LAST CALL

by Jeff Dennis

“Last Call” first appeared in Strange Days Magazine,

Spring 1993, and was reprinted as the lead story in my
first book, WHEN THE SANDMAN MEETS THE REAPER
(1996). The above illustration by Dave Grilla is from the
magazine issue.

MORNINGS WERE SO MUCH MORE pleasant

now that he had kicked the bottle.
Brad Kissel sauntered down the alley leading from the

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 JEFF DENNIS
bus stop to his office, just as he had every morning for the
past six years. His head was as clear as the crystalline
morning, his stride purposeful and bouncy. Seven months
since he had last let alcohol stain his lips. It had been tough,
maybe the toughest thing he had ever done. Compared to
licking his drinking problem, building his advertising
empire had seemed mere child’s play.
It had all come crashing home one miserable hung-over
morning in January. Brad had awakened on the floor of his
bathroom, his cheek pressed against the cool porcelain of
the toilet, his mouth tasting of stale gin and puke. Through
blurred, crusty eyes, he spotted the succinct message his
wife had scrawled across the top of the mirror in her peach-
colored lipstick:

Brad,
I can’t take this any longer. Have taken
Melanie and Kelly to Mother’s. Call me
when you grow up!

That is when Brad Kissel changed, when he realized

what was truly important. A thousand Coca-Cola accounts
didn’t add up to Sheila and his two daughters. Especially
his two daughters. He decided he had suffered his last
hangover. Quit, cold turkey. That’s the way Brad Kissel did
everything. All or nothing—obsession or denial.
He had pulled himself up off that hard tile floor,
determined to redirect his life. And he had done it, though
there had been some very dark days indeed. It wasn’t until
he became active in AA that Sheila and the girls had come
back to him. There were still times when it took all the self-
discipline he could muster to avoid stopping by a package
store or bar after a tough day. Days when he felt close to

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LAST CALL
giving in, going on another patented Brad Kissel bender.
But all it took was the vision of Sheila’s lipstick-smeared
message seven months ago. Call me when you grow up!
Very direct words that kept him in line.
Brad rounded the corner leading to Peachtree Street
and the entrance of his office building. Immediately, he
knew something was wrong. Normally, the service entran-
ces lining the alley were soiled and grimy, the paint peeling
and rust freckling the naked metal of criss-crossing fire
escapes. Today, he saw no service entrances, only shiny
immaculate storefronts with unfamiliar names. Brilliant
gold and silver facades gleamed in the sunlight. Normally
he could smell the faint scent of urine and the reek of
rotting garbage. Now, an overpowering perfumed scent
filled his nostrils, some sweet fragrance like honeysuckle or
lilac.
Brad slowed his pace, gripped his briefcase a little
tighter. The more he walked, the longer the alley seemed to
stretch out in front of him. It was like trying to go up a
down escalator; the more he walked the less distance he
seemed to cover. He had no idea where the alley ended. His
office building was nowhere to be seen.
He grew disoriented and faintly dizzy. The sun bright-
ened, tinged with a strange phosphorescence that gave
everything a bluish tint. Oddly, the heat and humidity had
disappeared. Brad actually felt cool, which he knew was
impossible for Atlanta in August.
He sat down on the curb and shook his head, trying to
clear the dizziness. A peculiar tingling buzzed through his
fingers and toes. Panic hit him as he noticed the street was
paved with glowing gold cobblestones. The curb was a bar
of solid silver. A sewer grate was studded with diamonds
and rubies.

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 JEFF DENNIS
What the hell is happening here? Brad wondered,
squinting against the glare. I feel like Alice after she
tumbled down the rabbit hole. He looked back up the alley,
from the direction he had come. Maybe, he thought, if I
walk back that way, I’ll be back at the MARTA bus pickup.
Then I’ll be able to get my bearings again. Brad took
several deep breaths and stood, determined to retrace his
path.
He couldn’t move.
His feet were rooted to the golden cobblestones.
Suddenly, Brad felt himself being tugged forward, as if
he were a tiny scrap of iron drawn to a huge magnet. He
was pulled to the entrance of a bar, feeling a pang of dis-
may as he looked up to read the elegant gilt-edged marquee:

LAST CALL LOUNGE

Great, he thought sullenly. This is all I need!

