Its A Wonderful Afterlife
By Kevin Filan © 2006



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"You want a holiday tradition, fine. Why don't we go into the city and order Chinese?"

The late Ira Levinson, M.D. fumes as he sits atop a rickety stool. Beside him a quadruple amputee in a rusty Radio Flyer wagon reads a water-stained Hustler; beside him Crustyfred the Gutterpunk scratches his nose ring from the inside. Above their heads green and red streamers spiral in the breeze. Snow flurries blow in through the cracks in the shed walls.

"We can go to Tang's Imperial Pagoda. I'm sure he'll be very happy to see us."

Charley DelCruccio, Post Mortality Intake Processing Guide (Second Class) puts a pot of potatoes on the propane stove. "Eatin' at Tang's ain't no kind of Christmas tradition, less'n you're a Chinaman. And I ain't."

Dave the Dead Vegan Social Worker leans back in the remains of a tattered armchair. Behind his shoulder a tinsel Christmas tree sparkles in the burner's blue light. Outside the window a heron flies lazily toward the train tracks.

"Turn zee page, you eediot," the amputee sneers at Crustyfred. "Damiens ees feenished weeth Mees October."

Crustyfred pulls his finger out of his nostril. The syringe which dangles from his track-marked arm sparkles blue as the Christmas tree. He flips the page, then returns to his nodding half-slumber.

"Chill out, Damiens dude…" he mumbles as he puts his finger back in his nose.

"Damiens ees cheeled out. He is very fucking cheely. Because ze weend keeps blowing through zee walls een zees steenking hovel!"

"We can't all be buried in some fancy Jew cemetery on Long Island. So we gotta make our Christmas where we hang our hats, or where they buried our hats anyway." Charley puts a pot of creamed corn and a bigger pot of gravy beside the potatoes. "Besides, Christmas is anywhere you got friends together. Ain't that right, Jerry?"

"It's actually Our Lord's birthday. But I suppose it's nice to celebrate with friends."

"Oh, so I'm supposed to be celebrating Christ's birthday now?" Dr. Ira asks. "Don't get me wrong, I've got nothing against the guy, I've talked to him and he's a perfectly nice young man. But if my Nana finds out I was at a Christmas party I'll never hear the end of it."

"Didn't you go to Christmas parties with your mistress every year?"

"As a matter of fact, I did." Dr. Ira fumes. "But I didn't tell my Nana about that."

"Don't worry, Doc. Christmas ain't no Christian celebration. It's nondescriptional." Charley sprinkles some salt into the creamed corn, then looks into the dutch oven sitting on the right rear burner.
Outside the wind picks up; snow dances off the shed's tin roof like wire brushes on a drumhead. "Everybody can share the joys of the Holiday season."

"Yes, this is in keeping with my research," Abdullah ibn-Masjid al Hajj, Senior Managing Director of Post-Mortality Intake Processing (New York Division) says. "I engaged in an extensive study of this holiday even before the first Christmas sales. Are you familiar with the morality plays of Rankin and Bass?"

"I'm sorry, I haven't." St. Gerard blushes, the tubercular color rises on his cheeks until they are nearly red as the streamer in his hand. "I really should study more."

"It is quite all right. You should begin with the story of St. Frosty the Snowman. After that I recommend Rudolph, the Reindeer of the Red Nose. Both are most edifying."

"Edifying my ass," Dr. Ira snorts. "Every December my daughters wanted to watch those stupid shows. Like fucking clockwork, it was Frosty then Rudolph and then 'Daddy, why can't we have a Christmas tree like the O'Malleys down the street?'"

"You really miss your daughters, don't you, Doctor?" St. Gerard asks.

Dr. Ira explodes. "What kind of a stupid fucking question is that? Of course I miss my daughters."

"Don't worry, Doc," Charley says. "You know they're gonna be over here sooner or later."

"Thanks, Charley," Dr. Ira says. "That cheers me right the fuck up."

"I am sympathetic to your discomfort," Abdullah says. "There are times when I feel that I was fortunate in not having a family."

"I always wondered about that," Charley says. "Was you a Moslem Priest or something?"

"No, I was not a Moslem cleric, and in any event they take no vows of celibacy. I had no family because I was a eunuch."

"A eunuch? I thought you was a Moor." Charley pauses for a second, then his face grows pale. "Aw geez, I'm sorry about that, buddy! That's awful!"

Abdullah shrugs. "Some would say so. But thanks to my condition, I was able to acquire an education and to travel around the world. For me it was a… how is it said… a 'career opportunity.'"

Charley shakes his head. His pork-pie hat slips, exposing the bullet hole in his forehead. "Christ, and I thought gettin' in the longshoreman's union was a ball-buster."

"I apologize for being so mauldin," Dr. Ira says. It's just that girls need a father figure when they're growing up." He swallows and wipes his eyes. "And I can't be there for them."

"Ira, I'm sure they're doing fine," Dave says. "It's normal to feel depressed around this time of year. That's one of the great things about being Jewish. You get all the holiday misery without the fun."

"Cheer up, Doc," Charley says. "Why don'tcha have some whatails punch?"

