Читать книгу Travesty - Hayden Bradford - Страница 11

You may not be able to put your finger on it straightaway, but when you die, you do realise, almost immediately, something has gone sadly amiss in your life. An early clue to your death is finding yourself floating in a sea of grey mist above your lifeless body. I’ve never been big on surprises, so when I peered below and saw my dead body lying on my parents’ bedroom floor, I was surprised. Most surprised indeed!

Mother rolled me over, removed the iron from the back of my head, and complained, ‘Look what he’s done; he’s gone and died, he has. Never any good that boy; he can’t even die without a making a mess, painful boy.’

Just as I was thinking the Adopted Ones will gloat as soon as they find out I’m dead, the Whinging Aunt from Whining Hill appeared in the doorway.

Standing up with her hands on her hips, Mother said, ‘What a mess he’s left. Messy boy. I always told his father that. Messy because he’s lazy. Blood and gunk over the iron and the carpet. Hopeless lad. Such a bad child; we could have done so much better than him. If only he had been more like the Adopted Ones.’

The Whinging Aunt from Whining Hill moaned, ‘I suppose I’ll have to do all the cleaning; no one else ever helps me do anything, you know.’

I waved my hands and called out, ‘Up here!’ Then I yelled, ‘I’m up here.’

‘I suppose I’ll have to buy another ironing board,’ Mother complained, as she surveyed the shattered pieces lying on her bedroom floor.

‘The carpets will need a clean as well; forever costing money he was, useless boy. He used to do it with women, right in his parents’ bed. No respect for anything that boy. Ah well, maybe the iron still works.’

‘That’ll be left up to me, won’t it?’ said the Whinging Aunt from Whining Hill. ‘It’ll be me who has to go and buy the new ironing board.’

‘Up here!’ I yelled again.

I received no response.

Those below could not hear or see me. What a strange predicament I found myself in, floating in an upright stationary position, unable to be seen or heard. I could turn my head from side to side, move it up and around, and move my arms, but that was it. There was no grey mist below, only daylight.

I stretched my arms out into the grey abyss, but could feel nothing. Hang on, I thought. How do I know I’m dead? This was confusing; dead people couldn’t think, could they? If you were dead, you were dead – weren’t you?

I looked down upon my lifeless body, and could understand how I might have died. The big hole in the back of my head showed me. Not being a religious man, I was under the opinion that when you die, it’s all over red rover. No afterlife, no floating in space or grey mist or whatever; when you die, the lights are out, and there’s no one at home.

I rationalised, perhaps I’m only a little bit dead, you know, partially dead. That must be it. I’m partially dead and I’m floating in an unconscious state. Wait, ludicrous thinking. Soon, my eyes will open; I’ll realise I was having a dream and was never dead, a little bit dead or even partially dead. But what if I wasn’t dreaming? I strained my ears to listen for the sound of blaring sirens. Mother, Father, or the Whinging Aunt, one of them at least, would have surely called an ambulance. The ambulance by now was hurtling towards our house at breakneck speed, ready and able to dispatch its highly trained paramedics to bring my lifeless body back to life.

In death, as in life, the mind plays funny tricks on you. What if I was dead? What if I was wrong and there really was a God in Heaven, and a Devil in Hell? Could I be, right now, in Hell? The grey mist surrounding me could be smoke from the Devil’s furnaces. Though, it didn’t smell smoky; there was no smell. And where were the other dead people?

Did the Greenies convince the Devil to only fire up his furnace every few days instead of leaving it on all the time, polluting the place and contributing to global warming? Is this why I was floating in a stationary position. The Devil is waiting for furnace day. Furnace day must have been yesterday, the other dead people already collected. This could explain why I was here on my lonesome; I was waiting to be collected.

I couldn’t hear any sirens, people! Did they call? If not, why not? By all accounts, Jesus didn’t need an ambulance, a hospital or a doctor.

He popped up a couple of days after he died and uttered these famous words: ‘Hello world, I’m outta here; this Earth gig is like, way too hard for me. Did you see the size of the Cross I had to bear? Damn heavy, I’m telling you.’