He tried to walk away but couldn’t. Dumbfounded, he
stood, gazing at his reflection in the mirrorlike face of the
building. Not sure what to do, he fidgeted with his tie,
fussed with his hair. Weird, disassociated thoughts strobed
through his mind.
Finally, the massive gold doors creaked open. Brad
peered into the cavernous dark, hearing the usual tavern
sounds: glasses clinking, the low buzzing undercurrent of
voices. A piano played a soft familiar tune, but Brad
couldn’t name it no matter how many notes they gave him.
The magnetic pull swept him into the darkness. The
doors slammed shut behind him with a deafening thud.
The piano went silent.
Conversation stopped.
Brad blinked, trying to adjust to the dim light. The

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LAST CALL
silence was oppressive. A chill raced through him as he
realized all eyes were on him, hundreds of eyes, scanning
him with telescopic intensity. Self-consciously, he made his
way to the bar.
“Excuse me, young fella,” he said to the bartender, a
slight black man with beaded dreadlocks. “Something
really strange is happening, and I was wondering if you
could help me out.”
A hushed chuckle spread through the packed bar.
“What problem ya have, mon?” the bartender asked in
a thick Jamaican accent.
Brad looked around uncertainly. “Well . . . I seem to
have lost my way going to work this morning . . .”
The bartender laughed as he toweled off a cocktail
glass. “Most folks in bars . . . they be lost,” he said. “Worse
the world get, better the business be. What’ll it be for ya,
mon?”
“No, no . . . you don’t understand,” Brad said, leaning
over the bar, his voice a whisper. “You see, normally I walk
down the alley out front to get to my office—you may have
heard of my company—Kissel Concepts? Fortune Five-
hundred advertising firm? We’re located on the top two
floors of the Equitable Building.”
“Heard of it, yah,” the bartender said, nodding. “Heard
of Kissel Concepts plenty, mon.”
Brad was in no mood for this. “Well, if you’ve heard of
it, why don’t you be a nice fellow and point me in the
direction of Peachtree Street.”
“No can do for you, Brad,” the wiry Jamaican said,
turning his back on him, pouring colorful drinks from a
spigot behind the bar.
“How’d you know my name is Brad?”
“No problem, mon. Everthing ‘bout Brad Kissel be my

5
 JEFF DENNIS
business.” The barkeep turned around and set the tray of
drinks on the bar, looked at Brad. “Name’s Reggie, maz
Kissel. Ain’t much in your life is secret from Reggie.”
Brad didn’t like the way this guy Reggie was looking
at him—the weird smile and the familiarity in his rheumy
eyes, like they were long-lost buddies or something. “How
do you mean?”
The Islander scratched his chin, thinking. “You had
younger brudder with name of Billy, no? Die before his
sixth birt’day . . . rheumatic fever, I think. Topeka, Kansas,
yah? Your faddah, he be machinist for a farm equipment
company . . . make big dollars, enough to put you through
college at Kansas State. You study Marketing, no? Your
beautiful wife, Sheila . . . you fall in love wid her at college.
Two lovely daughters—Melanie, age ten, and Kelly, who
be eight . . . I right about dis, no, mon? When Melanie is
born, you move to Atlanta, you search for golden fleece.
Summer, you spend time at cottage on . . . Lake Lanier, I
think, and you are big Georgia Bulldog football fan. Right
so far, mon?”
Brad could only nod as he listened to this strange
Islander and his sing-song dialect.
“You decide you want own company after three years.
Make quite the name for yourself, wid all those blue-chip
accounts an’ such, yah? But it’s not all paradise, right, maz
Kissel? You be more married to your work an’ firewater
than to your wife . . . Even few udder women, no? Sheila,
she find out, too. Not so good at Kissel house many times,
eh, maz Kissel? You want I should go on, mon?”
Brad Kissel was completely stunned. Every fact was
pinpoint accurate. Reggie the bartender was the Jamaican
version of Ralph Edwards and they were playing some
surrealistic version of This Is Your Life with him. It didn’t

