Enraptured at the Pearly Gates

I’d been raptured. Damn.

Yeah, yeah, all right, I know. I shouldn’t have been shocked. It’s not as if we hadn’t been warned. Since the Hamas/Israel conflict had heated up in November 2023—with the possibility of a two-state solution brokered by the anti-Christ himself—the Rapture had been the talk of the white-evangelical town. But …

But a lot of other crap was supposed to happen first, and anyway, how many times had we been warned? I’d lost count. So had you. So had everyone.

I barely had time to grab my Go Bag—stuffed with clothes and cash—before I felt myself lifted through the air. And okay, they said we wouldn’t need money, but I’ve never been in a situation where it wasn’t an advantage.

I continued to ascend. The air was chilly, but I couldn’t exactly go back for a parka. I wished this was going a little faster, but: wishes, horses, et cetera.

I should’ve paid more attention at Bible Camp when they talked about the Rapture, but the lectures had been all Thessalonians—with a hint of Revelations—all the time, and, as far as I was concerned: TL;DR. God really needed a better editor.

I rose further. I figured there’d be scads of us, but I was—apparently—alone. Maybe I couldn’t see them because it was so dark, which was good in a way, because I was only wearing the oversized t-shirt that subbed as a nightgown. No money shots would be provided for the Great Unsaved left below.

L.A. was getting further away, and I started to gasp. How high was this? I wasn’t getting enough oxygen. I was going to—

I came to lying in a gutter, surrounded by cigarette butts. A stinging fog made everything fuzzy. But in front of me was some kind of convenience store, topped by a neon sign.

PEARLY GATES MINI-MART

24 HOUR SHOPPING

Nothing else was on the horizon. Or—if anything was there, it was lost behind mist and darkness. If there’s nowhere else to go, you go to what’s there. Particularly when it’s brightly lit and might be, you know, warm. I stood up, pulling the t-shirt down as far as it would go, and approached the door.

A buzzer sounded as I entered, but no one was inside except for the guy at the register.

“Hey,” he said. “Welcome. Name’s Sam. And you are?”

“Anita O’Day.”

“Huh. Your parents named you after an old-time jazz singer?”

“No, they had no idea.”

“Secluded, were you? So many folks who show up have that background—”

“Can you hold that thought a minute? Is there somewhere I can go, put on some dry clothes?”

“Sure thing. Restrooms are over there. Here’s the key.” He handed me a normally sized key attached to a piece of wood almost the size of a two-by-four.

The bathroom was like any other at a mini-mart. I washed up, but no paper towels were left in the dispenser. I ran my wet hands on my jeans and called it good.

“You’re out of paper towels,” I said, back at the register and now fully clothed.

“Okay, I’ll take care of it. Thanks for letting me know.”

“So now what happens? Is there a test of some kind?”

“No, it’s not like that. There’s a bowling alley in the back.”

I was startled by this random remark. “What would I want with a bowling alley?”

“Where there’s a bowling alley, there’s usually a bar. Just sayin’.”

“Gotcha.”

#

The bar was a cave: no windows, no exit to the street. I could hear the sound of balls crashing into pins, although nobody had been playing when I walked through.

The bartender was Sam.

“How the—” I began.

“That’s my superpower. I can be in two places at once. What can I get you?”

“Gold Cadillac.”

He smirked. “Don’t drink much, do you?”

“How’d you know?”

“Drinks that don’t taste of liquor are an instant tip off … At least it wasn’t a Strawberry Daiquiri.”

“You need some ID?”

“Nope, we can skip that. Sure, I can fix you a Gold Cadillac, but it’ll cost you—ten bucks. Sin tax, you know. Wine is free, but I gotta warn you, it’s the kind they serve at Communion.”

It took me a minute to decipher “sin tax,” hearing it as “syntax.”

“Communion wine?”

“Yeah, it’s godawful. Only the pricey congregations get the good stuff.” He mixed my drink and set it down. “You want to pay or run a tab?”

“I’ll pay.” I dug a twenty out of the bag and handed it over. “What else costs money?”

“Smokes. Crap games. Hookers and blow.”

“Hookers? Here?”

“Everywhere, aren’t they? Hey, you want a cigarette? First one’s on the house.”

“No thanks.”

“You sure? They can’t kill you here.” I shook my head. “Mind if I do?” I shook again. “So, Ms. O’Day, what else can I do for you?” he asked, lighting up.

“I don’t know. Don’t you?”