"I think that's pronounced 'wassail,' Charley" St. Gerard says.

"Naah, that's the Old English way of pronouncin' it. Like, 'Greetings, Shakespeare. Wouldst thou likest some punch for wassail ya?"

Abdullah ponders. "That is a most curious etymology."

"Naah, it ain't curious at all. It's just Thunderbird with a little vodka poured in. One of the winos what lived down the hall in my boardin' house gave me the recipe. Ya want some?"

"Thank you, but I believe I shall abstain."

"Suit yourself." Charley turns to a still-nodding Fred. "Wake up, ya lousy bum!"

"Huh! Whuzzat?" Crustyfred jumps up. "You want me to turn the page again?"

"Eet ees not Damiens screaming at you, you eediot. Eeet ees your short fat friend Charley."

"Howsabout you hand me that package under the tree. The one what has a big Star of David on it."

"You don't have to yell at me, dude."

"Ohhhh…" Damiens sneers. "Hees feelings are hurt. Ze poor baby!"

Dr. Ira unwraps his present to reveal a candelabra.

"There ya go, Doc. A Meshugginah to celebrate the holiday the way youse people like to celebrate it."

Dr. Ira reads the card. "'Hapy Hanuka, you old Yid.' Thanks, Charley. That's touching. Even if 'Hanukkah' has two ks. And happy has two ps."

"So I ain't so good at spelling." Charley turns down the burner as the potatoes begin to boil. "It's the sediment what counts, ain't it?"

"Yes, I believe Rankin and Bass spoke of this as well." Abdullah ponders. "Although they may have used different words."

The Doc puts his new Menorah on the rickety end table. "I suppose now I should play with my Dreidel."

"Keep it in your pants, Doc. We're all normal guys around here." Charley stirs the corn. "Christ, I get him a candelabra and he starts thinkin' he's Liberace."

"I brought some gifts too." Dave pulls a handful of joints from the front pocket of his denim jacket. "I figured you could use some Christmas trees."

"A man after my own heart," Dr. Ira says as he takes his present. "O Tannenbaum, O Tannenbaum…"

"I thought Dave's last name was Ben-Ami," St. Gerard says.

Dr. Ira sighs. More snow blows in through the sideboards; a few flakes land in his chest hair between the zipper and the gold Chai. "It's a song, Jerry."

"Damiens has song too. Eet ees called 'Why are we seeting een a swamp een ze meedle of weenter?"

"Don't blame me." Charley mutters as he stirs the creamed corn. ""They didn't have no cause to dump me in the Meadowlands. They coulda took me up to Westchester where we dumped Fat Tony. That was real nice. Had a view of the Hudson and everything."

"Dude, at least you got a cool squat!" Crustyfred observes. "This is bitchin'. If you could move this to the East Village, you'd be the man."

"This is… impressive," Abdullah says, choosing his words carefully as a green streamer spirals above his turban. "Most impressive indeed."

"Thanks, boss. I'm sure it ain't quite so swank as some of them palaces you seen on your travels, but be it ever so humble, there's no place like home." Charley pokes the potatoes with a rusty fork. "And before the bum what lived here before signed on for reincarnation, he gifted the place to me."

"Glad to see you're finally a homeowner, Charley."

"Hey, this is an up-and-coming neighborhood. Jimmy Hoffa's got a place up the road." Charley turns down the burner beneath the creamed corn. "I see Stubby is appreciatin' his Christmas present."

"Oui, merci," Damiens says, then snarls at Crustyfred. "Turn ze page, you eediot. Zere ees nothing here but advertisements for zee phone sex lines! Damiens does not want to call phone sex lines. Eet ees too hard for heem to dial."

"Not to mention ya can't jerk off."

"Oh ho ho. You are such a funny man. Every short fat fuck should be so funny as you."

"And a Merry Christmas to you too, Stubby," Charley says. "It was real nice of you and Fred to bring vegetables for our feast."

"It was no problem at all, Dude!" Crustyfred says. "They throw out tons of cans outside the supermarket on Avenue C!"

"Damiens thinks every time you go to party you breeng vegetable."

"No way, dude." Crustyfred takes the joint from Dr. Ira, then holds it for Damiens. "Cans are way heavy."

Abdullah reaches into his satchel. "In the spirit of your holiday, I have brought with me some halvah and Turkish coffee, but I think this will be best served after our repast."

"This ain't repast, boss." Charley sticks a fork in a boiling potato to check if it's done. "It's dinner. Repast is in the morning."

"I see. I will of course defer to your superior knowledge of the language."

"Thanks, boss. I appreciate your confidin' in my abilities."

"Think nothing of it."

"I'm sorry I didn't bring better presents," St. Gerard mumbles. "Sometimes a vow of poverty can be really hard when you're trying to buy things for people."

"Dude, are you kidding? These crosses are GREAT!" Crustyfred points to the wooden crucifix dangling from the 0-gauge piercing in his left ear. "This makes a bitching earring."

"It's supposed to be a wall cross," St. Gerard says, "but I'm glad you like it anyway."