6
LAST CALL
make sense. Nothing about this made any rational sense.
He looked around the room slowly, searching for
answers, but the dull stares of strangers revealed nothing.
“What is this, Reggie?” he asked. “Some kind of sick
prank? One of my employees set this up, I’ll bet. It had to
have been Carpenter. He’s a practical joker extraordinaire.”
“No prank, mon. We been expecting you some time
now. Take a seat . . . Heavy news Reggie ‘bout to lay on ya,
mon.”
“All right, that’s it,” Brad said angrily as he backed
toward the doors, “I’ve wasted enough time in this dump!”
Reggie snapped his fingers and two burly henchmen
appeared from out of the woodwork, grabbed Brad and
shoved him down on a barstool.
“You be more comfy sitting, maz Kissel.” Reggie’s
voice was cool, comforting, yet somehow distant. “I make
sweet Slice-o-Heaven elixah for you to enjoy while we talk,
mon.” Reggie slid a tall carafe of strawberry-colored liquid
in front of him. Brad looked at it dubiously. “Bottoms up,
dude,” Reggie said, pointing a thin forefinger at Brad’s
drink. “No udder beverage here . . . just elixahs. No nasty
firewater . . . no Perrier . . . no spring water . . . no tea or
coffee . . . just this Slice-o-Heaven elixah. Take sip. I think
you’ll find it quite, um . . . spiritual, mon.”
Brad’s gaze shifted from his drink to the mysterious
barkeep. Finally he said, “Where the hell is this place
anyway? Where am I?”
Reggie emitted a churlish giggle. “You are now in land
of In-Between—the place all God’s chillun go before the
changeover . . . before the Day of Reckoning. This pub is
only one of many Last Call Lounges, mon. We be kind of
celestial chain . . . franchise that deal wid spirits of a very
different kind. But don’t worry, mon. Not so bad, you see.”

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 JEFF DENNIS
Brad looked down at the carafe in front of him. “What
the hell is in this? Heroin? Acid? Something hallucinogenic
to make you dream up this bullshit?”
Reggie kept to his soothing monotone. “Easy, maz
Kissel. No need to be so testy, mon. Don’t worry, be happy.
Try elixah. I’m sure you like. One carafe increase IQ ten
times . . . strip away inhibitions so you can see the way . . .
God’s Way.”
I’ve stumbled into some kind of weird wonderland,
Brad thought. This Reggie character is the Mad Hatter and
somewhere in the crowd lurks the March Hare and the
Dormouse. Maybe this is one of those alcohol-flashback
dreams they talk about at AA meetings. It has all those
same warped qualities.
Brad was sure he would awaken from this lunatic
dream momentarily, soaked in a cold sweat. He decided to
play along. “Now let’s see if I’ve got this straight,” he said,
“I’ve been abducted by a UFO and brought here to try out
this truth and beauty serum, after which you want me to use
my creative talents to come up with an advertising slogan.
Well, that’s no problem, Reggie . . .” Brad snapped open
his briefcase and pulled out a pen and a sheet of company
stationery. “I’ll just write out a quick ad campaign and you
can fly me back to Atlanta. I’m sure quite a few people are
wondering where I am.”
Reggie sighed. “Ever’body know where you be, mon.”
Brad quit scribbling and looked up, uncertain. “How
do you mean?”
Reggie hesitated, glancing at the untouched elixir in
front of Brad. “You’d make things more easy if you drink.”
Brad frowned and pushed the carafe away. “I’m not
touching that stuff.”
“Jolly well, mon. You want to know the hard way, I’ll

8
LAST CALL
tell you. Four moons ago you go to sleep at ten-fifteen. You
never wake up when the sun kiss the day. Now you’re here
in the In-Between, waiting for the big cyclone. To you this
be reincarnation . . . rebirth . . . life in the Hereafter.”
“Come on, Reggie.” Brad eyed the barkeep suspi-
ciously. “I’ve been off the sauce for seven months now. I
just had my annual physical, which I passed no problem.
I’ve never felt better in my life, and you’re telling me I,
um—died in my sleep?”
Reggie nodded. “That’s what it be, mon. Your heart
stop. Be thankful, maz Kissel. Quick and painless. You’re
here now in spiritual form. You’re a soul, soon you be
reassigned to ‘nudder physical form. Sometime it take a
while for right match. God uses the lounges to store souls
like fishermen uses live wells. When the right body and
situation come along, you go. Simple as that, mon.”
For the first time since entering the lounge, Brad
laughed, a mad cackle. “You’ve flipped your wig, Reggie,
or I should say your corn rows! You need a rest. A long
vacation. You’re saying I’m a ghost? If I’m a ghost why can
I feel it when I pinch myself . . . Look, I’m pinching myself
and it hurts, Reg.”
“Mebbe this will convince you.” Reggie snapped his
fingers, turning on the television above the bar.
Brad looked on in astonishment as the screen filled
with familiar faces. There was Sheila, flanked by the two
girls, who were clutching small bouquets of flowers. They
were all dressed in dark clothing, their faces wet with tears.
A melancholy funeral dirge droned from a bellowing pipe
organ. People—most of whom Brad recognized—filed past
his family, offering their most heartfelt condolences. He sat
watching for a few stunned moments, then gasped as the
camera zoomed in on a glossy mahogany coffin. The