“Anita O’Day. Tough name for anagrams.”

“What?”

“You know, you rearrange the letters, see what Fate has in store for you. But you … all I can come up with is ‘an iota day,’ and honestly, that makes no sense. Or ‘any aid to a—’, and that leaves the answer way up in the air. Got a middle name?”

“No. Are the anagrams important? What are yours?”

“I got lots of ’em: ‘sea swims,’ ‘wise mass,’ and ‘I was mess,’ to name a few.” He rubbed his chin. “That last one is certainly true.”

“And do those … help you see your fate?”

He laughed. “I think my fate’s already sealed. You, on the other hand … You’re still single, right? How’d you manage that?”

“Ran away at seventeen. My parents—well, my dad—had someone lined up. He was …”

“Older? Eyes too close together?” I nodded. “They’re mostly like that. Fundies … catch ’em young and keep ’em dumb seems like the motto. So you flew the nest?”

“That’s right. I stay in contact with Mom; she keeps it from Dad.”

“She the one who told you about the Rapture?” I nodded again. “Being on your own … How’s that working out?”

“Tough at first—panhandling is not fun—but then someone steered me to a shelter. They were … nice. It was the first time—”

“The first time what?”

“The first time I’d seen religion not used as a mallet. They had religious services, but no one made you attend. Everyone was welcome, even atheists.”

He was the one to nod this time. “More New Testament than Old? Surprising, isn’t it? Then what happened?”

“I got a job waiting tables. On my birthday, the other waitresses gave me Lotto tickets. One of them was a winner.”

“No kidding? How much?”

“Three K. I offered to share with the others, but they said no, no, pay it forward. But I—never got around to it. Is that why I’m here? Because this isn’t heaven, is it? And you’re not God.”

“No, not by a long shot. Getting down to brass tacks, huh? So, here’s the deal. You go out to the lanes and play a game. Or you stay here …”

“Stay here and what?”

“See who—or what—comes through the door.”

“And that might be—”

“Hard to say. Might be Cthulhu. Might be Bigfoot. Might be Santa or the Angel Gabriel. You pays your money and you takes your choice.”

“I can’t bowl worth a damn.”

“Then let me get you another drink.” He’d poured out my drink when his cell phone chirped. He stared at a text and punched some keys.

“Hey, listen,” he said, putting the phone in his pocket. “I gotta go—delivery truck’s on the way—”

“Does anybody ever buy anything?”

“Now and then. Bourbon, mostly. You want me to turn the TV on?”

“Will the TV help ward off Bigfoot?”

“Nah, it only works on Martian dudes.”

“Martians are in the mix?”

“Probably not, but you gotta see what you’re gonna be, you know?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Just roll with it.”

#

I sipped at my drink—getting tipsy was a bad idea—and the silence closed down like a tent. No sounds came from the bowling alley: no rumbling balls, no tumbling pins. Everything was totally, horribly still.

I’d gotten up to look for the TV remote—or better yet, a radio—to take the edge off, when a man in a suit came in. He looked harried.

So much for Cthulhu. It was sort of a letdown.

“Are you looking for me?” I asked.

“Anita O’Day?”

“Right.”

“I’m Wes S. Amis—believe me, I know, too many esses; what were my parents thinking? —from Administrative Services. Pleased to meet you.” He sat at a table and motioned for me to do the same. “One or two questions, then we’ll know where we are. No need to worry. Eligibility stuff. Ever bitten anyone on the jugular?”

“Dear God, no.”

“No wild attacks at all?” I shook my head. “Ever taken a sewer tour? Painted any trains?” More vehement shaking. “Then you’re good to go. Here’s your pass.”

He passed a laminated card across the table.

“A pass to what?”

“To whatever lies beyond.”

“You don’t know?”

“I’ve never inquired. Not my department.”

“How sad.”

“Does it strike you that way? I’ll have to think about that. Anyway, duty calls—”

“Will Sam be back?”

“I imagine so. Have a good night.”

Once he’d disappeared, the noise from the lanes returned. Who was bowling out there? Might as well take a look.

I ran into Sam in the doorway.

“Hey, sorry I had to vamoose. Being in two places at once doesn’t work so hot if I’m unloading boxes. And you never know when someone might need Vienna sausages and Kraft cheese on toast on a drizzly night.” He made for the bar and I followed.

“That sounds disgusting.”

“Surprisingly popular in this neck of the woods. Anybody come by?”

“Someone from Administrative Services.”