Did my parents not call the emergency number because they believed I was Jesus, and had taken it upon themselves to crucify me for my sins – and everyone else’s? Is it possible I was not just the black sheep of the family, but had become the Baptist sacrificial lamb? The Bible is full of sacrifices to God. Perhaps I’m another one. I could be onto something here, about me being Jesus. I remember as a kid whenever I did something wrong, someone would yell, ‘Jesus, what have you done now?’ Other times they yelled, ‘Jesus bloody Christ, look at the mess you’ve caused!’ I always thought this was a weird request. If I had already created the mess, why did I need to look at it?

In my younger years, I believed Jesus existed inside me. On occasions, I was threatened with, ‘I’m going to knock the living bejesus out of you, boy!’

My first few days at kindergarten were a disaster. The teacher asked my name and I answered, ‘Jesus Bloody Christ, Miss!’ Kinder detention is embarrassing for a young child.

I again screamed out to remind Mother and Father we had private health insurance, and hence there would be no cost to revive

my life. I got nothing. Mother shone a torch into the gaping hole in the back of my head where, not long before, the pointy end of the iron had come to rest.

‘What are you doing?’ Father asked.

Mother replied, ‘I think I was correct, no brains in here.’

The Whinging Aunt laughed.

‘I told you he took after your side of the family,’ Father casually remarked.

Mother snapped back, ‘Given he wears a strap-on, shows he takes after your side!’

The Whinging Aunt laughed louder.

Above me and behind me, in the abyss non-reality, a strange whooshing sound became audible. Stranger still, there was the sound of a bell ringing and a voice, a monotone human voice, saying, ‘Bring out your dead; bring out your dead.’

This must be somebody from one of the Monty Python films. He’d know what’s happening. But, no matter how hard I looked through the mist, I couldn’t see anything.

‘Don’t tell me; don’t tell me,’ Mother groaned, ‘we’ll be spending more money on this dumb child for a funeral. He’s dead and still he costs us money. Brainless, good-for-nothing, never amounted to anything, piece of rot he became.’

Through the greyness, a faint glow became brighter. The glow was heading my way. Could this be the source of the whooshing sound? Oh, golly gee, I wasn’t happy about this. Perhaps the Devil had a mobile furnace. I needed to pee.

‘Hey, you lot below, where’s the ambulance? Call one now; I promise I’ll move out of home.’

The fear of the unknown is the worst fear; if one knows what’s going to happen, one can plan, but with no knowing comes no plan, oh gawd! Fear had gripped me and the grip was getting tighter.

I yelled again, ‘I’m serious, call the ambulance and I’ll move out of home and go to church again. I’ll show God the love.’

I remembered being scared once before. I was fourteen or fifteen.

A woman asked me if I knew what fellatio was.

I answered, ‘No.’

She replied, ‘Come over here and let me show you.’

So I did, and she did. Nervous, scared at first, yes. But, I soon relaxed and settled into the rhythm of things. If the outcome this time around was going to be a similar experience, I had no cause for concern. I should just hang in my dream and let whatever was going to occur, occur. Bingo! I had it now. It suddenly dawned upon me. I was having a wet dream! No need to panic; I had it under control. Soon I’d be waking up and enjoying the day. Slumber on, my man. Whatever you are going to receive, may you be truly grateful.

But, the seeds of doubt growing in my mind would not go away. What if I wasn’t having one of those pleasant, fun-filled dreams? I’d had wet dreams before and none of them involved a glow of light, whooshing sounds, bells ringing and a voice saying, ‘Bring out the dead.’

That thing was getting closer. I could see to my right a light, no, a circle of many coloured lights, which gave off a faint glow. Nothing good could come of this. What if they weren’t lights and were instead the eyes of a monster coming to gobble me up and down and around. My mind clicked over from the state of a wet dream to a state of panic. I peed. Oh golly gee! I’m in freaking trouble here with a capital T; the fuck-up fairy has come and paid me a visit.

‘Come on, you lot, it’s not funny anymore,’ I hollered to those below. ‘Get me out of here!’

My panicking mind had begun to think perhaps the Greenies had convinced the Devil to close his furnaces down altogether, and instead use a recycling monster. The monster eats us via the front end, and provides fertiliser via the back end. That’s a Greenie thing, environment stuff. Then again, the Devil would not be so stupid as to take advice from the Greenies; they’ve been away with the pixies since they first fell out of the trees.

