; I never wanted to go but Jane did. Twice before we had planned on it and cancelled and now this. Three strikes and you're out. So I never saw Paris, never will; poor Jane will have to go alone, she'll have to go to Chanel without me.
She doesn't know about me yet, it takes time, they have to identify me first, then they have to reach her. And I never remembered to tell her about the new stock account I opened at Merrill Lynch, but that's all right, she'll get the monthly statement, she'll show it to Bobby, he'll figure it out. He's my boy, he doesn't miss a trick, he'll find it, over seven hundred thousand dollars in it, I don't know how I forgot to tell her.
God, I wanted to see the kid, Bobby's firstborn, due in three months. That's unfair, where's the justice in that? My first grandchild, I don't even know if it's a boy or a girl. Bobby knows but he wouldn't tell, he wanted to surprise us. If it's a boy, maybe they'll name him after me, although who knows what his wife will do. Maybe my name isn't fancy enough for her, nobody uses Irving anymore, I bet she won't do it. They'll use something with an I, maybe Ian or Ivor, and I'll be lucky if they even do that. You know what, I'm dead, how insulted can I get, whats the big deal?
I'm really feeling very relaxed, considering what I've just been through. My mind seems clear, but my emotions feel constrained, a little distant. There's my blood on the street, there's that poor fancy lady sprawled next to me still clutching her big pink handbag, and that young guy, he tried hard to escape, I could hear him groaning, grunting with the effort. And that black lady, her gray hair disarranged. What a way to go, so mindless, so public, on the corner of Fifty-seventh and Park, people milling about, pointing, commenting. No decorum, no dignity. The police are arriving, they'll chase away the crowd, they'll cover us up, enough is enough.
It's strange, floating like this. I read a couple of times about people who died and were then revived, they felt they were floating, they usually saw a light, a tunnel of light. Well, I'm floating but I don't see any light yet. And I don't feel my body, my shoulder doesn't ache like it always does, and my knee isn't killing me. I've just been hit by a car and I feel no pain. So this is it, nothing, just my mind working, very little in the way of emotions, this is it? You live for sixty-four years, you go through plenty, and then that's it? Some old guy runs you over and the story is over. All the planning, the worrying, all the work and then Jane sends me for shirts and that's it. For blue shirts, I had to have blue ones, Jane insisted. The color blue killed me; if I looked better in white shirts I would have lived. I needed those damned blue shirts, thanks, Jane.
Now I'm seeing some light, beams of light. I think I'm moving up, the scene down below is further away, I'm definitely moving up. And I'm not alone, there are other faces moving toward me. That one is definitely the face of the old man behind the wheel, that's the last face I saw before the impact. And there are the women, and the poor kid, can't be more than twenty-nine, thirty, he looks scared. We seem to still have our bodies and yet mine feels ethereal, cloud-like, useless but nice, snug, safe. And now we're all hovering together, no distinct expressions perceptible on the faces that I can see, expressions benign. And a deep silence, deeper than any silence I can remember, a relaxing silence, peaceful. And now that light again, we are bathed in light.
Some time passes, that's okay with me. No sense of urgency, no appointments to worry about. Just silence and light. Not bad, maybe this is it, maybe this is eternity, suspended animation, silence.
Oh, no, come on. Cut it out. Come on, not an angel, looks like an old guy with wings, floating toward us, wrapped in a cloud-like sheet, looks like my mother's uncle Benny but with wings. This is a dream, it's got to be a dream. I'm going to wake up soon, I'll be in my bed, it will be five or six in the morning and I'll have to pee. Jane will be fast asleep next to me. I bet it was that corned beef I ate last night, who can digest that at my age? There can't be angels, angels are mythological figures, the pathetic imaginings of primitive man. I hadn't believed in angels since I was eight or nine years old. Come on, wake up, enough already.
The supposed angel drifts into brush against my face, soft, not fe, lingers among us, filling the space an aglow with light.
"Welcome," he says. "I am the angel Malakh. I am appointed to assist you in the transition between life and afterlife and to answer any questions that you may have about the process. Please do not be overly anxious, this process is a gentle and illuminating one and the very fact that I have been assigned to you should be reassuring, as I am specifically trained to deal only with normal souls. Those who are at the extreme ends of the moral spectrum are processed by specialized angels, also the souls that are insane, the unhinged ones, the nuts. I handle only the normals, so by definition you are on the right track already, you are where most souls end up. Because of the enormous soul load to which we are subject, I am also limited to deaths in Manhattan and to people who are believers or claim to be believers, at least notionally, in a personal God. If you are not such a believer, that's perfectly all right, but I cannot handle your case and will pass you on to an appropriate angel. I would appreciate it if you will respond and affirm some basic facts. It is possible for you all to speak and I will call upon you each to do so. Let's begin with you, Mr. Caldman," as he turns to me.
"You are not dreaming, Mr. Irving Q. Caldman, sir. You have shed your earthly body, you are left with an illusory facsimile of it, and are now in transition. You will not awaken, you will not return to your previous existence. You are now present in the early form of afterlife. Please confirm that you are the soul that I believe you to be, the husband of Jane Rosen Caldman, father of Robert Z. Caldman, the president of Caldman and Company, an investment firm. You were an active board member of several philanthropic organizations, resident on Fifth Avenue in New York and on Horsebone Road in Bedford, New York. Religion: Jewish. Is this correct?"
I nod in the affirmative. For the first time I feel shaken emotionally, I feel a frisson of icy fear, almost a refreshing sensation, an echo of the emotions I am accustomed to experiencing. I really am dead, this is really happening to me; I am not waking up from this one.
The angel turns to the elegant lady. She has regained her pre-accident appearance, her blonde hair is carefully coiffed, she is wearing an expensive suit, heavy-duty jewelry, and she is again clutching a big pink alligator handbag. She must be in her fifties, a knockout for her age. "You are Clarissa Bowen, married twice, currently to Andrew Bowen, mother of Twinky, profession: personal shopper. You reside on East Eighty-fourth Street, Manhattan. You are a member of the Junior League and are active in the Botanical Society. Religion: Presbyterian."
"Correct," the woman replies, her voice cultured and dignified, her manner poised.
"Brett Taylor," continues the angel, "not married, never married, profession: interior decorator, residing on East Twentieth Street. Religion: Roman Catholic."
That's the boy, taller than me, a big, powerful kid. Looks like a weight lifter, nice face, dark hair, a refined expression, all-American type.
"Yes," says the fellow, "I'm a good Catholic. I just took communion last Sunday."
"Excellent," says Malakh and turns to the black woman. "Essie Mae Rowder, widow, mother of Charles and William Rowder, grandmother of three, profession: domestic, residing on Bergen Street, Brooklyn. Religion: Evangelical Christian."
Copyright © 2007 Harry I. Freund