by Robin Ray
Gregory gazed around the environment. “Well, looks like they had a pretty good turnout today, and I don’t see any long faces anywhere.”
“Uh huh,” the Imagine singer agreed. “Your ID card won’t be decredited, either. Who can beat free Buffalo wings and beer?”
“And eel pie,” Harrison beamed.
The PI nodded. “Hopefully one day the wings will be real but I doubt it.”
“Eh,” John shrugged, smiling. “You can’t have everything. Besides, when doubt gives way to truth, reason can’t be far behind.”
Minutes later, snaking through the crowd toting a glass of malty Märzenbier in one hand and a bag of Hunan salt & pepper cauliflower in the other, Tony arrived close to the front of the stage to get a better view of the three hosts. After a few more adjustments of the papers on the table, Wendy demanded attention by tapping her mic.
“Hello everybody,” she began. Almost immediately, people stopped playing their instruments and switched their amps off. “I’m Wendy O. Williams. To my right is Wolfman Jack, and on my left is Phil Lynott from Thin Lizzy. As you can see,” she then stood up, “I’m respectfully dressed today. I know some of you were worried that, me being me, nobody would take us seriously. But we’re not gonna let that happen, right?” Pumping her fist in the air, the audience cheered before she sat down.
“I must say,” she continued, “we weren’t expecting this kind of turnout. Those of you who remember the fiasco from last year’s rally can clearly see that what we have here is a definite improvement. So far, knock on wood, no fights, no disagreements, no unnecessary conflicts. Before we start discussing what changes we’d like to see, are any new arrivals to Heaven in attendance? Please raise your hand and introduce yourself.”
“Hi, all,” a gentleman of about 70 raised his hand. “I’m Keith Emerson.”
The audience applauded.
“Wow, Keith,” Phil told the new arrival. “You sure look different. I would’ve walked right past you on the street.” He then addressed the audience. “The last time I saw Brother Keith was back in ‘77 when Thin Lizzy and Emerson, Lake & Palmer played Cardiff. Nice seeing you again, man. Welcome.”
“Thanks,” the legendary keyboardist waved.
“I’m Paul Gordon from the B-52’s,” a curly haired man in his early 50’s raised his hand and said, introducing himself. The gathered throng clapped.
“Hi,” a beautiful woman in her late 50’s, wearing dark sunglasses and a large gold cross around her neck, claimed, “I’m Denise Matthews. Y’all remember be as Vanity. I feel blessed to be here among such great company.”
After the applause for her died down, Dale Griffin from Mott the Hoople, Engineer Gary Loizzo, Producer David Gest, Paul Kantner from Jefferson Airplane, Gary Richrath from REO Speedwagon and Scotty Moore introduced themselves with all receiving hearty welcomes. The applause for Scotty Moore was especially deafening, a salute not lost on Wolfman Jack.
“For those of you young uns who don’t know Scotty Moore,” the bearded, gravely-voiced DJ explained, “he’s probably the most senior cat in attendance here at 84 years old. But not only that, he claimed his legendary status as the inventor of the power chord as heard in the beginning of Elvis Presley’s ‘Jailhouse Rock’ which, as we know, laid the groundwork for all rock guitarists everywhere. So, welcome Brother Scotty. You’re an inspiration to us all.”
The audience cheered the Rock ‘N Roll Hall of Famer again.
“Okay,” Wendy said, tapping her mic for attention. “I have the list here of your grievances which you submitted to the committee over the past couple of months. There were so many of them we had to chop ‘em down.”
A few members of the crowd booed their disapproval.
“Wait a minute,” the punk princess added, holding up her clipboard. “There were duplicates. There were duplicates.”
“Who’s side are you on?” an anonymous voice from the crowd shouted.
“We’re all on the same side,” she insisted. “I mean, let’s face it. If we present the angels with a laundry list of problems, chances are they’ll just chuck the whole lot in the waste bin without even looking at it.”
“I have it on good authority,” Phil Lynott added, “that the citizens of Media Heaven got what they wanted because they didn’t overload the system with demands.”
