She heard the report of a gunshot. God! Bobby! She tried to call his name but was so stoned she was cross-eyed. Floating on the ceiling she was, looking down on the scene, looking at herself. She could hear her father, Corliss. Oh, Daddy, she thought. Daddy! My daddy!

It was just a neurological illusion. A psychic defense against the ultimate fear. A Freudian defense mechanism—denial. Apparent reality.

“Nights in White Satin” was still playing on the CD. She had hit the replay button at least a dozen times, so she couldn’t gauge time by counting the cuts on the disc. Her vision was too blurry to see the clock, but she could see the colors of the music stream out of the stereo speakers like streaks of red, white, yellow, and blue neon. Each note shot out into the air like a colored needle that compressed itself as its flight was spent, and then crystallized into a bright filigreed atom before it popped with a sharp electric snap and disappeared. Electricity cost less today, you know, than it did twenty-five years ago! A little birdie told me so. What was electricity?

The plan called for Mozart but…Bobby. Shit, Bobby. In the long run, take a friend, a really good friend over a lover any day. And if not a friend, then a dog. Maybe when she hit the other side, it would be like spirits and stuff and she and Bobby would meet and be together again with fresh, young healthy bodies. After all, they were checking out together. Practically within the same hour. She hoped he had the soul strength to hold it together and wait for her. Some of them just evaporated and disappeared and some others turned into angels. How did she know that? Suddenly she knew that. “Hiya, fancy meetin’ you here.” She and Bobby could walk hand in hand into the promised land. Not that physical bodies could reconstitute.

God! What if she ended up in a horrible pile of shit on the other side? An eternal pile of shit. Another truth hit home. The only hell she would ever know was about to end. In fact, it was over. She felt warmth and love. She wondered if there was a heaven. Seemed very likely now, contrary to what common sense had previously deemed. Hey, you see all this shit through the glass darkly until checkout time. She felt light; soul on a string—a mere seven and one-half ounces. Truffles. Fluffy perfumed lace hankies. She felt warm. It was good. Bliss. Finally.

All she had to do now was wait for the next wave, wait for it to heave her up and carry her away. Just let go and ride out that breaking white crest into eternity. She was waiting for the next wave. Emerald wave, surfer girl.

Hang ten!

Sonny Liston Was
a Friend of Mine