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Andrew Roller Presents
JUPITER RISING
Chapter Twelve
Eric Teetlebaum sat at a modestly-sized wooden desk. It resembled
a desk a carpenter might have hammered together in simpler times, a
couple of planed boards and nails, no varnish. But the top of the desk was
surfaced with opal and the back and the legs were accented with gold. For
the newly incoming residents, of course. Eric had no need of luxury. He
looked up from his books. They were fine oilskin leaves, over a thousand
of them. He was about halfway through this book. When it was finished it
would be taken ÒupstairsÓ, as they liked to call it. Up to the Man who
would check the figures. Of course Eric had no worry about this. His
figures were always correct; had been for the nearly two years heÕd been
working here. Nonetheless he bent again and checked them. Neatly
written numbers, drawn with precise penmanship by a feather quill pen,
ran in a column down each of the facing pages. Each number was the same:
one. Beside each number was a name. Some were longer and some were
shorter. Some were written in Roman script, some in Arabic, some in
Russian or Japanese or any of the other languages that humans, since the
Tower of Babel, had taken to using. Despite his inability in foreign
languages when he was a U.S. Customs official down on earth, here he was
fluent, by the grace of God.
Eric gazed again out over the rafts of clouds leading up to his desk.
Perpetual light, like dawn, suffused the clouds with a cherry red glow. A
blush, it seemed, for those modest and decent enough to make it all the
way up here. Gazing down along the path leading up through the endless
clouds, Eric saw no one. This was not entirely unusual. After all, there
were only so many people in Utah. Plus a few other places of course, Eric
admitted.
Was that a touch of pride? Eric chided himself. He must not be like
that. It had been the undoing of Ken Starr, the reason that illustrious man
would spend the rest of eternity down with Bill Clinton instead of up here
with Eric. He examined himself and found his mind clean. There were
indeed a disproportionate number of Mormons in heaven, as heÕd always
expected. It was not something to be proud of but rather simply a fact.
Eric smiled and looked down at his book again. He counted the names on
the facing pages. Yes indeed, there was a disproportionate number of
white Anglo-Saxon names, all straight from Utah. A fact, nothing more,
not something to be guilty about.
But was no one dying in Utah today? Eric looked out again at the
clouds. The path lined with pearls glowed back at him, virgin white in the
eternal dawn. Surely there was that... Eric picked up a small book next to
his foot. It was battered, its pages folded and sometimes torn, or ripped
out. This was the book of names of people who were still living, but due
to come to heaven, provided they committed no sin in the meantime. Eric
flipped through it. Ah, yes. Here was todayÕs date, and a new name had
indeed been entered in the book. The ink was still wet, but the facing page
magically did not moisten upon it. In perfect heaven, there were no
smudges.
Leroy Ernesto Williams, a Los Angeles bus driver, had been shot
today by a homeless man. Straight through the head, at point-blank range,
which even in this modern time on earth surely meant death. Eric looked
out across the clouds for some weary climbing figure, no doubt rejoicing
at seeing where he was going, but there was still nothing. How could that
be? Was dear Leroy still in a coma back on earth? Eric tossed the book
back down next to his foot, where it bounced and lay upon the cloud-like
floor. For a moment Eric felt a compulsion to swear, but it faithfully
came out as:
ÒPraise the Lord!Ó There was no telling what a sinner, even a
heaven-bound sinner, might be up to before he reached the pearly gates.
Perhaps some flaw had been found at the last minute. The book at EricÕs
feet had been wrong before; hence all the damaged pages. Eric sighed. It
was bad enough there was some sort of commotion today in HeavenÕs
higher reaches, a commotion which Eric thankfully had no interest in
inquiring about since the sin of gossip was not in his makeup. Eric
remembered milk cartons from his days on earth; so sad, but he might
have need of one now. ÒMissing SoulÓ, heÕd write on it. And then hopefully
someone would call in and say why a wanderer up the cloud-lined path was
late.
30
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