“This is a joke!” another voice from the crowd screamed.
“Who killed Amy Winehouse?” a third voice yelled.
Wolfman Jack pointed to his clipboard. “That’s the first item on the agenda – we want to know if there is a cover up. We know they haven’t been forthcoming with their explanations, but believe me, We. Will. Keep. The. Pressure. On!” The DJ sounded so believable, punching his fist in the air, that he received a mighty round of applause.
“The next item here,” Wendy stated, “is an increase in our credits. I totally agree. We don’t get enough for the work we do around town. I’m grateful there’s a soup kitchen, but sometimes that’s just not enough. Does anyone have anything to add to this?”
“Yes,” Karen Carpenter answered, raising her hand. “I’d also made a suggestion that, if they couldn’t increase our credits, could they at least make items like personal supplies cheaper? Some things are too damned expensive as it is!”
The audience applauded. A few started shouting “Karen!” “Karen!” “Karen!” Phil took another look at his clipboard.
“That’s also addressed on here,” he informed the crowd. “It’s been added to number 13 – the littering fines are way too high.”
“Shouldn’t we agree, though,” Wolfman added, “that this is our Heaven and we should respect her by keeping her beautiful in the first place?”
Approximately half the crowd started booing.
“You’re not even a musician!” someone yelled at the bearded host.
“Yeah!” added another. “Why ain’t you in DJ Heaven like the others?”
Wendy tapped her mic for general order.
“Please, please,” she stated as the consternation died down. “Divisiveness won’t help us today. It will never help us. As it is, they already view us as privileged brats with our hands in several cookie jars at the same time. We have to prove them otherwise. Can I get an amen, somebody?”
“Amen!” about half the audience replied.
“That’s more like it,” Wendy smiled. “Next on the agenda is less work hours. Is everyone in agreement with that?”
The audience clapped their assent.
“Good,” she nodded. “Some of you have also said that jail time is too harsh and unfair. We agree. I have spoken to the angels about this but they said those directives have been established for centuries and their hands are tied.”
“They’re lying!” someone exhorted. “All angels lie!”
“No use spreading false rumors,” Phil explained. “We know that’s a physical impossibility. My understanding is the nature of their spiritual matter won’t allow it because their souls are taxed beyond fragility. In other words, they do have powers, but it comes at a cost even to them. Also, remember, they sprung up from the sub-atomic matter here, which makes them essentially connected to everything around us. Lying would be tantamount to denying all these things exist.”
“Well put, Phil,” Wendy thanked him. “That said, there’s a question here that no one has ever seen anyone elevated to Level II Heaven. I asked around about this, too. Come to find out, one of the pioneers, one of the first members of Rock & Roll who isn’t here with us today, is Danny Cedrone from Bill Haley & His Comets. He arrived back in 1954, started a life of ascetism almost immediately, and ascended to Level II in the early 60’s.”
“1963,” the Big Bopper shouted from the audience. “I was there.”
“Thanks, Big Bopper,” Wendy said. “Another request on this form is for real meat. Ladies and gentlemen, you know that request is impossible since animals cannot consciously practice austerities like fasting, penance, meditation, non-possession a
nd abstinence.”
“Then what’s the use of coming to Heaven if you can’t enjoy something as simple as a hamburger?” someone shouted to a healthy round of applause.
Phil Lynott tapped his mic several times for attention, which he eventually received. “Folks, probably no one here loves a nice, juicy, wet, slobbering, thick, real steak like me. Hell yeah, I miss it! I won’t lie. I know some of you here say it’s not fair that you didn’t consciously choose this afterworld, meaning you don’t have to deal with the restrictions, and I agree with that. However, there is no middle world, unless you count Earth which we can’t return to. And while there, we did make a choice, whether you want to believe that or not.”
“And remember,” Wolfman Jack added, “we’re all intertwined. The universe is finite. Matter circulates in its own environment. When we hurt another living being, we’re causing harm to ourselves because of our connectivity. And by causing harm, we corrode our souls, making it impossible to reach Nirvana. In other words, all our lives are bound together by mutual support and interdependence. Just the nature of the world. Capeche?”
