The man who stood in the doorway was tall, but not too tall. His hair was jet black and his sideburns grew down to his jawline. Oversized aviator sunglasses shielded his eyes. The man wore a one piece jumpsuit, white, covered with gold sequins on the sleeves, the front of the suit, and up and down the bell bottom pants. The belt accessorizing this ensemble was wide and white and covered with gold eagles. It had a giant belt buckle with the letters ‘TCB’ emblazoned on it.
The man looked at Santa Claus.
Santa Claus looked at the man.
“Last Christmas I gave you my heart,” came from the speaker in the ceiling.
The man’s lip curled. Then the man in the white jumpsuit pulled out an automatic revolver that had been tucked in his giant belt. He fired a volley of bullets at the ceiling speaker. The noise was terrible and dust and bits of ceiling and speaker flew about the room. The song came to an abrupt end.
When the shooting started Santa was so shocked he stumbled backwards, away from the man in the white jumpsuit. Santa stood with his back against a wall, staring at the man with the gun until the firing ceased. Then he continued to stare.
“Bet you hate that song as much as I do,” the man said in a smooth, deep voice with a hint of Southern accent.
“Well, yeah,” Santa said, barely nodding his head because he was afraid to move too much.
“All right, Santy,” the man said as he tucked the pistol back into his belt. “We need to go upstairs.” He paused for a moment as if deep in thought. “Although we don’t really take the stairs. Hell, there ain’t no stairs. No stairway to heaven.” The man paused again. Smiling, he said, “You know, like the song. Get it?” He reached over and slapped Santa on the shoulder.
“Uhhmmm,” said Santa.
“It’s really an elevator. I reckon ‘Elevator to Heaven’ wouldn’t have been such a great song title.”
“Uh huh,” Santa said, just barely nodding again.
As Santa cowered in fear a thought popped into his head.
“You know,” Santa said, “you look a lot like Elvis.”
“Thank you, thank you very much,” the man said. “I get that a lot.”
“You mean because you dress like Elvis?”
“No. Because I am Elvis.”
“Yeah, right. And I’m Santa Claus. Oh, wait, I am Santa Claus.”
“See?” Elvis put a hand on Santa’s shoulder again and leaned in close. “You gotta believe.”
Then Elvis whirled around and said, “We gotta go now.”
“Where are we heading?” Santa asked.
Elvis struck a karate pose with his right hand pointing toward the door. “That way,” he said.
“Okey-dokey.” Santa no longer felt in danger but did think that Elvis’s screws might be a little loose. Still, going somewhere, anywhere with a half-crazed Elvis was better than sitting in an eternal waiting room. “Lead the way, Elvis.”
The pair, one man in a sequined, white jumpsuit, the other in a red velvet outfit with white fur trim, left the room and headed down the corridor. In the distance Santa could see elevator doors. After a brisk walk Santa and Elvis walked up to the plain, unmarked doors and they opened without Elvis pushing a button on the wall. In fact, there were no buttons to push.
They stepped inside the elevator car. A young man in a maroon colored uniform with gold buttons stood to the side, one hand on a lever. “Going up?” the young man inquired.
“That’s right,” Elvis said. “Goin’ all the way, baby.”
“Yes, sir,” the young man said and he thrust the lever down as far as it would go.
The elevator took off with a whoosh. Santa sensed that they were rising and could feel his ears pop. At first, no one said anything. Then Santa ventured a thought. “Seems like a long ride.”
Elvis nodded. “It’s a long way to the top. But that’s where we gotta go to get this straightened out.”
“Get what straightened out?” Santa asked. “Listen, what is all this? What’s going on?”
“What’s going on?” Elvis chuckled. “You were waiting.”
“Yeah, I know I was waiting.” Santa’s cheeks were rosy again. “What was I waiting for? What was that place?”
“Oh, they used to call that purgatory. Now we just call it the Waiting Room.”
Santa’s eyes widened. “Purgatory? I’m not sure I belonged there. Don’t you have to be, you know…”
“Catholic? No, turns out purgatory was for everybody.”
“I meant…”
“Doesn’t matter. You didn’t belong there. We’ll get this squared away right quick.”
