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“Is he here?” Howard didn’t have to specify; he was talking to the Head Receiving Angel, and didn’t angels know everything?
“All in due course, Mr. Moon. Now down this corridor, we have what we could call our ‘Hall of Famers’--that is, we could, except of course everyone here in Heaven is equal, admired equally, respected equally, treated equally.”
“Of course.” Howard bobbed his head to indicate his complete agreement with the concept. Not that he could imagine anything about Heaven that he wouldn’t be in complete agreement with; it was just that he was still a bit nervous, though he’d been here—he slid his hand into his suit coat to extract his Nabootique Employee of the Decade (faux) gold pocket watch and cast a furtive glance at its face—though he’d been here all of four hours now.
The Head Angel pursed his (her?) lips. “We don’t make mistakes.” His/her voice managed to be reassuring and chastising at the same time.
“I, ah, wha—whassat?” The watch was hastily re-pocketed. “Sorry.”
“We don’t make mistakes. Impostor Syndrome. A most common discomfort in newcomers. You have it.” The Angel resumed his/her stroll down the corridor, his/her long white robes brushing against freshly waxed linoleum. Howard was a bit disappointed about that: he’d expected gold tiles. But whoever cleaned the Building of Being certainly had done a nice job buffing. He wondered then if he could get himself assigned to the Pen Organizing Detail. If God had a janitorial detail, surely there must also be a Pen Organizing one, and who on earth had more innovative plans for arranging pens than Howard T. J. Moon? The Angel was still talking. “You’ll get over it soon enough, once it sinks in. No one is here by mistake. You were invited and we intend for you to stay.”
Howard took an extra skip to catch up. “That’s, ah, oh. . . .”
“Yes.” The Angel stopped, not looking at him. “Though it is your choice. If you want to be reassigned--”
From somewhere down the hall a voice issued, singing sadly off-key. “’Just what you’re gonna do now/You can take it or leave it’. . . .”
“’Reassigned’?”
“To the other place.” The Angel bent his eyes to the linoleum.
“Oh. That place.”
“Though no one’s ever asked to relocate.” A small chuckle escaped his/her lips.
“Of course. Of course not.”
“Now, as I was saying.” The Angel set out again, his/her steps brisker; Howard had to skip twice. The Angel’s long, well-tanned hand waved vaguely to a series of closed rooms at the right. “These are the Rooms of Being.”
“’Rooms of Being,’” Howard repeated, memorizing the term. He wished he had his Wirebound Spiral Memo Book and his Skilcraft Bio-Write to write these instructions down.
“’Your voice is like an angel above me’. . . .”
The Angel frowned slightly as that annoying voice grew stronger. “Now, in the Rooms of Being, you can be anyone or anything you want, for as long as you want. And you can interact with other residents in the Being state.”
“Anyone or. . . thing?” Images of who and what he'd like to Become sprang immediately to Howard's mind: Frank Sinatra, László Bíró (inventor of the biro), Scott Joplin's piano. . . .
“For instance, right now, in Being Room 7A, we have all four Beatles Being Beach Boys.”
“Come again?”
“Paul transformed himself into Brian, John is Mike Love, Ringo is Carl. George decided to be the odd man out; he’s Glen Campbell. They’re in there writing ‘God Only Knows’ together.”
Howard wasn’t sure who any of those people were, but he pretended to understand. “I see.”
The Angel chuckled again. “And guess who’s joining them this afternoon?”
“Who?”
“No. The Who are down the hall, transformed into the Guess Who.”
“’Everybody knows about my good thing. . . .’”
Howard scratched his cheek. Normally he enjoyed quizzes pertaining to music, but this one was out of his league. “I don’t. . .” He fumbled with his pocket watch, hoping to dodge the question. “My, my, look at the time.”
“No, you can't look at them just yet; they’re on holiday in Jamaica with Prince.”
“Huh?"
"Morris Day and the Time."
“’The poor Prince of Wales/He gave up his crown. . . .’”
Howard scowled and jutted his chin toward a closed door on the left, from whence the out-of-tune voice emanated. “Who is that?”
“Well, those are the Rooms of Learning. Residents can take lessons with anyone they choose. You can discover your inner chef with Julia Child—”
“Mum and Dad and I are having dinner with her tonight,” Howard remarked. “She’s preparing Sole Meunière with lots of butter.”
“I know. Or you can take dancing lessons from Baryshnikov, or elocution from Demosthenes, or learn to dribble from George Best. . . .”
“Sounds exciting. I suppose I’ll be spending a lot of time in the Learning Rooms.”
“Yes, indeed.” The Angel rapped on one of the left-side doors. It opened immediately and an eager, familiar face appeared at the crack. “Hello? Hello? Welcome, come in, please, come in.” The door swung wide.
“Sorry to disturb,” the Angel said smoothly. “Just giving a tour.”
The face drooped. “Oh. I was hoping—it’s been days since anyone’s asked.”
“Soon, I’m sure, but not just yet. He’ll be back soon.” The Angel tilted his head in the direction of a speechless, suddenly shy Howard. “Quite the fan of yours, I understand.”
“A fan?” The face brightened. “Are you sure you couldn’t stop in, for just a moment?”
Howard finally found his voice. “You—you—”
“Howard Moon, meet Charlie Mingus. Charlie, Howard.”
“Biggest. . . .” Howard struggled for breath. “Fan. Biggest fan. Mr. Mingus, honor. . . .”
“My pleasure.” The jazz man grasped Howard’s hand and pumped it. “Come in. I could give you a lesson right now. Double bass, piano, cello, composition—you name it. I’ve got plenty of time, all the time in the world.”
