Making the Cut

"Wine is the blood of Christ. Cigarette smoke is the flatulence of Satan"

Margaret was dead. And gratefully so. The last few months of her life had been so physically painful that when she had finally gasped her last, wheezing breath, there had been a prevailing sense of relief. Her family, too, had been so emotionally drained by Margaret's battle with pancreatic cancer that their grief had been tinged with half-hearted acceptance.

Moments after her death, as the faint sobs of her family faded from her consciousness, Margaret had experienced a magnificently produced montage of her life, complete with music and brilliantly executed narration. It had ended with a nurse scolding her sniffling family for allowing Margaret to smoke in the hospital and prying a cigarette from Margaret's dead clutches.

Now she stood in the middle of a vast field with gently rolling hills and valleys. She breathed a sigh of relief and wondered what would come next.

Suddenly, she heard a sputtering noise. Over one of the hills, a pathetic looking truck lumbered towards her, coughing constantly as though each fluffy green knoll would be its last. As it drew closer, Margaret noticed that the exhaust was spurting out black smoke that permeated into the clear blue sky.

The truck screeched to a halt. A heavyset woman with frizzy red hair wearing a spandex pantsuit exited the vehicle, slammed the door, and walked towards her extending her hand.

“Margaret Macdonald?”

Margaret smiled and took the woman’s hand, which was sweaty and rough. “Yes, that’s me.”

“I’m Louise Chambless. You ready to go?”

“Yes,” Margaret said. “Definitely.”

Margaret slid into the passenger’s side and Louise cursed as she struggled to get the truck into first. Bonnie Raitt was playing loudly on the radio.

“No Saint Peter or pearly white gates, huh?” Louise joked as the truck finally limped off.

“What?”

Margaret raised her voice to be heard over the tape deck, “I said, ‘No Saint Peter or pearly white gates, huh?’”

Louise snorted, “No, none of that. Actually, you were accidently dropped outside of Heaven.

It’s only a short drive.”

Margaret was confused, “Where are we now then?”

Louise shrugged, accelerating the truck and decimating a rose bush in the process.

Sighing, Margaret gazed out the window. “What a shame, it’s so lovely.”

As they drove on, Margaret was excitedly imagining what her afterlife would be like. Would she be allowed to meet all her heroes? Would she be able to watch over her friends and family until they joined her? Would she have a job? She wanted to ask Louise, but she had a feeling that the woman didn’t want to discuss it. Also, Louise seemed to be ignoring her completely, singing loudly and badly to every song that came on.

Suddenly, Margaret felt a familiar itch and reached into her coat pocket, liberating a pack of Camels. “Mind if I smoke?” She asked Louise belatedly, flicking her lighter on.

No sooner had she exposed the cigarettes, Louise had snatched them out of her hands. “You can’t do that here! Where do you think you are exactly?”

Margaret instantly felt shamed. “I’m sorry. I’ve just been a smoker all my life.” She pocketed the cigarettes in her coat again. “Until the day I died really.”

Louise snorted and began to ignore Margaret again. “Well, you just quit. Congratulations.”

Looking out the window, Margaret couldn’t help but wonder why they hadn’t sent someone more warm and charismatic to greet her. Oh well. She drifted off to sleep.

“We’re here,” Louise barked, jolting Margaret out of he calm reverie. Margaret rubbed her eyes and glanced around.

“Are you sure?” She asked, unable to contain her disappointment.

“Of course I’m sure,” Louise snarled, opening her door and slipping out.

The best way to describe heaven is that it looks exactly like Detroit. They were apparently in the thick of downtown, and the skyscrapers towered over the dumpy truck like menacing church steeples. It smelled faintly of urine and gasleaks. Cars and busses barreled by at alarming rates. As she clambered out of the truck, Margaret was instantly pushed aside by a harried looking man dressed in a white suit.

“Let’s go,” Louise said, taking off, forcing Margaret to rush to follow her.

“Where are we going?”

“To get you checked in, of course.” Of course. Margaret was dying for a cigarette.

They entered a building that closely resembled a warehouse. The waiting room was empty, and the walls were as white and bare as an insane asylum. Louise stormed up to the front desk where a pretty young women dressed all in white typed madly on a computer. “Louise Chambless, Guardian Angel, checking in for Margaret Macdonald.” The woman nodded and motioned for the two women to sit down.

Margaret was intrigued. “You’re my guardian angel?”

Louise nodded, pulling a pile of paperwork out of her purse. “Yeah. Since you were born. Why? You shocked?”

Shaking her head, Margaret smiled to herself. “No. It explains a lot actually.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.”

A bespectacled man entered the room. “Margaret Macdonald? Will you follow me please?”

Louise dumped the pile of papers in Margaret’s lap. “I’m out of here. Good luck.” She stood up and left.