"I too am most grateful for your gift," Abdullah says. "While I am not a Christian, my secretary is. I am sure that she will appreciate this present. She was quite happy with the fruitcake I gave her last year."

"Didn't I give you a fruitcake last year?" St. Gerard asks.

Outside in the land of the living another train passes. The shed rumbles: the potato water splashes over the pot and hisses on the stove. The sun sets; the ghost moon grows brighter over the frost-covered cattails. The clouds over the elevated rails are red as the streamers which dangle from the ceiling. In the distance the lights of Newark begin twinkling.

"How you manage to cook on that thing I'll never know," Dr. Ira says as he stubs out the joint on the sole of his harvest gold alligator skin shoes.

"My old rooming house didn't have no kitchen, so I learned to do all kinds of cooking on a hotplate. Hell, with four burners this is like cooking at the 21 Club for me." Charley pours the potato water through a hole in the floor. It sizzles as it strikes the swamp below. "In honor of Dave, I ain't puttin' no milk on these, even though it oughta be a crime to make mashed potatoes without milk. Howsabout a little olive oil, in honor of the Old Country?"

Dave smiles as he rolls a joint of his own. "I'm going to make a vegan out of you yet, Charley."

"I know you're enthusiastic about this stuff, but you oughtn't to be prostitutin' your religion to everyone," Charley says. "I even gotcha a special dessert. I know you don't want no cheesecake so I got you some honey cookies."

"That's really sweet of you, Charley. But I don't eat honey. Honey is an animal product."

"What are you talkin' about?" Charley snorts. "Honey don't come from animals. It comes from bees."

Dave starts to say something, then stops. Charley lifts the Dutch oven's lid, then pulls out a slab of boiled ham and puts it on a chipped platter. "And here's the piece of resistance. I found a whole
prosciuto what fell off the back of a truck."

"It didn't fall off the back of a truck, Charley," St. Gerard says. "You stole it."

"Now is that any way to be talkin' when we're celebratin' the holidays?" Charley asked. "And anyway, it really did fall off the back of a truck, after I pushed it." Charley carves a few healthy slabs. "You want a piece, Doc? I don't know if it's kosher."

"Kosher, shmosher. My Nana ain't here, so I'm ready to eat. And don't skimp on the potatoes. I need something in my stomach to keep warm."

"Howsabout you, Boss?" Charley asks as he passes a full plate to the Doc. "Two slices or three?"

"I am afraid I must decline. As a Moslem, I do not eat ham."

"This ain't ham, it's prosciuto."

Abdullah ponders. "That may be. But it is still made from the meat of swine."

"Not just any swine. Italian swine. The finest swine in all the world."

"Indeed. I will just have some potatoes and corn, if you do not mind."

"Suit yourself, Boss." He throws some vegetables on Abdullah's plate, then prepares another plate for Dave. "After dinner I'm gonna be sure to light up my present. Howsabout you, Jerry."

"I don't know," Gerard looks down at the gaping hole in the floor. "I don't feel right eating stolen food on Our Lord's birthday."

"Jerry, pull up a plate. Consider it orders from on high."

"Jesus!"

The crowd turns as Jesus walks in the door.

"Evening, folks. It looks like the party started without me." He sniffs the air. "My watch says it's six, but it smells like 4:20 in here."

"I'm sorry," Gerard reddens. "I wasn't smoking anything, really."

"Relax, Jerry. Read through the Bible again and show me the part where it says you can't enjoy a good doobie." Jesus sniffs again. "Where'd you get that stuff. It smells like it was grown in somebody's closet."

"It was grown in my closet, actually…" Dave mutters.

"Hey, there's no shame in trying. Next time you should make sure to pluck the male plants before pollination starts. And get a decent grow light." Jesus raises his hand. The last rays of sunset shine through the nail hole in his wrist. "In the meantime I figure that if I can turn water into wine I can turn this stuff into a decent smoke."

"Bless you," Dave says as he examines his newly green and sticky bag of weed.

"My pleasure." Jesus reaches into his pocket, then hands an envelope to Dr. Ira. "I brought something for you too, Doc."

Dr. Ira's face brightens as he opens the envelope. "A Visitation With the Living Permit!"

"I knew you wouldn't want to tell your daughters Jesus sent you, so I got the Baal Shem Tov to sign off on it."

Dr. Ira fumbles for words. "I'm glad... I mean… you really didn't have to do this. I'm not part of your sector and all that…"

"Ira, it's fine. I'm always glad to help out where I can. It's part of the job description." He pulls up a stool. "Now then, I see that we've got a few people gathered in my name. So let's get this show on the road."

"God bless us," St. Gerard says.

"God bless us each and every one," Damiens says. "Even you fucks."

Charley passes Jesus a plate of food. Outside another train passes in the world of the living. A little girl in a ROCKETTES CHRISTMAS SPECTACULAR T-shirt clutches her doll tightly and looks out the window at the snow-covered swamp. Her mother talks on her cell phone. The train slows as it heads toward Secaucus. Clouds cover the moon. The little girl stares at the shack at the twilight's edge, and laughs at the will-o-wisps which shine in its window.