The Countdown
Francine Witte
Nothing makes Bloom happier than to realize he is dead. Not just purgatory dead, but finished, kaput. Even with his small eyesight, he can see the glow of the Pearly Gates just inches away. He can practically touch them. He also knows that Bertie, his icepick of a wife, will never let him go this easy.
Already, he can hear her voice as he enters the afterlife, Bloom, you bastard, we didn’t finish our conversation! You get back here by the time I count to three! The countdown, he calls it. Bertie used it for everything. And he gave in every time. It wasn’t enough that she gave him the heart attack, feeding him fatty lamb chops, gloppy with feta cheese, (c’mon you pussy, this is man food!) And it wasn’t enough he spent his whole football afternoon hanging the new pictures, (you don’t get it done, I’m calling Home Depot!) She just didn’t understand that Bloom was tired of trying to prove to her that he was a man. Dead tired. Now, Bloom is laid out at Feinberg’s funeral home, Bertie standing over his body. One! The countdown begins. Bloom knows from experience that he still has a little time. If only he could clear his head and think what to do, but Bertie’s voice is too loud – I’m counting! Maybe he was mistaken. Maybe this is the gates of Hell he is standing in front of. With his bad eyes, it’s possible. And maybe in Hell, Bertie’s voice is even louder than it was in person. But what had he done to deserve Hell? And if he did deserve it, didn’t 27 years with Bertie count as time served? He had gotten himself out of bed every single morning. He made a good living and his eyes never strayed. He thought for a minute, maybe Hell wouldn’t be so bad. Lots of night clubs and loose women, most likely. All the things Bloom was finally entitled to. Whatever this gate was, he was going to go through it. Anything, anything was okay as long as he stayed coffin-nail dead. Nobody he knew could stop death. Then again, nothing could stop Bertie when she had her mind made up. Bloom takes a step towards the gate and there it is, hard like an anvil, Bertie’s manicured hand plopping hard on his shoulder. Two. She turned him around single-handed like he was a chicken she was inspecting in the supermarket. “How did you get here?” he asks astonished, but not really. “I’m in a suspended state,” she says. “I told Dr. Katz to give me something to kill me, but just for a minute. I told him if he didn’t, I’d tell his wife about him and his medical assistant.” She continues, “Right now, my body is on the floor in front of your coffin. My sister is doing CPR on me.” “It’s too late,” Bloom says, “I’ve been dead for 24 hours.” He isn’t sure where all this nerve was coming from. And just then, a beautiful heavenly spirit named Angelica(!) floats by. Blonde curls and a white gauzy gown. She has a tiny harp in one hand and reaches out the other to Bloom. “I’m Angelica.” “That’s original,” Bertie sneers. And with that, Bloom gives her a spiteful look and grabs Angelica’s hand. “Pleased to meet you,” he says, “I’m Bloom.” “I’m here to greet you,” Angelica says. “I wasn’t expecting you to be so handsome.” Bloom is a chipmunk of a man, and he knows it. Ten threads of hair and always onion breath. Still, he can’t help but swell up. “Thank you,” he beams. “And so articulate,” Angelica continues, “such command with words.” That’s when Bertie chimes in, clutching her heart. “My sister has brought in the paramedics, and they’re thumping my chest. I don’t have much time.” “It’s all right,” Angelica says, a halo of light around her head. “Are we going to heaven?” Bloom asks. “We’re going wherever you will be most happy.” Bloom is just about to walk off with Angelica when Bertie jumps her mountain self between them. “I didn’t put in 27 years so you could leave me for a floozy.” “It’s a good thing I don’t have earthly resentments” Angelica says, “or I’d knock your block off.” Bloom knows now that he is in Heaven, Bertie and this beautiful angel fighting over him. He again takes Angelica’s hand. “Oh no you don’t,” Bertie says, grabbing Bloom’s other hand. The two women pulling at Bloom like he’s a saltwater taffy. “Let go!” Angelica tugs. “Never!” Bertie grunts. Bloom, of course, would like this better if he didn’t feel his arms being pulled from their sockets. “Ladies, Ladies, please.” “C’mon, Bloom,” Angelica says. He can see that Bertie is clearly in trouble. This may be the first time he has seen her when she might not get what she wants. It is rather lovely, he thinks. Angelic almost. Still, the idea of Heaven! Never to hang a picture again or watch where he drops his socks. He pulls along with Angelica. Bertie’s face a crimson red. “I only have a second left,” she says, “Get your hands off my man!” And that turns Bloom completely. A man, he thinks, a man. “C’mon Bertie,” he yells, pulling away from Angelica. One he pulls, but Angelica’s grips tightens. Two. They are together now. Bertie and Bloom. And… They say it together, him waking up in his coffin, Bertie waking up on the floor. Three! ***** Months later, Bloom and Bertie in their living room. Newspapers and pop-tops everywhere you look, and Bertie doesn’t make a peep Bloom likes to taunt Bertie now. “How about a nice lamb chop?” he will say, just to see what she’ll do. She just laughs and strokes his hand. They are content to live on lettuce and apples and a chicken now and then. Happy to be alive, and yet, every so often, Bloom thinks of Angelica and what might be lying ahead for him, after all. And when he and Bertie go out for their after-dinner walk, Bloom has been known to sneak a longing look up at the sky. |