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It was a colossal screw-up that put me before this mismatched panel of angels. None of this is my fault. Death by appointment is rare—and this whole mess is the Grim Reaper’s doing.

Apparently, he hit a milestone the day before I was supposed to be reaped: his one billionth soul. They threw a massive party. Afterward, he and his grim friends—who call themselves the Boo Crew—hit a strip joint.

He wakes up with a killer hangover, his robe reeking of tequila, no clue where he left his scythe, and my paperwork nowhere to be found. Long story short? I don’t get reaped.

No one knows if I’m supposed to go to heaven or hell, and a bureaucratic panel of angels is deciding my fate. Personally, I think they screwed up, which means I should get to choose.

And I choose heaven.

But, they want me to make my case, so I’m giving them the highlights of my good deeds.

I clear my throat and say, “Even though they were out of Thin Mints, I still bought a box of cookies. And if I might add, the only ones left were Shortbread. There’s a reason those never sell. But because I’m a kind and generous soul, I purchased them anyway.”

The panel sits in silence, stunned expressions frozen on their faces. I smile and wiggle my eyebrows—nothing.

Finally, the tall angel on the end—the one with flowing yellow hair who claims she can play the harp—asks, “Did you only purchase one box?”

I raise my hands and shrug. “I ain’t no Rockefeller.”

Do people still say that? Or is it supposed to be Musk now? Doesn’t matter. Either way, they don’t look impressed with my list of good deeds.

The so-called harp player says there are standards that need to be upheld. That not just anybody can waltz through the Pearly Gate.

Here’s a standard for you: take souls when they’re scheduled.

The panel huddles and whispers for a few minutes. Then the angel in the middle—the one who looks suspiciously like Mr. Rogers—says, “Mr. Thompson, we have decided to send you to hell.”

I knew things weren’t going well, but hell? So I say, “Oh, that’s just great. First you screw up my death, now I’m going to hell. What’s next, a ticket for being double-parked?”

The angel on the end—the one who looks like Mary Ann from Gilligan’s Island.

I’ve never understood the whole Mary Ann vs. Ginger debate. It’s obviously Mary Ann. People who pick Ginger are the ones who should go to hell.

Anyway—where was I? Right. So angel Mary Ann asks, “Did you double-park?”

I swallow hard and say. “No…”

She asks, “Are you lying?”

I answer, “No…”

I glance at all three of them. Let me tell you, these are three chilly angels.

I need them to reconsider, so I say, “Let’s not get sidetracked. We were discussing my good deed. The shortbread cookies.”

The harp-playing angel gives me this smug look and says, “You only bought one box. I purchased ten boxes of Thin Mints. It was all they had.”

This really burns me. I mean if she would have left a box for others, maybe I wouldn’t be going to hell. So I let her have it. “Oh, so you hoard all the Thin Mints, and I’m the one going to hell? That’s a hell of a—heck of a system you’ve got here.”

Angel Mr. Rogers slams his gavel and says, “Mr. Thompson, due to the mix-up, we’re giving you time to get your affairs in order. You are to report to hell Tuesday morning.”

This is the icing on the cake. So I let him know exactly what I’m thinking. “Tuesday? It’s going to be ninety degrees on Tuesday. You’re sending me to hell on the hottest day of the year?”

Then the angels vanish. Just like that.

I head out to my car, and sure enough—there’s a ticket on the windshield.

Good luck collecting.

#

I’m back at my apartment, telling my best friend Albert about the day’s events. But he’s not seeing the big picture. He is fixated on the angels.

He asks, “So the angel who looked like Mary Ann—was she wearing those tight shorts and showing her belly button?”

I answer, “No. She’s an angel. She was wearing a long, flowing white robe. But she had that girl-next-door vibe.”

Then he lays it on me and says, “I’m a Ginger man, myself. But, that harp player, she sounds interesting.”

Albert’s my best friend, but he can be a jerk. I’m facing eternal damnation, and all he wants to talk about is hooking up with the harp-playing angel. Says it’s on his bucket list.

He adds, “Man, being sent to hell by Mr. Rogers. That’s rough.”

He also swears I never bought the shortbread cookies. Claims I sent the Girl Scout away crying, and that’s why I’m going to hell.