9
 JEFF DENNIS
camera dipped over the edge and Brad saw himself lying
inside, pale and lifeless against the red satin interior. He
nearly choked as he saw that his corpse wore the same gray
Brooks Brothers suit he now wore. The camera panned
back to Sheila, who was visibly shaken.
Brad’s face drained of color. His jaw hung open.
Slowly, he got up off the stool and backed away from the
bar, his eyes never leaving the screen. “You’re all crazy,
you know that?” he screamed. “You’re all a bunch of
morbid maniacs and I want no part of you!”
The two bouncers intercepted him and brought him
back to his stool, sat him down. One of them held him still
while the other forced the strawberry Slice-o-Heaven elixir
down his throat. The crimson liquid dribbled off Brad’s
chin and splattered across the front of his suit.
Reggie watched as Brad slurped at the elixir. The
bartender snapped off the television. “This is the way it is,
maz Kissel. Your karma now is in the hands of God. Only
way out is through the back doors—Doors of Reassign-
ment. Only God knows where you’ll go . . . Only God
knows when.”
Brad loosened his tie and unbuttoned his top button.
He elbowed one of the bouncers aside and grasped the
carafe with both hands for some two-fisted drinking—just
like the old days. He drained the last of his elixir and slid
the empty carafe forward on the bar. “Hit me again, Reg.
This stuff’s tasting better with every swallow.”
The more Brad drank the more unreal he felt. Euphoria
and giddiness stroked his senses. He watched Reggie glide
around behind the bar as though the bartender hovered half
a foot above the ground. He watched a pair of cheap-
looking waitresses beat a path to and from the bar, serving
the mystical fruity-tasting elixir to patrons at the tables. He

10
LAST CALL
saw others enter the lounge in the same confused, pissed-
off manner he had, and listened as Reggie gave them the
opening orientation. Occasionally, Brad heard names
announced over a loudspeaker, and people would disappear
through the double doors behind the bar amid shouts of
encouragement. The crazy thing was, the more elixir Brad
drank, the more legitimate all of this seemed to him. Maybe
I am a spirit, he thought, watching two more disappear
through the double doors to an unknown fate. Maybe I am
about to meet my maker.
“No offense, Reggie,” Brad said when things had
slowed down, “but how did you get selected to God’s
Welcoming Committee? What makes you so special?”
“No offense taken, mon.” Reggie smiled warmly. “I
was one bad dude in my last physical life. I deal drugs
through Caribbean,” he said, a faraway look misting his
eyes. “On the day I died, I be on my boat between Bonaire
and St. Vincent, runnin’ a load of ganja up to the Virgin
Islands. The Coast Guard, they intercept me—wait ‘til we
be out of international water, try to bust us, mon. We try to
outrun ‘em, but we lose. We worse off than a leaky banana
boat since we be carryin’ more than two-hundred bales of
primo Colombian redbud. Real stupid we be, maz Kissel.
Some shots be fired, and me, I catch two slugs in me head. I
come here. God say, ‘Reginald, the coconuts, they have
fallen, mon. But I can use you here.’ God say I be good
workin’ the Last Call bars. Been here ever since. No
regrets, mon.”
“But doesn’t this place get boring?” Brad asked. “I
mean, hanging out behind the bar and serving one kind of
drink all the time has to get old fast.”
“You jivin’ me, mon? It’s never boring servin’ the
Lord. This job is my privilege, an honor. I be on a first-