Santa was staring at Elvis again. “Listen, Elvis, nothing personal, but you’ve been dead for, like, forty years now. How is it that you came to be here, wherever here is exactly?”
“Gotta be somewhere. So I decided to come here. I work here.”
“You work here? Doing what? Escorting people on elevator rides?” Elvis shot Santa a sidelong glance and grinned. “You’re funny, man. Yeah, that’s me, an elevator escort. Naw, man, I’m a guardian angel. Matter of fact, I’m your guardian angel.”
“Oh, shit,” Santa thought. “That explains a lot about my life.”
Just then the elevator operator began to hum a familiar tune. Elvis glared at him. Then the operator began to sing in a low, thin voice. “Last Christmas, I gave you my heart…”
Elvis reached for his pistol. Santa put a hand on Elvis’s arm and shook his head. Elvis let go of his gun and shrugged. “Hey, fella,” Elvis said to the operator, “how about a different tune? ‘Blue Christmas’ maybe?”
The operator shook head. “Not familiar with that one.”
“Not…” Elvis spluttered.
“Just messing with you, Elvis,” the operator said and then he began sing. “We’ll have a blue, blue Christmas without you.”
Elvis joined in while Santa stood there appreciating the spectacle of being able to see Elvis Presley sing his hit Christmas song up close and personal. But all the while he was also wondering just what the hell was happening to him.
By the time the song was over the trio had arrived at their destination. The elevator operator pulled the lever to an upright position, then pulled on another, smaller lever. The elevator doors opened to reveal a large, open room with light streaming through a glass paneled ceiling. There were many workstations scattered throughout the room. All had large computer screens being watched by men and women sitting in comfortable, ergonomic chairs. There was a hum of activity in the air, as well as the sound (and vision) of Christmas music coming from monitors placed throughout the room. It was that time of year and holiday videos played non-stop.
Elvis led Santa Claus through the large room. Many people looked up from their work to shout out a greeting to Elvis and his companion. Elvis would acknowledge them with a wave or a finger point as he swaggered by their desks. Suddenly, he froze so abruptly Santa bumped into his backside.
With a grimace, Elvis turned to stare at a computer monitor standing on a small table. It was a video of a man singing “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” on a TV variety show from the 1970s. Without saying a word, and with great speed, Elvis pulled the handgun from his belt and emptied its ammunition clip into the monitor. Sparks flew, as did shards of glass and plastic.
Laughter and applause came from all over the room. “Gets him every time,” one of the workers said to another.
“What the hell was that all about?” Santa asked Elvis.
“It was Robert Goulet,” Elvis replied. “I hate Robert Goulet.”
“You could have just asked them to turn it off.”
“Yeah, right,” Elvis said. He leaned in close. “Everybody likes the fireworks. They like seeing ol’ Elvis lose it once in a while. Gives ‘em a thrill.” He secured the gun in his belt and said, “Okay, fun time is over. We need to find Horace. He’s the angel in charge of new acquisitions. I think his station is over yonder.”
They walked on a little farther until they came to a work station that was a little larger than most others. Here sat Horace Wensleydale. He was a large, balding man who wore a stiffly starched shirt with a bow tie, and a tweed vest and jacket. A silver tea set sat upon his desk. When the pair arrived, Horace stood and nodded at Elvis, shook hands with Santa, then motioned with his hand for them to sit down.
Santa was relieved to find two normal looking chairs, not the ergonomic things many people were perched upon. Even though everybody in the office seemed to enjoy their ergonomic chairs, Santa did not believe himself to have an ergonomic body. He preferred old fashioned sitting devices, with legs and backs and arms and cushions.
The big guy settled into his chair, as did Elvis. They both declined an offer of tea.
“Very well, gentlemen,” Horace said in an upper class British accent, “we shall get right down to brass tacks.” He looked at Santa. “Mr. Claus, we’ve made a bit of a mistake. I do hope you’ll accept our apologies. We can put matters right immediately.”
“Well, that’s very nice of you,” Santa said. “But to be truthful, I’m not really sure what’s going on.” Santa looked around and shrugged. “I don’t even know where we are.”