The audience applauded the DJ’s comments.
“The next item on the agenda is forced labor,” Wendy continued. “Can someone tell me what that’s in reference to?”
“Hi, all,” Mama Cass shouted from the back. “I get a lot of complaints that people are being mistreated on the farms; specifically, a few vineyards, a black bean farm, an orange grove, and some of the farms that produce exotic tubers and roots like Jerusalem artichoke, cassava, ocas and yacón.”
“What kind of complaints?” Wendy asked.
“Extra-long hours, no breaks,” Cass answered. “There are also some that feel their right to avoid violence is taken away because to cultivate tubers means killing the entire plant.”
“I’m sorry that’s an issue,” Wendy asserted. “That will be discussed with the angels.”
“And they said some of the supervisors are mean,” Cass added.
“Thanks, Mama Cass,” the Plasmatics singer said. “We also read that a few of you think a human should also be involved in processing the rules of law, not just the angels. I couldn’t agree with you more. As a matter of fact, all the judges should be humans, but who am I to say?”
“Hardly anyone gets in trouble anyway,” Phil noted, “but we’ll look into it.”
“I want to go back to Earth!” a voice from the middle of the crowd shouted.
“Me, too,” Wendy added. “There’s still a lot of TV’s I’d love to take a chainsaw to.”
“What about abolishing the ‘first chosen’ rule?” another anonymous voice yelled.
“Again,” Wendy explained, “that’s out of the angels’ hands. Who wouldn’t want kids?”
Gregory leaned into the man standing next to him. “What’s the ‘first chosen rule’?”
“You can only copulate with one person,” the stranger said. “The first one you chose.”
The PI looked confused. “How can they prevent that?”
“Easy,” the man answered. “Your genitals disappear when you move to another partner.”
Gregory flinched. “That’s ridiculous.”
The man shrugged. “Haven’t you wondered why there aren’t that many ladies around?”
“It’s Rock & Roll Heaven,” the PI stated. “99% of rockers are men, I think.”
“True,” the stranger conveyed, “but you know rockers. If something has a heartbeat, they’ll fuck it. Why do you think they stay here and don’t travel to other heavens populated with women? They can’t do anything out there anyway, at least for a year.”
“A year?” the puzzled detective asked, scratching his head.
“That’s how long it takes for genitals to grow back,” the man assured him.
“How do people go to the bathroom in the meantime?” Gregory wondered.
“There’s a slit,” the man answered, pointing to his crotch.
“Oh, come on,” the PI waned. “I’ve heard of some stories in my life, but…”
The stranger unzipped his pants and exposed his genitals-less crotch.
“Da fuq!” Gregory swore, staring at the unusually barren groin.
“When it’s gone, you lack a sex drive anyway,” the stranger explained, zipping his pants up. “Probably designed that way to help “encourage” people into asceticism.”
“Wow,” the PI freaked. “Just when I thought I’d seen it all.”
“So, I guess that’s it,” Wendy concluded, addressing the crowd. Gregory, deep in conversation with the stranger, never got the chance to hear what else the audience had requested.
“Everyone,” Phil said, “enjoy the rest of the day. And for those of you who’d like to be involved in residency selection, feel free to contact the committee at any time.”
“Thanks for coming, all,” Wolfman Jack stated. “And like I’ve always said – if you do right, everything will come out right. Good day.”
“Wasn’t so bad, huh?” the stranger said to Gregory as the crowd started breaking up.
“Pretty cool,” the PI related. “I’m worried about my co-worker, though. I haven’t seen him in a day and we still have a lot of work to do.”
“Eh,” the man shrugged, “probably out getting shit-faced.”
“Maybe,” Gregory mused. “He just doesn’t seem like that kind of person, though.”
“Heaven does strange things to a man,” the stranger said. “I should know.”
“I’m beginning to believe that,” the PI remarked.
CHAPTER 24
The answer – SBLASH!
The question – What is that full-range sound one hears when a glass bottle filled with organic beer is forcefully dashed against the brick wall inside a convenience store?