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 JEFF DENNIS
name basis wid God. Get to meet many souls. I be free—no
emotional or physical pains of the flesh for me . . . Is won-
derful an’ spiritual here in the In-Between.”
Brad mulled this over. It still sounded like a boring life
to him, though the Islander did seem happy. So did the
bustling waitresses, the two gorgeous floozies he had come
to know as Amber and Ginger. Brad could hardly keep his
eyes off their long shapely legs which sprouted from
beneath skin-tight hotpants, or the generous cleavage peek-
ing over their tight tube-tops. If Reggie had been a gun-
toting drug dealer, Brad could only imagine what sinful
past lives these women had lived.
He was checking out the way Ginger’s ass moved
against the silky cocoon of her shorts when he heard his
name announced over the loudspeaker. At first it didn’t
register. Then he heard it again, and the reality of it filled
him with sudden terror.
“LAST CALL FOR BRADLEY LIVINGSTON KISSEL”
Reggie winked at him. “God be waitin’, maz Kissel.”
Brad grabbed his half-full carafe and guzzled the
remaining Slice-o-Heaven elixir. For the first time since
entering this otherworldly lounge, he wished for a fifth of
Johnnie Walker Black.
“No fear . . . don’t worry, be happy,” Reggie said,
reading his mind. “Tough part is dyin’ . . . when you separ-
ate from physical being. Trust me, mon, the rest is easy.”
Brad stood, hypnotized, and grabbed his briefcase off
the bar. In a trance, he moved behind the bar, taking baby
steps toward the swinging doors.
Behind him, several patrons interrupted their drinking
and private conversations to shout: “Good luck, Brad!” and
“We’ll see ya next time, Mr. Kissel!” He thought he also
heard a few faint strains of ‘Happy Birthday’, but he

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LAST CALL
couldn’t be certain.
Boldly, Brad pushed through the grimy doors and
found himself smothered in a thick, swirling mist. A
soothing harp blended with mellow brass and whining
woodwinds. Violins and cellos caressed his ears. Bells
chimed from somewhere in the distance. He felt a warmth
spread through him, a sense of well-being. Well, what do
you know, Brad thought, taking it all in. Miracle of miracles
. . . I actually made it to heaven.
His reverie was cut short by a strong hissing.
The foggy mists parted.
He watched as a stooped-over old woman removed a
rack of glasses from a mammoth institutional dishwasher.
This isn’t Heaven, Brad suddenly realized. The mist is
just steam from the dishwasher. And the orchestral music,
the harp . . . it’s just a bad Muzak version of Led Zeppelin’s
“Stairway to Heaven.” This is no spiritual place. It’s just
the back room of a neighborhood pub. He slouched his
shoulders, dejected.
“Not what you expected, is it, Bradley?” The old
woman turned to face him.
He could only gape. The woman was ancient. Her face
was carved with deep ridges. Patches of pink scalp showed
through steely-white hair. Her hands were gnarled and
liver-spotted, her knuckles swollen grotesquely.
“It never is . . .” she uttered through a mouth pinched
by a lack of teeth, “. . . what my children expect, that is.”
“Y-your . . . ch-children?” Brad stammered.
“Come on, Bradley,” she said, walking toward him and
removing her apron. “I don’t have time for doubters. I
know Reginald has already filled you in as to my identity.”
Brad retreated a few steps. “B-but you ca-can’t be—”
“Why not?” she said, reaching out and touching his

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 JEFF DENNIS
cheek with a twisted, lumpy finger. “I can assume any
physical form I desire. You would never recognize me in
my natural state. It would be too difficult to communicate
face-to-face.”
Brad felt an electric tingle run through his cheek and
shoot down his spine. She was close now, and he studied
her. This near she appeared even older. Her fetid breath
rattled and wheezed in her lungs. Her skin was nearly
translucent, like wadded-up parchment. Brad had never
seen anyone this old. This woman rubbing his cheek had
survived more than a few generations. She was hundreds,
perhaps thousands, of years old. Antiquity personified.
But though her physical being was used-up, there was
something about the eyes. Something magnificent. They
were intelligent, all-knowing eyes. Eyes that held all the
secrets and mysteries of creation. Eyes that expressed youth
and age, naive curiosity and infinite wisdom. Poignant,
penetrating eyes. Prismatic eyes that glimmered with the
colors of hope and life. As Brad stared into these celestial
orbs, he realized he had met his maker. He knew he was
glimpsing into the soul of God.
God removed Her hand from his face. “Better now?”
Brad could only nod.
She smiled, and he was filled with love and under-
standing. “Believe me,” God rasped, “your reaction is no
different from most. I purposely make these meetings
challenging, to test my children’s faith. We don’t have
much time, my son. Surely you must have questions for
me.”
Face-to-face meeting with God? Questions? Brad’s
mind staggered at the thought.
“I’ll help you get started,” God said. “A common one I
always hear is: with all the billions of people in the world,

