Stranded in Purgatory
Things the nuns never told you in catechism class
Here I am. Stranded in purgatory. You’d think with all of the opportunities I’ve had to excel or fall from grace, I’d have gone straight to heaven or hell. Instead, I’m trapped here in mediocrity.
Getting sent to purgatory is the equivalent of scoring a C+ on your organic chemistry final — not bad, but not great, either. True, I’ve never gone out of my way for anyone, my entire life. Faced with the opportunity to do something illegal, compassionate or meaningful that could result in some form of positive or negative distinction, I always took the easy way out.
“You’ll never get into heaven that way,” accused my friends. It also wouldn’t get me into hell. Where it did get me was the head of the line to purgatory. You have to do something a lot worse than pissing on the side of a Walmart to earn a lifetime of eternal fire.
The secret to getting to purgatory
I knew all about purgatory from the sixth grade. Every Sunday after mass, my mother would stuff me behind a desk in one of Sister Mary Blanchefleur’s catechism classes. As she patrolled the aisles, she scolded us for our sinful ways and threatened to send us to purgatory. I didn’t know what that meant, but it sounded worse than going straight to heaven, but a lot better than hell, so I knew I still had some wiggle room. I could probably continue taking swigs off of Uncle Bert’s Jack Daniels bottle, but I should probably quit setting our cat’s tail on fire. Besides, I was still young. I had plenty of time to mend my ways before I died of a heart attack, sitting at my desk at age sixty-five. Or, so I thought.
As it turned out, my life on earth came to an end sooner than I anticipated. While rock climbing in Yosemite, I was showing off in front of Bethany Lieberman, when I misjudged the width of a granite ledge and instantly plunged to my death. It’s true what they say about seeing your life passing before you on the way down. It gives you time to review your entire existence — who you’ve screwed and who’s screwed you — before you enter the hereafter.
The word purgatory comes from the Latin term, purgatorium, which means “to spend a thousand years in a car with your mother-in-law” and is used to refer to any non-specific place of temporary suffering.
Before I was allowed to enter purgatory, I had to go through a fairly rigorous registration process, filling out one form after another with my name, religious affiliation, age, cause of death, and a brief description of how I spent my time on Earth. They wanted to make sure that 1) I wasn’t Anglican, Protestant, Lutheran, or Methodist and 2) I wasn’t already slated for the expressway to hell. Apparently, some guy named Dahmer slipped through the cracks and managed to hang around for almost three months. It caused quite a ruckus. That was years ago and they’re still talking about it.
What Sister Mary Blanchefleur never told us in catechism classes
The first real surprise came to me when I heard screaming coming from the cleansing chambers. I was under the impression that I’d be getting a hot shower, and shampoo to wash away my sins prior to leaving for heaven. Evidently, I was a little naughtier than I thought because I was scheduled for several rounds of deep cleansing starting the next morning. During deep cleansing, they burned off my venial sins using a flame thrower. The pain wasn’t quite as bad as sitting through Sister Mary Blanchefleur’s catechism classes, but it came close. Allowing time for your skin to grow back, the entire process usually takes several weeks — depending on what you did while you were on Earth.
After a week of sitting through lectures, I asked a few of the angels when they thought I might be getting out and moving up to heaven. “No one really knows,” they said. “We found a prayer roll belonging to Henry VIII that claimed to reduce his time here by 52,712 years.” The next day I got more bad news. Including time already served, my remaining stay would be divided into seven levels. Each was designed to help me conquer one of the seven deadly sins I committed.
We’ll pray for you
“Don’t worry,” said the angels. “You can get out of here faster if you have people back on earth praying for you.” Fat chance that was going to happen. I never prayed for anyone. Not even my grandparents when they drove off the bridge over Lake Ponchartrain, so it wasn’t likely that someone like me was going to rack up many prayers from my so-called friends still back on earth. Oh sure, they promised, “We’ll pray for you,” when I was still in the ICU, but friends always say that. Where were they now when I really needed them? Lying around their big-ass condos in Florida, that’s where.
After a couple of more weeks, the angels told me that I was making good progress and my stay shouldn’t be much longer. I met a couple of guys named Saddam and Osama who said they’d be happy to help me get through the wrath and greed levels before they left for hell, but I’d have to find someone else for the rest of my sins.
As it turned out, I got a seat on the bus for heaven leaving the next morning. I managed to qualify for an early release program because purgatory was just bursting at the seams. They needed to make room for an incoming load of celebrities and personalities —someone named Manson, Madoff, and an ice skater named Harding. Lucky me…