Eddie Cochran couldn’t take anymore. Mad, bad and dangerous to know, even the burly manager of Cumby’s couldn’t slow his angry tirade down to a whimper. Down went his gorgeous Gretsch guitar behind the counter. Down went the glass cabinet that held the morning breakfast sandwiches. Down went the cappuccino machine, garbage cans, microwave oven transceiver and magazine racks. Down went the shelves once containing bubble gums, broccoli chips, candy bars, throat lozenges, athlete’s foot lotions, shaving creams, tomato juices, hair pomades, and the like. By the time the exasperated manager was able to get help, young Eddie had already zipped out the back door, a six pack of IPA in his bloody, drunken, trembling hands.
Staggering towards the Woodstock golf course, the young clerk noticed a few golfers out on the green. One item in particular piqued his interest – a burgundy colored electric golf cart with a white top, just craving to be jacked, about 75 yards out. Unable to resist the urge, he gulped down the last bottle of IPA, threw the empty in a ditch and started sneaking out towards the cart. Luckily for him, all the caddies and players were occupied preparing for the Heaven’s Masters, or something like it. Jumping into the lonely 48V cart was a piece of cake for the inebriated songwriter. Almost immediately, he located the green button in the center of the console which said START.
DJOOM!
The snug, cottage-like cart sparked to life both quietly and quickly. By the time its owner started yelling “Hey!”, the Gretsch-strumming boy wonder was already halfway across the green near the 9th hole. It didn’t take long before other golfers leaped into their electric carts to try and commandeer the reckless guitarist. Eddie, fueled by indiscretion, flew through a sand trap, wobbled across a shallow pool, zigzagged around the oaks at the edges of the course, knocked over quite a few golf flags on the fairway, and in an attempt to avoid dipping in a bunker, turned the cart too sharply to the right, causing it to fly head-on between an azalea and a pine where it got caught like a fly ball in a shortstop’s glove. Try as he might, there was no egress. Both of the cart’s exits were blocked by the shade trees. All he could do was sit calmly, take a few deep breaths, wipe the blood off his nose and wait for the lecture that was sure to come from…somewhere.
About five hours later, the Dale Earnhardt wannabe finally awakened on a cool green cot in the ER of Woodstock’s small and cozy Medical Center. Situated right across from the police station and City Hall, the Center could easily be missed if someone was jogging by and not paying attention. The front of it was nondescript – a simple, illuminated red & white sign out front that stated Woodstock Medical Center. Beneath that was an arrow pointing to the ER.
It took Eddie a few seconds to realize where he was. The unmistakable odors of rubbing alcohol and Iodine, combined with the sight of medical equipment and nursing supplies could only mean one thing – he messed up. Throwing aside the thick sheet covering him, he started getting up, but the pain in his head threw him back to being supine. Touching his face, he could feel the bandage strip covering his glabella – the skin between the eyebrows and above the nose – descending down below both eyes, right over each infraorbital furrow and finally around the back of his head. Finally getting out of bed – albeit with some difficulty – he strolled over to the polished metallic mirror over the small porcelain sink in his room. Gazing at the bandage, he started laughing. There was still some blood above the bridge of his nose, but that wasn’t the impetus for the humor. That came from the fact that he now resembled an old world tribesman, perhaps from some indigenous peoples of Kenya or the Ecuadorian Amazon basin.
“Took you long enough,” a familiar voice uttered from behind him. Turning around, the opaque green curtain between his little room and the next was pulled back by his reclining pal, the recently awakened Tony Lopez.
“Hey, Tony,” Eddie raced over, giving him a kiss. “What are you doing here?”
The young PI, similarly attired like Eddie C in just a simple hospital gown, was lying with a ½ filled, one-liter IV bottle of yellow multivitamin fluid infusing into his right forearm.
“You’d never believe it,” Tony exclaimed. “I was playing with some legends last night, or maybe I should say, practicing. These guys are good. Stupid me tried to match them drink for drink. Well, you see where it got me. Somebody found me in a ditch on the west end. I don’t even know how I got here. But what happened to you, though?”