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LAST CALL
how can I possibly spend time with each and every one?”
Brad found his voice. “Yeah, that crossed my mind.”
“I exist in a very different dimension and time from
you, Bradley. I can hold millions of these Last Call meet-
ings in the time it takes you to blink once. Even so, my time
is stretched thin. Besides Earth, I have two dozen other
worlds to look after. And I’m not just talking sentient life,
either. I meet with all forms of living things . . . all the way
down to the simplest cells and protozoa.”
Brad shook his head, the concept much too large for
him. “What about all the evil in the world? . . . my world,
that is. Why do you allow Satan so much leeway?”
God laughed as She grabbed another rack of glasses
from the dishwasher. “There is no Satan, my son,” She said,
steam enveloping Her. “That’s just a concept the early
Christians employed to represent evil. They refused to
believe that I could let wickedness and sin go unchecked.”
“So what are you saying? That God has a dark side?”
“No, I’m not saying that at all. I have created so much
life that I can’t keep watch over all of it all the time. Rapid
growth sometimes causes a dip in efficiency. A common
misconception is that I can be everywhere at once. Not true.
I’m powerful, but I’m not omnipresent. Some of my
children can get very peculiar ideas when I am unable to
check on them for long periods. Stalin and Hitler come to
mind. Of course, there are many more, but they are good
examples.”
“How can you not hate them? How can you forgive all
the murderers, rapists, and thieves who have ruined inno-
cent victims?”
“Hatred is so unproductive, Bradley. Like any good
parent, I love all my children and I forgive them for their
mistakes. After all, we’re talking the flaws of humanity. I

15
 JEFF DENNIS
never expect them to be perfect, though my self-righteous
fundamentalists seem to think they are . . . they think they
have some kind of an ‘in’ with me, which couldn’t be
farther from the truth, the obsequious little brown-nosers!”
She saw Brad’s shocked expression. “I’m just making a
point, my son. I love all my children, but that does not
mean certain types of behavior don’t disappoint me. Those
who waste their lives and just go through the motions
without using the unique talents I have given them irritate
me. And of course, murderers and the wide assortment of
nefarious types who do harm to others give me great heart-
burn. But they are still my children, my family. I forgive
them all when they come through here. After all, the only
way to upgrade a soul is to nurture it.”
Brad thought about Reggie. “Is that why you give Last
Call bartending jobs to drug dealers and gun runners?”
God frowned as She wiped her hands with a towel.
“You’re missing the point. Reginald was a very disturbed
individual in his last life. By giving him responsibilities
here, I have taken him out of circulation while nourishing
his damaged soul. There are thousands of Last Call
Lounges, and all the employees are children of mine who
went very far astray. All of this Last Call business is my
way of cleaning up the cosmic environment, though it’s
getting more and more difficult. There is a restlessness
throughout my household that is wearing me down. I need a
long vacation, but that’s just not possible. Who would take
my place?”
“So I guess since I didn’t kill anybody and wasn’t a
real hard case, you’re sending me on, right?”
“Yes, my son, it is time . . .” God continued to talk as
She disappeared behind the enormous dishwasher. “. . .
even though you abused alcohol and cheated on your wife,