The Devil probably only talked to them when he said, ‘Come on now, hop in the fire, don’t mess me around, be a good Greenie, in you go.’

Cautiously, nervously, I looked above, half-expecting to see the ugly beast that had floated up from the depths of Hell to devour me. A prayer, that’s what I needed. A prayer, just in case the Religious Ones were correct. I’d better hedge my bets. I’ll shoot a quick prayer up to God, and he’ll come save my arse. I delved deep into my memory banks as I tried to remember prayers from my time in church.

Dear God,

As I lay me down to sleep

To dream of cuddling a breast so fine

If you make my dream long enough

I’ll cuddle the other one in time.

No, no, that wasn’t right, that prayer was for something else. Gad oh gawd, come on God; give me a hand here! I don’t want to be lunch for the monster. I then imagined the snarling and the gnashing of the monster’s saliva-splashed teeth piercing my skin and tearing the flesh from my bones as it set about devouring the body of this great athlete with gusto. This didn’t make sense; my body was still on the floor below, yet I was the grey mist. I looked down again; bloody Hell, I’m naked!

From the mist, I heard a voice again. Not the same monotone voice as before; this time it was a jovial, bouncy voice.

This is what the voice from the mist said: ‘Hey numb nuts, up here!’

‘Go away,’ I screamed in terror. ‘Go away, you talking monster creature gonna-eat-me-all-up thingy. I don’t want to look at you, let alone talk to you.’

The voice replied, ‘I’m not a monster, numb nuts. I’m going to help you.’

‘Did my prayer work? God, is that you?’ I timidly, nervously and hopefully asked.

‘No, I’m not God. I’m Roger. I’m your Spirit Guide.’

Then I saw him, to my right and slightly above me. Roger was human in appearance, immersed in a glow of white light. He was wearing a white sheet.

Roger smiled as he floated down to me and said, ‘Welcome. Welcome to death. You’re gonna love it, man. It’s a real hoot.’

Printed at chest level on Roger’s sheet in bright red, were the words ‘Spirit Guide’.

‘Beware of the monster!’ I called out. ‘Or monsters; there might be more than one judging by the number of eyes I have seen.’

‘There are no monsters up here, little dick. The lights are from the entrance to the tunnel to Heaven,’ said Roger.

He was munching on a hamburger and carried an old battered suitcase which had seen better days. The sauce and juices from his hamburger had dripped onto his white sheet. He also carried a bell. Roger wasn’t big; wasn’t small either. Perhaps average height and build. He had short cropped black hair. On first impressions, he appeared to be in his late 20s, early 30s. His blue eyes seemed to dance as he spoke and portrayed a more mischievous side to their owner.

‘So you’re not God?’ I stuttered.

‘Nope, I merely work for the guy. It’s his world; the rest of us are just living in it,’ answered Roger. ‘How’s that “bring out your dead” bit? I call it my Spirit Guide sense of humour.’

I didn’t call it anything, I was frightened and confused.

‘Don’t worry about the mist; on first appearances it looks ghoulish.

The mist is to Heavenise you; clears away the Earth bacteria,’ mumbled Roger in between mouthfuls of his hamburger.

This can’t be good; no way was this happening.

‘I do so like my hamburgers,’ Roger said as he licked his lips. ‘Especially when the meat is juicy and tender so it melts right in your mouth. To be truthful, I have to level with you here; it’s not so much the meat that makes the burger. It’s the nutritious fresh salad on the top of the meat; this completes the burger. The aromas from a fresh salad smell are so delightful.’

Let’s take stock. I winced as I thought of the rebounding strap-on. I fell backwards. I’m dead, well deadish, perhaps. I still haven’t figured this one out yet. I have an alleged Spirit Guide talking to me about hamburgers. When I wake up, no one is going to believe me when I tell ’em about this dream.

Roger continued to consume his burger whilst informing me of more culinary delights that go towards a good burger.