What does he know? I bought those cookies… At least I think I did….pretty sure I did.

Albert’s eyes widen and he says, “Do you know that to get into hell, they make you kick a puppy?”

Albert stares at me, nodding like he’s passing down sacred wisdom.

I’m not buying it, so I push back. “They do not.”

He continues, “It’s how they test if you’re truly evil. But if you refuse to kick the puppy, they send you to purgatory instead. Still sucks—but better than hell.”

This whole conversation has been a waste, so I say, “Come on, let’s go get a beer.”

And can you believe this, he says, “Sorry, dude. The Knicks are playing tonight.”

I say, “I report to hell tomorrow. Can we please make a night of it?”

Albert shakes his head, and says, “It’s a playoff game. Maybe if it were regular season.”

I add, “Seriously?”

Then he says, “The Knicks. The playoffs. It’ll be a cold day in hell before they make it back.”

Albert breaks into uncontrollable laughter. “Cold day in hell—get it?”

I say, “You’re an asshole.”

#

I decide not to go. I mean, it’s not like they gave me directions. How do you even get to hell? Besides kicking a puppy—which I still don’t believe.

And yet, at exactly 8 a.m., I find myself standing in front of a desk made of iron slag.

Behind it sits a middle-aged woman, flipping through a massive ledger. She looks exactly like my high school English teacher—right down to the disapproving scowl. The only thing missing is a red marker.

I say, “Nice horns.”

She doesn’t smile and says, “Let’s see... Thomas J. Thompson. Yep—you’re assigned to the lava pits.”

I correct her. “Ah, it’s Thomas T. Thompson.”

She frowns and runs a finger down the list. “You sure?”

“It’s my name. Thomas Tom Thompson.”

She blinks. “Your mother named you Thomas Tom Thompson?”

I nod and say, “She really liked the name Tom. Something about a summer fling with a lifeguard. I had to stop her before she gave me details. Mom tended to overshare.”

She says, “Well, I don’t have anyone by that name.”

I say, “No problem—I’ll try heaven.”

She stops me and says, “Not so fast, pretty boy. You’ll need the proper forms. Down the hall. Office H.”

Office H is painted a dreary off-white. Rows of fluorescent lights flicker and buzz overhead. The air conditioner wheezes out warm air. The room smells like sour breath and half-digested chili dogs.

I find myself in a long line, with people packed in tight—as if invading my personal space might somehow make it move faster. A robust man behind me keeps rising onto his toes, his stomach bumping into my back every few seconds. Over and over, he mutters, “What’s taking so long?”

Two hours pass before I finally reach the window. My back aches. My feet are killing me.

“Hello,” I say to a cute little devil who looks suspiciously like my Halloween date from two years ago. “I need a form to get into heaven.”

She doesn’t look up, and says, “Form E. They’re on the table against the wall. Fill it out and bring it back. Next.”

I smile and ask, “I don’t have to stand in line again, right? I can just come back to you?”

She raises her head and meets my eyes. “No cuts. You’ll have to go through the line again. Next.”

I fill out the form, stand in line for another two hours, and hand it back to the Halloween devil.

She stamps the form and says, “Denied. Next.”

I’m confused and I ask, “What? Wait—why?”

She says, “We don’t have a Thomas T. Thompson. Next.”

I try to explain. “They’ve got my name wrong. Try Thomas J. Thompson.”

She says, “You’ll need a name change. Form L. Next.”

I fill out the form and return to the window.

She does the stamp thing again, and says, “Denied. It needs to be in duplicate. Next.”

I ask, “You couldn’t have told me that?”

She just says, “Next.”

I fill out a second form.

Two hours later—Same thing, “Denied. Wrong window. You need window G. Next.”

I don’t know it, but back at the main desk, the English teacher devil is laughing with a co-worker.

She’s saying, “I had this new guy. Sent him to bureaucratic hell. He’ll be stuck there for years before he figures out there’s always one more form.”

Then she dabs the corner of her eye with a handkerchief, still chuckling, and says, “And the kicker? I’m sending the grammar police after him to tear his forms apart—with a red marker. Just like high school.”

(The Words are mine. Voice and images generated.)