One More Thing: Stories and Other Stories(6)
“Sure!” said Tim. “Why should Nana have all the fun?”
Tim and Lynn walked through the streets of heaven at sunset. A breeze blew through the pink-and-purple air. Dogs barked, birds sang. Children with old souls finally laughed lightly. Horses, bicycles, and vintage convertible cars shared the wide streets.
As Tim and Lynn got closer to the center of town, they started walking past posters: TONIGHT! BO DIDDLEY! FREE!
TONIGHT! BING CROSBY! FREE!
TONIGHT! NIKOLAI RIMSKY-KORSAKOV! FREE!
“Look at this!” said Lynn. “No wonder your nana’s out at concerts every night.”
“Ritchie Valens!”
“The Big Bopper!”
“Curtis Mayfield!”
“Sid Vicious?!”
“Debussy!”
“Is this all really free?” asked Lynn.
“Roy Orbison!” Tim pointed to a sign. “Want to check this one out?”
It was transcendent: a private concert and an arena show at the same time. None of the things that had kept them away from live-music events before had made it into heaven. No sweat or aggression in their row. No songs from the new album that the musician was overly sincere about now but would be embarrassed by in a few years. No confusion or pressure as to whether they should sit or stand or dance or put their hands in the air. The sound was impeccable. So was the stage design. They could eat, drink, smoke, make out. They had front-row seats. There were no crowds. They were literally the only people there.
After a few hits, but still at the height of the show, Tim turned to Lynn with an indulgent idea.
“Wanna just check out the next one?”
“Why not?”
They went to the stadium next door. It was also a private concert in a giant arena. Just as they walked in, John Denver launched into a blasting rendition of “Take Me Home, Country Roads.” When he finished, Tim and Lynn gave a standing ovation.
“Hello, Heaven!”
“This is amazing,” remarked Tim.
“I know! It’s almost even too perfect,” said Lynn. “Like, in a way, I would like it if there were a few people here, a little energy, you know?”
“That could be the motto for heaven,” said Tim. “ ‘Almost too perfect.’ ”
They snuck out to see the next show.
As they kept walking toward the center of the music and arts district, the streets became more and more crowded. Tim and Lynn started seeing more of all types of people, occasionally even celebrities. For example, Ricardo Montalban. He was an actor they both recognized from the television show Fantasy Island, but he wasn’t being mobbed at all. He almost looked like he wished he would be, or that at least someone would approach him to ask him a question or to pose for a picture. Tim wondered why no one was going up to talk to him and then, to try to figure it out, asked himself the same question—why wasn’t he approaching Ricardo Montalban?
Probably because there were more interesting things in heaven than Ricardo Montalban.
It must be hard being Ricardo Montalban in heaven, thought Tim.
As they got within a half mile of the center of the district, Tim and Lynn finally realized why the concerts had been so empty before.
“Look,” whispered Lynn. “Look.”
ELVIS PRESLEY! LIVE! FREE!
WOLFGANG AMADEUS MOZART! LIVE! FREE!
L. V. BEETHOVEN! LIVE! FREE!
Tim and Lynn stared in awe as people poured by the millions into stadiums bigger than they could have imagined to see the greatest artists not only of their generation but of their entire generation’s consciousness.
Hundreds of thousands of people lined up to see Miles Davis; millions to see Tupac Shakur; billions to see Michael Jackson.
“We can see anyone,” remarked Tim to Lynn. “We can see anyone, of all time.”
It was almost too much to comprehend. It was a good thing they were already used to love, or they might have fainted from the size of the feeling.
They decided on Frank Sinatra, a favorite of both of theirs, and headed into his concert.
It couldn’t have been any more of a thrill. Sinatra was at the top of his game. He opened with “The Best Is Yet to Come,” and a crowd of seven hundred million chanted along. Then a song they had never heard before—“a new one,” Sinatra warned, making everyone nervous—but it was as good as one of the classics, and they had heard it first. Then “My Way.” Then “Fly Me to the Moon.” Then “New York, New York.” Then “One for My Baby.”
“Now, here are a few songs whose artists haven’t made their way to heaven yet,” intoned Sinatra in the same soothing, ever-knowing voice he’d had in life, made even more poignant here, as he stroked the quaintly unnecessary cord of his microphone. “I hope they won’t mind me giving you a little preview, keeping the songs warm for them.” And then Tim and Lynn took in the soul-expanding sight of Frank Sinatra covering the hits of Bruce Springsteen, Radiohead, Coldplay, and Beyoncé. Heaven cared not for the limits of era.
After five hours and nineteen encores full of more of his own hits, the concert finally drew to a close. Tim kissed Lynn, and she kissed him back. They felt like they were in heaven. They were, of course; but they felt like it, too.
Still, even after all that, they didn’t want the show to end, and when they looked down, they realized what was hanging around their necks: backstage passes, all access, VIP.