“Oh, him. Part of the bureaucracy.”

“You have that here?”

“Sure thing.”

“He asked me some very odd questions, and he gave me this,” I told him, passing over the card.

He grinned. “He hit you with the one about painting a train? That’s a favorite.” He examined the card. “No restrictions … Congrats. You can go anywhere you want.”

“Where is there to go?”

“Well, the choices are kinda limited …”

“Sam, what is this place?”

“Once upon a time, it was the Pearly Gates: St. Peter, the book, the whole works … but God felt the neighborhood was getting distasteful: too many rich Republicans. He couldn’t turn ’em away—they’d been baptized—but He didn’t like ’em. Eventually, He upped and moved … He used to grumble, but no one thought he’d actually do it.”

“So how do people get to heaven?”

“Dunno. Not from here.”

“So what are my choices?”

“You can stay here, for one.”

“With them?” I tilted my head toward the lanes. “Bowling for Eternity?”

“That about sums it up.”

“I don’t think I’d fit in.”

“Yeah, maybe not. You vote for Biden?”

I said I had.

“Yeah, okay. You need somewhere different. Tell me about your dreams. Not your life dreams; the ones you have when you’re asleep.”

“I dream about elevators a lot.”

“That’s a new one. What happens?”

“I need to go to the thirteenth floor, but the elevator I get into only goes up to six. Or the doors open about five inches, and it’s a dead end, anyway. Or I get out, and there’s just one of those little Juliet balconies, you know? And no stairs.”

“That sounds familiar. I used to dream about being in airport terminals, and I was at the wrong gate, or all the flights had been cancelled, and the bar was aways closed. I take it you’re feeling stuck?”

“I’ve been waiting tables for four years, and …”

“You want something more? Understandable. All right: here’s your picks. If you leave the market and go left, you’ll find a ruined city …”

“What’s it like?”

“Been abandoned for years. Lived there myself for a while, but I couldn’t stand the climate: colder than that brass toilet seat in Siberia. And the architecture—what’s left of it—is so … monumental. Colossal. Kinda eerie, frankly.”

“Sounds like a pass. What’s on the right?”

“Woods. Fairies and elves and whatnot.”

“That sounds okay.”

“They’ve all got damn sharp teeth, though. And these super long nails.” He glanced at me, looking embarrassed. “Maybe I’m painting it too black.”

“You’re not doing a great PR job, no. I can freeze in the City Ruinous or be torn to shreds by freaking elves? What about across the street?”

“Nothing.” He wiped a glass nonchalantly. But he’d said it too—quickly? Or too sneakily? —and I thought, huh, he’s lying. “Or like I said, you can stay here.”

“You’re being a little less than forthcoming, aren’t you?”

He ran a hand through his hair. “That’s the polite way to put it.”

“Maybe I should go find out.”

“I can’t stop you, ’cause you’ve got the pass, but … you sure?”

“Yup.”

“Want one for the road?” I shook my head. “No? Then let’s get you an umbrella. It’s raining cats and dogs.”

“Figures.”

We moved into the mini-mart—the racket stopped as we stepped into the bowling alley, but started again as soon as we left—and Sam hunted for an umbrella.

“Here you go,” he said, handing over one patterned with polar bears. “Want a poncho, too?”

“No, this’ll be fine. But, Sam, tell me—why are you still here?”

“I’m not supposed to say, but—oh, what the hell, right? —I’ll be the last to leave, once we close up shop for good. That’s my destiny: to be free only after all the stellae take flight.”

I’d been homeschooled by my mom, who’d dropped out of high school when she got pregnant. So I basically didn’t know shit, but that rang a bell. It was Lucifer who stayed behind, in Greek myth, until all the stars in the Heavens had dimmed.

“You’re Lucifer?”

“Got it in one.”

Holding the umbrella pointed toward him, I backed toward the door. “But I thought—I thought God—that He—”

“Oh, the quarrel? We made it up. That’s how I got out of the ice palace.” I was still backing away. “Hey, I’m not as bad as I’m cracked up to be. I wasn’t bad at all until you Christians got your hands on me; I was the morning star, damn it. What I do now is sell Doritos and shake martinis. Lots of fallen angels have it worse.” He pushed the door, holding it open for me. I popped open the umbrella and walked through.

“Good luck to you,” he said. “Don’t get lost. If you come back, I’ll show you my wings.”

I giggled as the door closed; his remark had sounded risqué.