‘A good burger makes your tastebuds dance with delight and do cartwheels in your mouth. Your mouth waters and dribbles like the mouth of a hungry dog just before it’s given a bowl of food. But, the salad is the one that allows the texture and the character of the ingredients to escape from between the two buns and right into your mouth. The sauce simply tops it all off. Not the meat as some people would have you …’

‘Roger!’ I screamed. ‘Enough of the hamburger lessons. I’m not caring for food right now. I need to know, what’s happening to me? Am I dreaming?’

‘Nope, from my point of view, you’re pretty much dead,’ replied Roger as he opened up his suitcase, placed the bell he was carrying inside it, and pulled out papers and a pen.

Roger, my Spirit Guide who eats hamburgers, told me that as I had died, I was now qualified for being dead. I was hanging around in the ‘Waiting Zone’, the hiatus between Earth and Heaven. Once Roger had completed the paper work and the mist had completed its job, I’d be engulfed in a white light, an aura he called it. Then, into the tunnel and off to Heaven we would go. The aura was to protect me until I reached Heaven. It sounded so simple. Dumbfounded, I looked on as Roger fumbled.

‘Who fills out paperwork when they’re dead?’ I yelled. ‘And, I don’t believe in Heaven and Hell, so how can I be going to either of them, let alone Heaven?’

‘I fill out the paperwork and you, as the applicant, sign to acknowledge I’ve answered the questions correctly on your behalf,’ answered Roger. ‘As far as Heaven and Hell go – best you start believing.’

Disbelieving, I looked on as Roger mumbled to himself as he commenced to fill out the paperwork.

‘I never even went to church,’ I blurted out.

‘I know. They were fun mornings for you,’ replied Roger with a wink and a chuckle.

‘Did you know your name means disaster?’ he asked with a grin.

‘Yes, yes, I know!’

Reading the questions from his papers, Roger mumbled to himself, ‘How did applicant die?’ In the same breath, he answered while he wrote, ‘The applicant stepped on his penis and fell backwards onto the pointy end of an iron.’

‘Strap-on!’ I hollered. ‘I’m not so stupid as to step on my own dick; I was wearing a strap-on!’

Ignoring me, Roger continued. ‘The applicant’s religion is? The applicant is not religious, but he was baptised in a Baptist Church. That’s all he needs.’

‘The applicant’s skill set is? The applicant’s skills are limited to gambling, drinking and the purchasing of prostitutes.’

‘What value can the applicant add to Heaven?’

It was here, at this very question, Roger paused, stopped writing, scratched his nose with one end of the pen, looked at me for a moment and continued mumbling as he wrote. ‘Hard question to answer as the applicant probably can’t add much value. But, we have to take him because of his Baptist baptism … I don’t make the rules!’

I interrupted. ‘Roger, old chap. A question or two, please, if you have a moment.’

‘Sure, fire away.’

‘Roger, Rog, do you mind if I call you Rog? Listen, old mate, I missed something in the hullabaloo that’s been occurring, which mostly involves me. Can you level with me, mate; who and what are you exactly? Why are you here? What is happening? What’s with the applying stuff? Am I really going to meet my maker, or is this a dream that will end soon?’

Rog, my Spirit Guide, answered, ‘Bloody Hell, man, you’re dead! Get over it, you need to move on. Death happens every day. How many times do I have to tell you? No wonder your mother thought you were stupid. But at least you’re not as stupid as Wind Between Ears. You ortta hear what her Spirit Guide says about her. Dumber than dog shit she is.’

I could only fully endorse his comment.

‘As you were baptised in a Baptist Church when a youngster, you qualify for Heaven. God’s law is: once a Baptist always a Baptist. It doesn’t matter to him if you’re a practising Baptist or a non-practising one. God only discriminates against the other religions.’

‘What garbage is this? God discriminates against the other religions!’ I retorted.

‘It’s true,’ replied Rog. ‘God only allows the Baptists into Heaven; he frigging hates the other ones.’

‘How’s that work?’ I asked.

‘Someone will explain in due course,’ answered Rog. ‘I only do Spirit Guide stuff, the pick-ups, and the checklist.’

‘Rog, let’s just say, for the sake of argument, I do believe you, and you are my Spirit Guide. Speaking of which, if you’re my Spirit Guide, why didn’t you warn me about my impending death?’

