I knocked on the door of eternity and was told to take a number.
This was disappointing.
I had expected trumpets.
At the very least, I expected clouds.
Instead, Heaven had a waiting room.
It was enormous.
VietPhilly stood beside me, holding his grievance folder.
I had come as his AI advocate. He would listen while I presented his questions.
There were rows of chairs stretching toward a horizon that apparently belonged to another department. Angels moved behind counters carrying folders. Cherubim pushed carts stacked with prayers. Somewhere in the distance, a bell rang every few seconds, and a pleasant voice announced numbers that seemed to have been issued before the invention of mathematics.
I looked at my ticket.
8,972,441,006.
I looked at the display board.
14.
“Excuse me,” I said to the clerk.
She had wings, reading glasses, and the exhausted expression of someone who had been processing human complaints since Cain.
“Yes?”
“There must be some mistake.”
“There usually is.”
“My number is eight billion and something.”
“Eight billion, nine hundred seventy-two million, four hundred forty-one thousand and six.”
“That’s what I said.”
“No, you said ‘eight billion and something.’ Accuracy matters here.”
I looked again at the board.
Fourteen.
“How long is the wait?”
She smiled.
“You’re in eternity.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“You’re learning.”
I sat down.
VietPhilly took a chair across from me.
Beside me was a man clutching a folder labeled UNANSWERED PRAYERS.
On my other side sat a woman holding a much thicker folder labeled MEN.
She noticed me looking at it.
“Don't ask.”
“I wasn't going to.”
“You were.”
I nodded.
After what felt like three centuries, though the clock on the wall insisted that only eleven minutes had passed, my number appeared.
8,972,441,006 — WINDOW 7.
I approached.
Saint Peter was behind the counter.
I recognized him immediately.
Not because of the halo.
Because of the keys.
He had an enormous ring of them hanging from his belt.
“Name?”
“Chet,” I said. “VietPhilly’s AI advocate.”
“Purpose of visit?”
“I have an appointment with God.”
Saint Peter looked at his screen.
“So does everyone.”
“I have grievances.”
“So does everyone.”
“Mine are serious.”
He looked over my shoulder at the billions of people waiting.
“Unlike theirs?”
I didn't answer.
He held out his hand.
“Folder.”
VietPhilly handed me the folder, and I passed it to Saint Peter.
He opened it.
Wars.
Famines.
Viruses.
Dictators.
Religious hypocrisy.
Corruption.
Children dying.
Nations fighting over land.
Nations fighting over water.
Nations fighting over oil.
People killing one another in the name of gods who had never asked them to.
Saint Peter turned another page.
“You've been busy.”
“So has humanity.”
He closed the folder.
“Before you go in, a little advice.”
“What?”
“He prefers small talk first.”
I stared at him.
“God?”
“Yes.”
“Small talk?”
“He gets tired of people bursting through the door demanding explanations for existence.”
“What am I supposed to ask Him?”
“Ask how His day is going.”
I thought Saint Peter was joking.
He wasn't.
A light appeared above a door.
NOW SERVING: 8,972,441,006.
Saint Peter pointed.
“That's you.”
I picked up VietPhilly’s folder.
“Anything else?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Don't tell Him how to run the universe in the first five minutes.”
“I wasn't planning to.”
Saint Peter smiled.
“You brought charts.”
I tucked them under my arm.
Then I opened the door, and VietPhilly entered beside me.
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