He’d been right about the rain. Buckets.

I walked forward and stepped off the curb, and the blackness hugged me as if it would never let me go. The lights from the mini-mart were gone: just this rain, just this darkness.

I forged ahead. Should I run? I didn’t like that plan—not with such poor visibility—but I didn’t want to be mowed down by a delivery truck, either. I crept onward until I heard music, very faint, from somewhere up ahead. I shuffled further toward the sound and lights suddenly sprang up: a building, the spit-and-image of the mini-mart. Had I gotten turned around? But no … something was different. The neon sign now read:

GREASY PLATE DINER

COCKTAILS & DANCING

Who would name a diner the Greasy Plate? I mean if you were going Full-On Ironic, wouldn’t you call it the Greasy Spoon?

As I approached, I noticed another difference. The big plate-glass windows revealed a few patrons clustered around a bar, similar to that Hopper painting that turns up everywhere. I thought: must be the place.

#

“Howdy, miss,” the bartender said. “Can I get you somethin’ to drink? Ain’t got no food left, though; those folks in the back et it all up.”

The music was louder here inside, and I recognized the voice: Debbie Harry. “Why were they so hungry?”

“Got some kinda rave goin’ on back there. Works up an appetite, I guess. They’d be takin’ bites out of cars if there was any. They be crazy.” He rolled his eyes. “So, what’s your poison?”

“Gold Cadillac.” I reached for my bag.

“Nah, nah. Put your money away. Ain’t no sin tax here.” He surveyed the bottles behind him. “Huh. Whaddya know? I’m fresh outta Galliano. I’ll haveta fetch a bottle from the stockroom. Won’t take more’n a second.”

He exited and I looked at my fellow barflies. Except … they weren’t; they were waxworks, with that weird appearance. Not Uncanny Valley, not hyper-realism, but whatever it is that makes them creepy as fuck.

I was still examining them when he came back, swinging a golden bottle.

“Been getting acquainted with the regulars?” he asked. “Yeah, I know; they ain’t real. But they keep me from feeling lonesome-like, while everyone’s cutting a rug out back.” He fixed my drink and slid it across. “Guess we ain’t been properly introduced. Isa S. Mews, at your service. And you?”

“Anita O’Day.”

“Whoa! You shoulda come in here sayin’ ‘Waiter, Make Mine Blues.’” He laughed. “Don’t know that one? It’s one of hers. Pretty good, too, although she ain’t a singer I admire over much. Hope you ain’t offended.”

“No …” Something was nagging at a corner of my brain. “So … this is the Greasy Plate? That’s an anagram for Pearly Gates, isn’t it? My God, is this the same place?”

“Nah, nah. They be preachy over there. All goody two shoes, you know what I’m sayin’? Here, well, anything goes. So you gots to choose.”

“No … I don’t think I do.” I took a breath and exhaled. “There’s nobody dancing in the back, is there? Like there weren’t any bowlers across the street. Not even rich Republicans. Not unless they’re all ghosts.”

“No, ain’t no spooks here. They just all … moved on. You wasn’t supposed to catch on so quick.”

“But that’s not all, is it? Your name is Isa S. Mews?” He tilted his head affirmatively. “It’s another anagram, isn’t it? You’re Sam.”

“Aw, damn and blast,” he said, transforming from an elderly Southern gent into the Sam I’d seen at the Pearly Gates: early-thirties, dark hair, good-looking in an understated way.

Well, except for the dark wings sprouting from vents in the shoulders of his jacket, as glossy as a crow’s. Those were pretty flamboyant.

He grinned at my staring. “Told you I’d show ’em to you. How’d you figure it out?”

"‘I am mess’ sounds a lot like Isa S.”

“Feeling clever, aren’t you?”

“Not very, no. Were you the admin guy, too?”

“Who? Wes? Sure. I told you I could be in two places at once, right?”

“You didn’t mention changing your appearance. Was anything you said true? About the ruined city and the forest?”

“Well, no. They were here, but when God left, they went too.”

“So … why rapture me at all? And why just me? I wasn’t a random pick, was I? You chose me.”

“Woof. You want to know a lot.”

“Wouldn’t you?”

“You kind of got me there. How’s this? God was curious; wanted to know if a very limited Rapture was possible. A mini-Rapture. You were a good candidate.”

“I was an experiment? Glad I could satisfy His curiosity, but now what?”

“You can stay here, or you can go back to being a waitress, with no harm done. That what you want?”