Horace turned his gaze to Elvis. “Did you not explain things to him, old boy?”
“Not so much, no,” Elvis said. “Got kinda distracted by that Goulet fella.”
“I see.” Horace turned his attention back to Santa. “Mr. Claus, allow me to explain. Where you are is the modern version of the Pearly Gates. Essentially, this is the gateway to heaven. Before entering the promised land everyone has to pass through here first, fill out some paper work, that sort of thing. You know how it is. Bureaucracy is everywhere, not just on Earth.”
“But where’s Gabriel?” Santa looked around. “Shouldn’t Gabriel be blowing his horn or something?”
Horace sat back and chuckled. “Oh, goodness no, Mr. Claus. Gabriel retired centuries ago. Now we use a holographic image of him. As I said, this is the modern version of the Pearly Gates.”
Santa frowned. “Oh. Well, I guess everything has to change with the times. I’ve thought about replacing the reindeer with robots. Mangy devils, those reindeer.” Santa’s cheeks got rosy again as he thought of their drunken antics. “Robots won’t raid my liquor cabinet,” he muttered. “Won’t try to sleep with my wife, either.” Santa shook his head as if to rid himself of bad reindeer memories. “So, Horace, you’re telling me I’m in heaven?”
Horace shook his head. “No, not quite, old chap. As I said, this is the gateway one needs to pass through before entering one’s eternal resting place. To be quite truthful, there are a number of people on the entry committee who aren’t pleased with your credentials. But that’s neither here nor there.”
“What do you mean ‘not pleased’?” Santa’s cheeks were really rosy now. “I’m freakin’ Santa Claus, for cryin’ out loud. I bring joy to millions of boys and girls all over the world every year.”
“Yes,” Horace nodded, “there is that. But there is the other side of the ledger, isn’t there? For example, there was that week you spent at the North Pole Bordello. You didn’t even call home.”
“Yeah, well, I lost my cell phone.”
“Yes, at a craps game in Las Vegas.”
“Vegas, huh?” Elvis said. “You ever see me perform there?”
“Oh, yeah,” Santa said, smiling. “All the time. Great shows. Those were the days, boy. Good times. At least what I remember is good.”
“And then there was that summer you rode with the Hell’s Angels,” Horace continued.
“Yeah, all right, I get the idea,” Santa said. “I’m not perfect. But who is? I’ll bet you there are a lot of people in heaven who spent a summer terrorizing small towns in northern California with a biker gang.”
“No,” Horace said, shaking his head. “There are none. But your heavenly membership status hasn’t been decided as of yet. And as I said before, it turns out you’re not eligible at this time.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You are not yet among the deceased. We do have rules here you know. No admittance to heaven without being 100% dead. Even being dead briefly doesn’t count. You’ve got to be in it for the long haul.”
“Then why am I here?”
“Bit of a mess. Our purveyors of the dead took the wrong Santa Claus. As it happens, there is a chiropractor in Michigan by the name of Santa Claus who was due for arrival here because of a massive heart attack, but our purveyors grabbed you by mistake. Faulty GPS. As I said, we do apologize. Now that we’ve settled that, if you’ll just go with Mr. Presley here, he will escort you to the transporter, which will beam you back down to Earth. You’ll be back amongst the frolicking reindeer and those mischievous elves in no time.”
“Hell no.” Santa crossed his arms over his round belly like an unhappy, obese toddler.
“Pardon me, Mr. Claus?”
“I said, hell no. I’m not going back. No way. Mrs. Claus hates me, the reindeer abandoned me, the elves and their union are nothing but a pain in the ass. Hell no. Not going back. You can’t make me. You try it, pally. I’ll sue.”
“Doubtful, Mr. Claus,” Horace said as he shook his head vehemently. “There are no lawyers here.”
Santa pursed his lips. “Oh, yeah. We’re in heaven.” He shrugged. “Still, not going back.”
“Oh, dear, Mr. Claus, you do seem to have an erroneous vision of your loved ones back on Earth. We can correct that.” Horace pushed a button beneath his desk. A large screen descended behind him.
“You think the reindeer have abandoned you? And Mrs. Claus? And the elves? Why, nothing could be further from the truth.”
