Milton Norris is Really Dead

Seventy-nine-year-old Milton Norris stares in disbelief. One minute, he was eating lunch at the local hotdog shop and now he’s standing…wherever the hell this is. 

A line stretches forever in both directions. Directly in front of Milt stands a distinguished man in his forties, wearing an expensive suit and desperately trying to reach someone on his cell phone.

“Hello? Susan? Are you there, can you hear me?” He swings his briefcase, almost hitting Milt.

“Watch it, kid!” Milt says. The man ignores him. 

Strange clouds roil above. Lightning brightens the sky intermittently, but without the usual accompanying thunder. The landscape is rocky and juts upward on all sides. 

“Excuse me.” Someone tugs on the back of his shirt. Milt turns and finds a very tall woman behind him. She struggles to close a pink robe over her ample chest.

Need a parachute to cover that bosom, no way those are real, Milt thinks.

“Excuse me,” she says again, sobbing softly. “Where are we?” 

“Disney World,” Milt grumbles, and spins back around. 

The woman continues to sob.

Thick, heavy, and unbearable, the heat in this place is like the precursor of a summer storm. Sweat trickles down Milt’s back and into the crack of his ass. “Someone kill me,” he mutters. Milt removes his spectacles to wipe the foggy lenses when he, a very sharp retired schoolteacher, finally connects the dots. 

He’s still wearing the same outfit he’d worn to lunch. Black orthopedic shoes, white socks pulled up nearly to his knees, khaki shorts, and a white polo. 

There is a large yellow stain over the breast pocket of his shirt. 

Milt recalls enjoying his senior citizen discounted footlong, slathered in mustard and onions, the only proper hotdog toppings, when a crushing pain seized his chest. Reflexively, he’d brought his right hand, still holding the partially eaten dog, to his heart.

And then what? Nothing. The room went black. 

And now he’s here.

“Am I really dead?” Milt says.

Briefcase Man swivels to face him. “Don’t say that! Why would you say that?” Panic gives the man’s voice a high pitched, prepubescent edge.

Bathrobe Woman sobs even louder.

Milt rubs at the mustard stain on his shirt. 

Like the sky, time is also strange in this place. Milt waits in line for what could be forever, or maybe only an hour. The line shuffles forward slowly. Ahead, a helipad materializes. Inside the landing circle sits a white helicopter, its blades still. 

“Finally,” Milt says as he reaches the front of the line. He is greeted by a handsome man wearing a campy angel costume, complete with wings and golden halo. 

“What took so damn long?” Milt asks. 

The angel flashes a dazzling smile. “What can I say? There’s a lot of somewhat shitty people out there. Not that I mind. Job security.”

Milt squints at the angel. “You look like that fella from that one movie, Good Will Hunting. Matt…” 

“Damon,” the angel finishes. “Yeah, I get that a lot. Purely coincidence.” The angel points to a sticker on the front of his robe. 

It reads, Hello, My Name is Azrael. 

“I’m the pilot.”

“And what about this getup?” Milt gestures toward the angel costume.

Azrael shrugs. “Part of the gig.” He consults an iPad in his hand. “Now, time to get down to business. You Milton Norris?”

Milt nods.

“Perfect.” Azrael types on the iPad.

 “Am I really dead?” Milt asks.

“I’ll explain everything shortly, but first,” he points to an electronic eye mounted on the side of the helicopter, “please step in front of this motion detector.”

Milt does as instructed. A white beam flicks on, momentarily blinding him. And like everything else in what Milt suspects is Purgatory, this light is not ordinary. It’s almost alive, probing every inch of his wrinkled seventy-nine-year-old body, and beyond. 

Into his soul.

The white beam shuts off, replaced by a blinking yellow light. 

“That doesn’t look good,” Milt says.

“Could be worse,” Azrael says. “But I regret to inform you, the Holy Spirit is unable to make a decision regarding your soul.” He types more notes.

“What could be worse than death?” Milt demands.

The angel gives him a pitying look and jabs his thumb at the motion detector.

“Could’ve been a red light. You want green, though. That gets you a one-way ticket to the Pearly Gates in this baby.” Azrael pats the side of the helicopter. 

“I waited all this time for that?”

“Hey man, you should’ve been here before we went digital.” Azrael waves the iPad. “This technology saves us a buttload of time.”

Azrael beams an Oscar worthy smile. 

“Saves a buttload of time? Are you kidding me, kid? I waited forever, I think, in this line. Listening to that blubbering ditz behind me. I don’t belong here. I was a respected high school teacher and outstanding member of my church. There must be some mistake.”

Azrael consults the iPad. “Although you were a schoolteacher, you cared more about controlling the kids than fostering a positive learning environment.”

Milt stands in stunned silence.

“Also, you used church to justify harsh judgment of others. I guess you weren’t really paying attention to the scripture being taught during those sermons. Never married, either. Or made lasting relationships of any kind. Looks like you considered everyone beneath you.” Azrael clicks his tongue disapprovingly. A feather comes loose from one of his wings and drifts into Milt’s face, sticking to his gray mustache. “Anyway, food for thought. Take some time to really dig into that stuff and practice some self-awareness. We can try again next time.”

“Next time?” Milt sneezes and brushes roughly at his nose.

“Yep, after the next software update. The boss is working on fine-tuning a few things that may swing the decision one way or the other. At that point, we’ll do this whole song and dance again. Until then,” Azrael points with the iPad, “back of line, please.”