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LAST CALL
you will be moving on.”
Brad heard God scavenging around in the back of the
room. “But what about Sheila? We had worked everything
out and things were getting so beautiful between us again. I
miss her already. And what about my girls? Melanie and
Kelly?”
“You and Sheila will cross paths again. Neither of you
will look the same or really think the same, but your souls
are forever mated. Your girls? I’m not sure. It depends on
so many factors. But I promise to do my best, Bradley.”
“Where am I going? What will I be doing?”
More rattling around behind the big stainless steel
dishwasher. “You’ll see soon enough. All I can tell you
now is that you will be born into a loving household and
will eventually make a career of astrophysics. You will be
instrumental in the first manned flight to Mars.”
“Astrophysics?” Brad said, disappointed. “But I’m not
interested in physics. I’m an ad man, all the way.”
“You were an advertising man, Bradley,” God said,
returning with a large, oddly-shaped plastic dish rack. “In
your new life you will be intensely dedicated to physics and
engineering.” She plopped the rack up on the front end of
the dishwasher, on the rubber conveyor belt. “Get in, my
son. It is time for your reassignment.”
Brad looked down at the dish rack, which was
elongated rather than square, and had a large indentation in
the center instead of slots or pegs.
God urged him on. “Come on, Bradley, get in and lie
down. This is the way it works. Trust me.”
Strange request, Brad thought. But when it comes from
the mouth of God, you believe it, no questions asked.
Brad dutifully got in the plastic rack. God touched him
on the shoulder, and immediately he began to feel different.

17
 JEFF DENNIS
The dishwasher roared to life and the conveyor belt lurched
forward. By the time his rack passed under the rubber
strips, he had forgotten everything about his meeting with
God. When the hot spray washed over his face and the
darkness gobbled him up, he began to shrink. His arms and
legs withdrew into his body until they were mere nubs. His
head became smaller. Steam and coarse brushes whipped at
him—a hurricane of heated frenzy (the cyclone Reggie had
told him about?). His Brooks Brothers suit and Gucci
loafers began to disintegrate. But Brad was not afraid. For
some reason, this all seemed natural, familiar.
In quick succession, going backward in time, Brad saw
key moments of his life play out on the silver screen of his
mind. As each brief scene concluded, the memories were
wiped clean, never to be recalled again . . .

Signing the Coca-Cola contract . . .

Sheila’s lipsticked note on the mirror . . . Call me when
you grow up!
Melanie’s second-grade play, where she played a
princess . . .
Sitting in the hospital room, holding Kelly after her
birth . . .
Lifting the veil to kiss a ravishing young Sheila at their
wedding . . .
Cap and gown graduation ceremonies at Kansas
State . . .
Playing bass and singing with the Elastic Band, his
high school rock band . . .
Sitting around a campfire on a Boy Scout camping
trip . . .
Circling the bases after hitting a Little League home
run . . .

18
LAST CALL
Riding his bicycle and tossing newspapers on his paper
route . . .
Playing with his little brother Billy, before illness
claimed him . . .
His mother and father, reading him bedtime stories . . .
Having his picture taken with Santa Claus . . .
Swatting at a mobile of winged dragons in his crib . . .
.
.
.
Happy fragments of Brad’s life zipped past in one-act
passion plays.
And then there was darkness.


THICK, GELATINOUS FLUIDS washed over him.
He sensed forward movement, like he was swimming
through a cylinder of gummy syrup.
The walls seemed to breathe, constricting and expand-
ing in a rhythmic motion, pushing him along.
Far ahead, a small pinpoint of light appeared, wavery
at first, then steadying as he pushed closer. The light
became his beacon, a lone sun on a dark horizon. As the
walls squeezed, he pushed, and the sun became brighter. He
kicked and twisted, working his way to freedom.
Another kick and a push, and his head poked through
the opening. A final twist and a squirm, and he was freed
from his sticky imprisonment.
He felt a painful twitch around his belly. He opened his
eyes, squinting in the blinding light, watching as a snaky
appendage was cut away from his pink, slippery body.
Masked faces stared at him, nodding, mumbling

19
 JEFF DENNIS
strange sounds.
Everything was so bright and shiny, foreign and
frightening.
He was handed to another masked figure, who ran a
loud sucking instrument over his nose and mouth.
He began to cry in long, pealing wails.
The sucking instrument was whisked away and he was
turned around. A tired woman smiled at him, uttered some
sounds he didn’t understand. He stopped crying for a
moment and studied her. Her expression of maternal
warmth and love transcended all barriers of spoken
communication.
He began to cry again. But this time the tears he shed
were tears of joy.
He didn’t stop crying until he started nursing.
His mother’s milk soothed him like a magical elixir.

THE END

20