Horace swiveled in his chair to look at the screen. Santa and Elvis cast their eyes on the screen as well.
Horace gestured with his hand toward the moving pictures. “Just look what’s happening there as we speak…”
To be continued…
The man looked at Santa Claus.
Santa Claus looked at the man.
“Last Christmas I gave you my heart,” came from the speaker in the ceiling.
The man’s lip curled. Then the man in the white jumpsuit pulled out an automatic revolver that had been tucked in his giant belt. He fired a volley of bullets at the ceiling speaker. The noise was terrible and dust and bits of ceiling and speaker flew about the room. The song came to an abrupt end.
When the shooting started Santa was so shocked he stumbled backwards, away from the man in the white jumpsuit. Santa stood with his back against a wall, staring at the man with the gun until the firing ceased. Then he continued to stare.
“Bet you hate that song as much as I do,” the man said in a smooth, deep voice with a hint of Southern accent.
“Well, yeah,” Santa said, barely nodding his head because he was afraid to move too much.
“All right, Santy,” the man said as he tucked the pistol back into his belt. “We need to go upstairs.” He paused for a moment as if deep in thought. “Although we don’t really take the stairs. Hell, there ain’t no stairs. No stairway to heaven.” The man paused again. Smiling, he said, “You know, like the song. Get it?” He reached over and slapped Santa on the shoulder.
“Uhhmmm,” said Santa.
“It’s really an elevator. I reckon ‘Elevator to Heaven’ wouldn’t have been such a great song title.”
“Uh huh,” Santa said, just barely nodding again.
As Santa cowered in fear a thought popped into his head.
“You know,” Santa said, “you look a lot like Elvis.”
“Thank you, thank you very much,” the man said. “I get that a lot.”
“You mean because you dress like Elvis?”
“No. Because I am Elvis.”
“Yeah, right. And I’m Santa Claus. Oh, wait, I am Santa Claus.”
“See?” Elvis put a hand on Santa’s shoulder again and leaned in close. “You gotta believe.”
Then Elvis whirled around and said, “We gotta go now.”
“Where are we heading?” Santa asked.
Elvis struck a karate pose with his right hand pointing toward the door. “That way,” he said.
“Okey-dokey.” Santa no longer felt in danger but did think that Elvis’s screws might be a little loose. Still, going somewhere, anywhere with a half-crazed Elvis was better than sitting in an eternal waiting room. “Lead the way, Elvis.”
The pair, one man in a sequined, white jumpsuit, the other in a red velvet outfit with white fur trim, left the room and headed down the corridor. In the distance Santa could see elevator doors. After a brisk walk Santa and Elvis walked up to the plain, unmarked doors and they opened without Elvis pushing a button on the wall. In fact, there were no buttons to push.
They stepped inside the elevator car. A young man in a maroon colored uniform with gold buttons stood to the side, one hand on a lever. “Going up?” the young man inquired.
“That’s right,” Elvis said. “Goin’ all the way, baby.”
“Yes, sir,” the young man said and he thrust the lever down as far as it would go.
The elevator took off with a whoosh. Santa sensed that they were rising and could feel his ears pop. At first, no one said anything. Then Santa ventured a thought. “Seems like a long ride.”
Elvis nodded. “It’s a long way to the top. But that’s where we gotta go to get this straightened out.”
“Get what straightened out?” Santa asked. “Listen, what is all this? What’s going on?”
“What’s going on?” Elvis chuckled. “You were waiting.”
“Yeah, I know I was waiting.” Santa’s cheeks were rosy again. “What was I waiting for? What was that place?”
“Oh, they used to call that purgatory. Now we just call it the Waiting Room.”
Santa’s eyes widened. “Purgatory? I’m not sure I belonged there. Don’t you have to be, you know…”
“Catholic? No, turns out purgatory was for everybody.”
“I meant…”
“Doesn’t matter. You didn’t belong there. We’ll get this squared away right quick.”
Santa was staring at Elvis again. “Listen, Elvis, nothing personal, but you’ve been dead for, like, forty years now. How is it that you came to be here, wherever here is exactly?”
“Gotta be somewhere. So I decided to come here. I work here.”