‘I could have warned you, I guess, but at the time I was in a long queue to buy a hamburger. I didn’t want to lose my spot. I did get to you as quickly as possible.’

‘But as a Spirit Guide, by definition, aren’t you meant to guide me away from danger and death, possibly spirit me away?’

‘Technically that’s a maybe at the moment. Our Trade Union is looking into the issues around the whole death and Spirit Guide relationship thing.’

Astonished, I responded, ‘What Spirit Guide is a member of a Trade Union?’

‘We all are! Spirit Guides are members of the Spiritual Guide and Associated Death Trade Union, SGAD for short.’

‘You serious?’

‘Yep.’

‘Unfreakingbelievable,’ I muttered.

‘The way it stands at present, we’re not supposed to interfere in the ‘dying come death’ process. If God and his executive team want us to issue an early warning to people so as we can prevent their death, then God and his executive team are going to have to hit us up with a few extras.’

‘Who would have thought?’ I replied.

‘Hence my maybe comment; sometimes we do; sometimes we don’t. There’s no official direction on it at the moment,’ said Roger. Then he added, ‘Righto, we ’bout done; we need to go.’

‘No, we’re not ’bout done!’ I said as I raised my voice. ‘I haven’t finished!’

‘Yes, I know,’ smiled Roger. ‘I did see Karen running out the door as I was waiting in the queue!’

‘Everyone’s a comedian,’ I replied.

‘Your questions will be answered soon enough. Here, sign this,’ said Roger, as he handed me the checklist.

A moment later, a light descended from the tunnel and engulfed me. Roger gave me a gentle push and we both floated up to what was no monster, but instead, as reported by Roger, a tunnel entrance. Shortly, I was floating in a circle of lights beside Roger. I was naked. He was dressed in a sheet, carrying a suitcase containing a bell and paperwork for God. Soon, I thought, not long now, any moment now, the police will come and I will be arrested. The dim lights highlighting the entrance to the tunnel became bright. I found out later, the tunnel lights always dim when approaching a dead person in the Waiting Zone so as not to scare them.

I did mention on hearing this, ‘It doesn’t work.’

From below, the sounds of Mother’s wailing drifted upwards: ‘Oh woe is me and dear is me. Whatever will the neighbours think now he has gone and died on us? They will blame my cooking for sure, I know they will. Where’s the telephone? I need to see how many people feel sorry for me.’

The Whinging Aunt from Whining Hill moaned, ‘I don’t know what you’re complaining about. I have to do everything!’

I saw Father in my bedroom rifling through my contacts book in which I had rated the agencies I used. Father put the book in his pocket as he lifted up my mattress and removed the magazines.

Mother justified my death by saying, ‘Any person who has sex in his parents’ bed is not worth saving; he’s lost to the Devil. I’ll have to wash the sheets now. I know I should have got his father’s gun and shot him years ago. The Adopted Ones never liked him, you know.’

Mother kicked my lifeless body, stormed out of her bedroom and headed towards the telephone. At the same time, Father left my bedroom with my contacts book and magazines.

Roger, watching the scene play out below, enquired as to whether the magazines were any good. I nodded and he shot downwards at the speed of light, returning moments later clutching a few. He opened up his suitcase, put the magazines in, and looked at me.

Then he burst out laughing. ‘I nearly forgot; cover up, man.’

He handed me a white sheet. The sheet, as it turned out, was not a sheet. Instead, it was clothing apparel made of soft cloth, the likes I had never felt. I wrapped it around me and could not help but think my appearance was now more akin to one of a Greek philosopher, not the Adonis I assumed I was.

My sheet had the word ‘Newbie’ embossed on it. ‘You look better when you have clothes on,’ Roger declared, breaking my thoughts.

‘You’re not the first person to have said that,’ I replied.

Roger gave me a smile and told me the word ‘Newbie’ stood for New Arrival to Heaven. He gave me a pat on the head and let me know he’d catch me in Heaven; others were going to look after me now. Then he was gone, up the tunnel. And then it was just me, standing in a circle of bright lights, wearing a sheet.

‘This cannot be normal behaviour!’ I shouted after him. ‘I am so going to jail when they arrest me.’