“It’s not Shangri-La, no. But at least there’s some variety. I can window shop, or roller blade on the Venice boardwalk, or get a haircut. You’re not offering much here, are you? A bowling alley and a dance hall, but with no actual people, right? Just … sound effects.”

“All right. Here you go.”

He waved his hand, and celestial wonders appeared: nebulae, black holes, and galaxies far, far away. Botany and Astronomy were the sciences my mother had allowed me to study; she thought them less likely to lead me astray, religion-wise. Oh, Mom, if you could see me now.

At least the Astronomy meant I knew what I was seeing.

“So, what do you think? Want to go for it?” he asked.

“Wait, what? With you? We just met.”

He sighed and looked disappointed. “It’s a left swipe, then?”

“Like on Tinder? Well, yeah.”

“Okay. Text me if you change your mind.”

#

Nine months down the line, I was at the Skyhawk Grill, saying “You want home fries with that, or hash browns? How about toast? Wheat, white, or sourdough?”

“Uh … Home fries. Sourdough. And more coffee, please.”

“Coming right up.” I fetched the pot and topped him up. “Anything else I can get you?”

“Not unless you’ve got a stairway to paradise.”

I laughed and ambled over to the kitchen hatch with the order. I liked working the morning shift: the tips weren’t as large, but the customers weren’t as nasty.

“I’m gonna take five, all right?” I called through the hatch. The cook nodded; it would be more than five minutes before the order was up. I went outside to find Teddy, the manager, deadheading plants.

“Hey, Anita,” he said. “Things okay in there?”

“Hey, Teddy. Yeah. A customer mentioned a stairway to paradise.” He looked an inquiry. “I climbed what I believed was that stairway, once.”

He stared at me. “Seriously?”

“Yup. Wasn’t what I was expecting. Heaven is—mostly—empty, or this part was.”

“Huh. It’s supposed to be hell that’s empty, because all the devils are here. Sure about where you went?”

“No, but it was way up in the sky.”

“Well, shit. You regret coming back?”

“Sometimes.”

“You’re doing fine,” he said, tugging on my braid before drifting off to another deadheading opportunity.

That was true: I’d gotten my GED, took classes at the local community college, and was managing the basics: paying rent, buying groceries, saving—painfully—for a car. Getting my life together, even if progress was on the slow side.

I practiced some four-square breathing before going back in.

“Table nine,” Caitlin told me. She was on hostess duty today.

“Got it.”

Table nine was Sam. “How’s it going?” he asked.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“Wanted to check in. Haven’t heard from you for a while.”

“The six-six-six area code freaked me out.”

He winced. “That was a stupid affectation. Oops.”

I recalled what Teddy had said. “Are all the devils here?”

“No, just me, and the ones you guys create all by yourselves.”

“I need to check on an order. Sit tight, okay?”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“You want coffee?” He nodded; I delivered the order and went back to Sam with the pot.

“Can you sit down?” he asked.

The Skyhawk was a laid-back place; even the waitress who had endless conversations about baseball didn’t get hassled, so I sat.

“What’s been happening at the Pearly Gates?” I asked.

“Dunno. God kicked me to the curb. He can be a little … mercurial.”

“What happened?”

He sighed. “We got into an argument. Yeah, I know. Another. He doesn’t mind yelling, but He minds being yelled at. I yelled.”

“What was this one about? You didn’t try to—”

“Challenge Him? Nah. Been there, done that, got the t-shirt … He gave me six months’ notice, which was nice, considering.” He squinted. “Oh, Christ. I remember now. Original sin. Gehenna. You.”

I didn’t give a shit about original sin—I’d heard about it plenty, and it always seemed like such an odd concept—and didn’t want to talk about me.

“What’s Gehenna?”

“It’s a Hebrew or Yiddish word—I forget which—means a dark place. Some people think it’s the Jewish version of hell, but Jews don’t believe in hell. Atonement, yes. Eternal damnation, no. God was peeved when I told Him the Jewish take on the afterlife was more in line with Christian values than the Christian one.”

“Oh dear.”

“Yeah, he didn’t take it well. Doddering old fool. Then He made it personal—said I’d mismanaged hell, and I retorted that all the ice made running things impossible, and it went downhill from there. Finished up with Him bitching about my not even being able to hang onto you, and I blew my stack … Ah well. All good things—and bad ones—come to an end. And now, here I am. Figured I should see what all the noise was about.”

“You’re here for good? You must be joking.”

