proved holy by
their good works or by their deep, inner faith. Do people go to Heaven because
they acted good? Or do they go to Heaven because it's predestined... because
they are good ? That's ancient
history, according to Leonard; now the entire system relies on forensic
science. Polygraph tests. Psychophysiological detections of deception. Voice
stress analysis. You even have to submit hair and urine samples due to the new
zero-tolerance policy for drug and alcohol abuse in Heaven.
In secret, putting my hands into the side pockets of my skort, I cross
my fingers.
The demon asks, "Does mankind hold ultimate dominion over all
earthly plants and animals?"
Fingers crossed, I say, "Yes?"
"Do you approve," the demon says, "of marriage between
individuals of differing racial backgrounds?"
The demon continues without hesitation, asking, "Should the
Zionist state of Israel be allowed to exist?"
Question after question, I'm stumped. Even fingers crossed. The
paradox: Is God a racist, homophobic, anti-Semitic ass? Or is God testing to
see if I am?
The demon asks, "Should women be allowed to hold public office? To
own real property? To operate motor vehicles?"
Now and then, he leans over the polygraph machine, using a felt-tipped
pen to scribble notes next to the readouts on the rolling banner of paper.
We've journeyed here to the headquarters of Hell because I asked about
filing an appeal. My reasoning is... if convicted murderers can linger on death
row for decades, demanding access to law libraries and gratis public defenders,
while scribbling briefs and arguments with blunt crayons and pencil stubs, it
seems only fair that I ought to appeal my own eternal sentence.
In the same tone that a supermarket cashier would ask, "Paper or
plastic?" or a fast-food server would ask, "Do you want fries with
that?" the demon asks, 'Are you, yourself, a virgin?"
Since last Christmas, when I froze my hands to the door of my residence
hall and was forced to rip off the outermost layers of skin, my hands have yet
to totally heal. The lines crisscrossing my palms, the lifeline and love line,
are almost erased. My fingerprints look faint, and the new skin feels tight and
sensitive. In my pockets, now, it hurts to keep my fingers crossed, but all I can
do is just sit here, betraying my parents, betraying my gender and politics,
betraying myself to tell some bored demon what I hope is the perfect mix of
blah, blah, blah. If anybody should spend eternity in Hell, it's me.
The demon asks, "Do you support the profoundly evil research which
utilizes embryonic stem cells?"
I correct his grammar, telling him, "That... research that utilizes..."
The demon asks, "Does physician-assisted suicide fly in the face
of God's beautiful will?"
The demon asks, "Do you espouse the obvious truth of intelligent
design?"
With the needles scribbling my every heartbeat, my respiration rate, my
blood pressure, the demon waits, watching for my body to turn traitor on me
when he asks, "Are you familiar with the William Morris Agency?"
Despite myself, my hands relax a little and let my fingers slip and
stop lying. I say, "Why... yes."
And the demon looks up from his machine, smiles, and says, "That's
who represents me...."
XIII.
Are you there, Satan? It's me, Madison. Don't get the idea that I'm way
homesick; but lately, but I've been thinking about my family. This is no
reflection on you or the fabulousness of Hell. I've just been feeling a tad
nostalgic.
For my last birthday, my parents announced we were headed for Los Angeles
in order for my mom to present some awards-show trophy. My mom had her personal
assistant buy no fewer than a thousand-million gilded envelopes with blank
pieces of card stock tucked inside. For the past week, all my mom's done is
practice tearing open these envelopes, pulling out the cards, and saying,
"The Academy Award for Best Motion Picture goes to . . To train herself
not to laugh, my mom asked me to write movie
their good works or by their deep, inner faith. Do people go to Heaven because
they acted good? Or do they go to Heaven because it's predestined... because
they are good ? That's ancient
history, according to Leonard; now the entire system relies on forensic
science. Polygraph tests. Psychophysiological detections of deception. Voice
stress analysis. You even have to submit hair and urine samples due to the new
zero-tolerance policy for drug and alcohol abuse in Heaven.
In secret, putting my hands into the side pockets of my skort, I cross
my fingers.
The demon asks, "Does mankind hold ultimate dominion over all
earthly plants and animals?"
Fingers crossed, I say, "Yes?"
"Do you approve," the demon says, "of marriage between
individuals of differing racial backgrounds?"
The demon continues without hesitation, asking, "Should the
Zionist state of Israel be allowed to exist?"
Question after question, I'm stumped. Even fingers crossed. The
paradox: Is God a racist, homophobic, anti-Semitic ass? Or is God testing to
see if I am?
The demon asks, "Should women be allowed to hold public office? To
own real property? To operate motor vehicles?"
Now and then, he leans over the polygraph machine, using a felt-tipped
pen to scribble notes next to the readouts on the rolling banner of paper.
We've journeyed here to the headquarters of Hell because I asked about
filing an appeal. My reasoning is... if convicted murderers can linger on death
row for decades, demanding access to law libraries and gratis public defenders,
while scribbling briefs and arguments with blunt crayons and pencil stubs, it
seems only fair that I ought to appeal my own eternal sentence.
In the same tone that a supermarket cashier would ask, "Paper or
plastic?" or a fast-food server would ask, "Do you want fries with
that?" the demon asks, 'Are you, yourself, a virgin?"
Since last Christmas, when I froze my hands to the door of my residence
hall and was forced to rip off the outermost layers of skin, my hands have yet
to totally heal. The lines crisscrossing my palms, the lifeline and love line,
are almost erased. My fingerprints look faint, and the new skin feels tight and
sensitive. In my pockets, now, it hurts to keep my fingers crossed, but all I can
do is just sit here, betraying my parents, betraying my gender and politics,
betraying myself to tell some bored demon what I hope is the perfect mix of
blah, blah, blah. If anybody should spend eternity in Hell, it's me.
The demon asks, "Do you support the profoundly evil research which
utilizes embryonic stem cells?"
I correct his grammar, telling him, "That... research that utilizes..."
The demon asks, "Does physician-assisted suicide fly in the face
of God's beautiful will?"
The demon asks, "Do you espouse the obvious truth of intelligent
design?"
With the needles scribbling my every heartbeat, my respiration rate, my
blood pressure, the demon waits, watching for my body to turn traitor on me
when he asks, "Are you familiar with the William Morris Agency?"
Despite myself, my hands relax a little and let my fingers slip and
stop lying. I say, "Why... yes."
And the demon looks up from his machine, smiles, and says, "That's
who represents me...."
XIII.
Are you there, Satan? It's me, Madison. Don't get the idea that I'm way
homesick; but lately, but I've been thinking about my family. This is no
reflection on you or the fabulousness of Hell. I've just been feeling a tad
nostalgic.
For my last birthday, my parents announced we were headed for Los Angeles
in order for my mom to present some awards-show trophy. My mom had her personal
assistant buy no fewer than a thousand-million gilded envelopes with blank
pieces of card stock tucked inside. For the past week, all my mom's done is
practice tearing open these envelopes, pulling out the cards, and saying,
"The Academy Award for Best Motion Picture goes to . . To train herself
not to laugh, my mom asked me to write movie
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