“You work here? Doing what? Escorting people on elevator rides?” Elvis shot Santa a sidelong glance and grinned. “You’re funny, man. Yeah, that’s me, an elevator escort. Naw, man, I’m a guardian angel. Matter of fact, I’m your guardian angel.”
“Oh, shit,” Santa thought. “That explains a lot about my life.”
Just then the elevator operator began to hum a familiar tune. Elvis glared at him. Then the operator began to sing in a low, thin voice. “Last Christmas, I gave you my heart…”
Elvis reached for his pistol. Santa put a hand on Elvis’s arm and shook his head. Elvis let go of his gun and shrugged. “Hey, fella,” Elvis said to the operator, “how about a different tune? ‘Blue Christmas’ maybe?”
The operator shook head. “Not familiar with that one.”
“Not…” Elvis spluttered.
“Just messing with you, Elvis,” the operator said and then he began sing. “We’ll have a blue, blue Christmas without you.”
Elvis joined in while Santa stood there appreciating the spectacle of being able to see Elvis Presley sing his hit Christmas song up close and personal. But all the while he was also wondering just what the hell was happening to him.
By the time the song was over the trio had arrived at their destination. The elevator operator pulled the lever to an upright position, then pulled on another, smaller lever. The elevator doors opened to reveal a large, open room with light streaming through a glass paneled ceiling. There were many workstations scattered throughout the room. All had large computer screens being watched by men and women sitting in comfortable, ergonomic chairs. There was a hum of activity in the air, as well as the sound (and vision) of Christmas music coming from monitors placed throughout the room. It was that time of year and holiday videos played non-stop.
Elvis led Santa Claus through the large room. Many people looked up from their work to shout out a greeting to Elvis and his companion. Elvis would acknowledge them with a wave or a finger point as he swaggered by their desks. Suddenly, he froze so abruptly Santa bumped into his backside.
With a grimace, Elvis turned to stare at a computer monitor standing on a small table. It was a video of a man singing “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” on a TV variety show from the 1970s. Without saying a word, and with great speed, Elvis pulled the handgun from his belt and emptied its ammunition clip into the monitor. Sparks flew, as did shards of glass and plastic.
Laughter and applause came from all over the room. “Gets him every time,” one of the workers said to another.
“What the hell was that all about?” Santa asked Elvis.
“It was Robert Goulet,” Elvis replied. “I hate Robert Goulet.”
“You could have just asked them to turn it off.”
“Yeah, right,” Elvis said. He leaned in close. “Everybody likes the fireworks. They like seeing ol’ Elvis lose it once in a while. Gives ‘em a thrill.” He secured the gun in his belt and said, “Okay, fun time is over. We need to find Horace. He’s the angel in charge of new acquisitions. I think his station is over yonder.”
They walked on a little farther until they came to a work station that was a little larger than most others. Here sat Horace Wensleydale. He was a large, balding man who wore a stiffly starched shirt with a bow tie, and a tweed vest and jacket. A silver tea set sat upon his desk. When the pair arrived, Horace stood and nodded at Elvis, shook hands with Santa, then motioned with his hand for them to sit down.
Santa was relieved to find two normal looking chairs, not the ergonomic things many people were perched upon. Even though everybody in the office seemed to enjoy their ergonomic chairs, Santa did not believe himself to have an ergonomic body. He preferred old fashioned sitting devices, with legs and backs and arms and cushions.
The big guy settled into his chair, as did Elvis. They both declined an offer of tea.
“Very well, gentlemen,” Horace said in an upper class British accent, “we shall get right down to brass tacks.” He looked at Santa. “Mr. Claus, we’ve made a bit of a mistake. I do hope you’ll accept our apologies. We can put matters right immediately.”
“Well, that’s very nice of you,” Santa said. “But to be truthful, I’m not really sure what’s going on.” Santa looked around and shrugged. “I don’t even know where we are.”
Horace turned his gaze to Elvis. “Did you not explain things to him, old boy?”
“Not so much, no,” Elvis said. “Got kinda distracted by that Goulet fella.”