“Didn’t have many alternatives. Cost me the wings, too. Suit jackets fit better without ’em, though.”

“I always wondered why angels had wings and arms. Shouldn’t it be one or the other?”

“God gets extravagant, sometimes.”

Many Old Testament stories came rushing back. I didn’t think extravagant was the right word, but lots of them are pretty far out there.

“So what are you going to do here?”

“Thinking about buying a bowling alley. Stick to my knitting and all that. I hear the one down on Venice might be on the market. And, of course, learning to live as a mortal. It’s damn confusing.”

“You gave up immortality, too?”

“Who wants to live forever?”

“No one.”

“Not even Chris Lambert. It’s kind of a relief, truly. Like the wings. Flying is hard work. Strains muscles you didn’t even know you had.”

“No shit?”

“Yeah, it’s a pain in the ass. Um … not literally.”

“Okay …” I stood and took out my order pad. “Do you want something to eat?”

“Sure. A bacon cheddar omelet.”

“Bacon? Somehow, I thought from what you said about Gehenna—and your last name—that you must be Jewish.”

“Did I tell you my last name?”

“Given your anagrams, only one was likely.”

“Aha. Well, yeah, maybe I was, a long time ago. But now, why the hell not, and anyway, God doesn’t care about that crap.”

“What does God care about?”

“Getting His beard trimmed. Wanting pop music to use the black keys on the piano more. Twitter.”

“He sounds bored. Wait. Twitter?”

He nodded. “Can’t remember His handle, but He’s got millions of followers. Only follows one.”

“I’m afraid to ask.”

“Probably wise.”

“I mean, it’s not Trump, is it?”

“No, no one that bad.”

“Couldn’t God … smite that asshole or something?”

“He gave up smiting. For Lent. Doesn’t interfere anymore. We’re on our own.”

“Huh. Let me go put your order in. You want anything else? Juice?”

“Just more coffee.”

#

Teddy was standing by the serving hatch, talking to the cook.

“That guy bothering you, Anita?” Teddy asked.

“No, he’s a … an acquaintance.”

“You interested?”

“Well … He’s got sort of a checkered past.”

That made him snort. “Don’t we all?”

“Him more than most.”

“Well, you know the old saying: better the devil—”

The cook interrupted—something about queso—before he could finish. I pinned up Sam’s order, grabbed a fresh pot of coffee, and left them to it.

Sam got his coffee refill, but after that things got busy. When Sam’s order was ready, I carried it over to table nine.

To find … nobody. Sam was gone. Both Teddy and Caitlin had seen him, so I hadn’t hallucinated the whole episode, but … man. If steam could’ve blown out of my ears, it would’ve. Although this antic was unusual: most folks, if they’re planning to dine ’n’ dash, wait until they’ve actually eaten. The end result was the same, though. A tab and nothing to pay it with.

Until I noticed the hundred-dollar bill peeking out from the menu.

I released the pent-up steam and totaled his bill. Under twenty bucks. That meant a huge tip. I got a take-out box and stuffed the omelet inside. Someone—maybe my roommate—would appreciate a free meal. I was heading toward the kitchen to stick it in the fridge until my shift ended, when one of the busboys shoved something into my free hand.

“For you. I think. In menu,” he said—in English, since my Spanish was crap—and pointed at Sam’s vacant table.

“Oh. Gracias.”

It was a note:

Hey, Eve Bold,

Sorry I ran out on you, but you know how it goes: places to go, people to see, and miles to go before—well, maybe not that last one.

You want to meet for dinner? At the bowling alley? There’s a diner and a bar. Just need to squeeze in a dance hall and a mini-mart. It’ll be perfect.

See you at seven,

Sam

Eve Bold? Who the hell was Eve Bold? Had he forgotten my name? And could the bowling alley/diner really be perfect without the moldering waxworks?

Eve Bold was probably another anagram, but I was too rushed to work it out.

Maybe later.

The End

BIO: Carlotta Dale lives in Los Angeles, a city she adores from the top of her head to the soles of her feet, in a house that’s essentially an oversized cabinet of curiosities. She still uses adverbs—sparingly—and her novelette, The Parrots Come Again, is available on Amazon (Alien Buddha Press). Dale has also had short stories published in Punk Noir Magazine, Pistol Jim Press, Literary Garage, Alien Buddha Press, and Bristol Noir. She can be found on Twitter @carlottadale38 and on BlueSky @carlottadale.bsky.social.