“Thanks,” Margaret said dryly, glad to finally be rid of the frightful woman. She hurried off after the man and sat down in one of the chairs in his office. He sat across from her smiling and belatedly patting his portuding stomach.

“Margaret! It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. We have long followed your children’s organization and have been exquisitely impressed with all that you’ve accomplished.”

Margaret smiled, “Thank you. I couldn’t have done it without such an amazing staff.”

The man smiled, taking the paperwork from her hands and leafing through it purposefully.

Unable to contain herself, Margaret said, “Is there anyway I could find out when my husband arrives? Or be alerted in some way?”

The man chuckled and leaned back in his chair, making a steeple with his fingers on his big stomach. “I’m afraid your husband didn’t make the cut.”

Margaret’s eyes widened, “Excuse me?”

“Yes. A little incident in college involving some cocaine. So sorry. Also, he had an affair during your marriage.”

Sputtering, Margaret managed to say, “But I forgave him for the affair. And as for the coke…”

“You might have, but God didn’t. This is your soulmate, Steve.” He said, presenting to her a man who had apparently been standing behind him the entire time. Steve gazed at her absently, waving his hand enthusiastically when she finally glanced his way. She half-heartedly waved back. “Steve likes checkers and is a standup Methodist.” The man shuffled the papers and produced a key. “This is for your apartment.” He chuckled. “Well, you and Steve’s apartment that is.” Margaret was appalled to see Steve actually wink at her.

Margaret leaned forward to speak conspiringly with the bespeckled man. “Listen, can I have my own apartment? This is all a bit much for me... And I love my husband.”

“Nonsense!” He scuffed, stamping the papers and motioning her to leave.

Several weeks later, Margaret stood chain smoking on the outskirts of the city, nervously glancing around, wondering if anyone had spotted her. Luckily, she was near one of the ghettos, where people not only smoked covertly, but somehow managed to import cigarettes in large quantities.

At first, Margaret had been appalled to find out that there were ghettos in heaven. But after a few days, it had made perfect sense. Though the religious fanatics that inhabited heaven had managed to keep gays and eccentrics out, they still hadn’t been able to find a theological justification for keeping out nonwhites. As a result, they corralled those they disapproved of, but who had somehow slipped through the bureaucratic entrapments, into the horrifically constructed neighborhood that Margaret now hid out in. It was not lost on Magaret that many of the children she had sought help for in her lifetime would likely end up in such abysmal conditions.

Margaret had spent the first few days frantically searching the records for any friends or colleagues. However, even her most virtuous friends had not made the cut. Reasons for denials ranged from marital violations to minor religious deviations. She had even read that her dearest coworker Abigail had been rejected on the grounds of her embracing Eastern religion and philosophy late in life. She hadn't even bothered to check for her diseased parents, whom she knew had publicly supported her brother when he had come out at 16.

As it turned out, all the people she had admired had been sent elsewhere due to a variety of dubious reasons. Paul Newman, Rod Serling, Picasso, Bobby Kennedy; the list was endless. The only people who made it were either those who had led impeccably virtuous lives, like her, or crazed religious freaks whom had lived their lives in fear of death and God. These people far outnumbered the regrettably good hearted, and they wandered around heaven in a daze, alternating between being shocked at their good fortune and exceedingly proud of themselves for having made it.

“I knew there would be no fags,” Margaret had overheard some woman say loudly to a large group of prim looking women who all looked very pleased with themselves. “I just don’t know what I would have done if it had been otherwise.” Her circle had nodded in agreement as Margaret’s face had flushed with fury.

Margaret spent her days pleading her family’s case to the admittance department and avoiding Steve, who pursued her as doggedly as a scorned puppy. “I recognize that my daughter used the Lord’s name in vain,” Margaret had said icily during a particularly long session with the administrators. “But she was making a joke. Doesn’t that count for something?”

“Not with God,” they had sniffed, kicking her out of the office and onto the cold streets of downtown heaven. Margaret had been livid, and threatened to hire a lawyer, but as it turned out, lawyers didn’t make it into heaven either.

Margaret cursed her honorable nature and upright life daily and wistfully imagined an alternative afterlife, one in which she had acted differently before. If only she had embezzled a tiny bit of her charity’s money or lost faith in God at some point during her lifetime. Then she might have been able to see her friends and family and picked the brains of some of the most fantastic and brilliant minds of her time. As it was, it appeared she was doomed to an eternity of religious extremism and pompous self-righteousness. And Steve.

Bio: Emily Lundy is a free lance writer who currently resides in Boulder, Colorado. Her heroes are Naomi Klein, Rod Serling, Bobby Kennedy, Dennis Kucinich, Colton Harris-Moore and David Fricke.