“’Tiiiiime is on my side. . . .’”
“Howard will be back soon, rest assured. We must get him settled first."
“Don’t forget.” Mingus leaned out of his doorway to call after them. “Learning Room 22B. Hey, if you call before you arrive, I can get the sextet together and we can jam.”
Howard trailed after the Angel, but kept looking back. “I think I can find my way from here, if you’ve got other things to do.”
“You are my priority.”
“But I want to go back. Mingus, Byard, Richmond—”
“There is someone you must meet first. Something you must do.” The Angel fixed him with a don’t-question-me stare. Howard swallowed hard and after a last wistful backward glance at 22B, followed the white robes.
“’You’ve been starrin’ in my dreams/Lord, I miss you.’” That voice was growing louder and screechier as they approached a bend in the corridor.
A second voice interrupted, “No, no, stop. You’re sharp again. Start over.”
“’I’ve been holdin’ out so long. . . .’”
Something thumped the floor and the second voice barked, “Tempo! Tempo!”
The Angel drew up at 35B and rapped with his/her knuckles. The voices on the other side of the door fell silent; there were heavy footfalls, then the door swung inward, opened by a skinny fellow in a tight t-shirt. The instructor’s face—Howard had seen that face somewhere before—was so deeply lined with wrinkles that his blue eyes were barely visible. Howard thought he could float a battleship through the canals of those wrinkles. His dark bushy hair stuck out from his ears, as wild as if he’d recently poked a wet finger into a light socket. It was the maestro’s mouth, though, that really called for notice: the thick, wide lips could have swallowed the entire face with no effort.
"Hello, Sir Mick. I see Einstein's been styling your hair again."
“I know you,” Howard mumbled. “I mean, not know. Know who you are.”
The maestro lifted a single thin shoulder. “Everybody does.” He focused his sharp eyes on the Angel. “Hullo, Gamaliel. Whassup?”
“Howard?” A second slight form appeared behind the first, and this one, Howard knew in an instant, though it had been—how many years? The man in the mirror-ball suit stepped out from behind his teacher, and drawn in, despite himself, by a magnetism that had always drawn him in, Howard moved into the room. From the corner of his eye, he quickly assessed his whereabouts: a typical music chamber, with a baby grand and drums on a riser and basses and guitars on stands, sheet music strewn about, half-empty Styrofoam cups, bits of clothing dropped on couches and chairs; tacked to the walls, posters promoting a Voodoo Lounge Tour, a Bridges to Babylon Tour, albums called Beggars Banquet, Tattoo You and Some Girls. A bottle of Chanel Cuir de Russie sat on a window sill beside a throat spray; a basket of fruit sat on a side table.
The maestro’s face relaxed and he glanced over his shoulder at the student. “Look, kid, we’re gonna have to wrap this up. I’ve got a yodeling lesson with John Denver at four.”
The Angel made introductions: “Howard, this is Mick Jagger. Sir Mick. Mick, Howard Moon, new arrival. I rather doubt if you’ll be seeing much of him.” As Jagger’s student flew past the Angel and the singer, Gamaliel raised an eyebrow. “I rather doubt if any of us will be seeing much of either of them for a while.” Arms opened, mouth pressed against mouth, greetings were murmured.
“Vince,” Howard sighed into the dark, scented locks just beneath his nose. His voice choked. He needed to say more, lots more, but all he could manage was “Vince.”
"Waited so long," Vince gulped.
"'Everybody waits so long,'" the Angel crooned, and Jagger curled his lip.
Gamaliel turned his eyes to the mirror-ball suit. “Howard, you have some unfinished business to attend to. May I suggest you start your conversation in your private chambers.”
“I don’t remem—not sure—”
The Angel sighed. “Just imagine it and you’ll be transported there. Sir Mick, let’s go down to the cafeteria. Sasa’s on duty. Winner of last year’s World Barista Championships.”
Jagger snatched up one of the stray scarfs and flung it around his neck. “Just as long as you don't sing my songs any more.” He threw a last glance at his student. “Listen, Noir, why don’t you take up the guitar or something. I’ll get you on Keith’s waiting list.”
Vince grinned against Howard’s shoulder. “Cheers, Mick. Laters.”
“Much later.” In the space of a breath, Jagger and Gamaliel vanished.
Howard and Vince stood in silence, content just to hold each other for the moment, until a scrawny teen in a Lips Logo t-shirt butted in. “Have you seen Mr. Jagger? I’ve got a lesson—”
“Better reschedule,” Vince advised her. “You can have my slot.” He nestled his head further into Howard’s chest. “I won’t need them any more.”
“Let’s take Gamaliel’s advice, retire to our chambers.” Howard took a step backwards so he could see Vince’s face. “You look wonderful, Little Man.”
“So do you, Howard.” Vince toyed with a button on Howard’s tweed jacket. “It’s been so long. I’ve been waiting so long.”
“Me too, Vince.” He slid his arm around Vince’s shoulder and turned him back to the corridor.
“But I knew you’d come. I never had a doubt you’d get assigned here.” Vince’s eyes twinkled as he peered up at his beloved. “Betcha had some question about whether I’d make it here.”
“You were a bit of a rapscallion, indeed.” Howard raised Vince’s palm to his lips. “But no, never a doubt."
They started down the hallway. “I got so much to tell you, so much to show you.”
“We’ve got forever to catch up,” Howard assured him. His brown loafers echoed the click of Vince’s Chelsea heels as they walked.
“Time is on our side,” Vince agreed. “And so is Heaven.”