“I see.” Horace turned his attention back to Santa. “Mr. Claus, allow me to explain. Where you are is the modern version of the Pearly Gates. Essentially, this is the gateway to heaven. Before entering the promised land everyone has to pass through here first, fill out some paper work, that sort of thing. You know how it is. Bureaucracy is everywhere, not just on Earth.”
“But where’s Gabriel?” Santa looked around. “Shouldn’t Gabriel be blowing his horn or something?”
Horace sat back and chuckled. “Oh, goodness no, Mr. Claus. Gabriel retired centuries ago. Now we use a holographic image of him. As I said, this is the modern version of the Pearly Gates.”
Santa frowned. “Oh. Well, I guess everything has to change with the times. I’ve thought about replacing the reindeer with robots. Mangy devils, those reindeer.” Santa’s cheeks got rosy again as he thought of their drunken antics. “Robots won’t raid my liquor cabinet,” he muttered. “Won’t try to sleep with my wife, either.” Santa shook his head as if to rid himself of bad reindeer memories. “So, Horace, you’re telling me I’m in heaven?”
Horace shook his head. “No, not quite, old chap. As I said, this is the gateway one needs to pass through before entering one’s eternal resting place. To be quite truthful, there are a number of people on the entry committee who aren’t pleased with your credentials. But that’s neither here nor there.”
“What do you mean ‘not pleased’?” Santa’s cheeks were really rosy now. “I’m freakin’ Santa Claus, for cryin’ out loud. I bring joy to millions of boys and girls all over the world every year.”
“Yes,” Horace nodded, “there is that. But there is the other side of the ledger, isn’t there? For example, there was that week you spent at the North Pole Bordello. You didn’t even call home.”
“Yeah, well, I lost my cell phone.”
“Yes, at a craps game in Las Vegas.”
“Vegas, huh?” Elvis said. “You ever see me perform there?”
“Oh, yeah,” Santa said, smiling. “All the time. Great shows. Those were the days, boy. Good times. At least what I remember is good.”
“And then there was that summer you rode with the Hell’s Angels,” Horace continued.
“Yeah, all right, I get the idea,” Santa said. “I’m not perfect. But who is? I’ll bet you there are a lot of people in heaven who spent a summer terrorizing small towns in northern California with a biker gang.”
“No,” Horace said, shaking his head. “There are none. But your heavenly membership status hasn’t been decided as of yet. And as I said before, it turns out you’re not eligible at this time.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You are not yet among the deceased. We do have rules here you know. No admittance to heaven without being 100% dead. Even being dead briefly doesn’t count. You’ve got to be in it for the long haul.”
“Then why am I here?”
“Bit of a mess. Our purveyors of the dead took the wrong Santa Claus. As it happens, there is a chiropractor in Michigan by the name of Santa Claus who was due for arrival here because of a massive heart attack, but our purveyors grabbed you by mistake. Faulty GPS. As I said, we do apologize. Now that we’ve settled that, if you’ll just go with Mr. Presley here, he will escort you to the transporter, which will beam you back down to Earth. You’ll be back amongst the frolicking reindeer and those mischievous elves in no time.”
“Hell no.” Santa crossed his arms over his round belly like an unhappy, obese toddler.
“Pardon me, Mr. Claus?”
“I said, hell no. I’m not going back. No way. Mrs. Claus hates me, the reindeer abandoned me, the elves and their union are nothing but a pain in the ass. Hell no. Not going back. You can’t make me. You try it, pally. I’ll sue.”
“Doubtful, Mr. Claus,” Horace said as he shook his head vehemently. “There are no lawyers here.”
Santa pursed his lips. “Oh, yeah. We’re in heaven.” He shrugged. “Still, not going back.”
“Oh, dear, Mr. Claus, you do seem to have an erroneous vision of your loved ones back on Earth. We can correct that.” Horace pushed a button beneath his desk. A large screen descended behind him.
“You think the reindeer have abandoned you? And Mrs. Claus? And the elves? Why, nothing could be further from the truth.”
Horace swiveled in his chair to look at the screen. Santa and Elvis cast their eyes on the screen as well.
Horace gestured with his hand toward the moving pictures. “Just look what’s happening there as we speak…”
To be continued…
No comments:
Post a Comment