Albert
looks at the clock and realizes he needs to be at work in a half
hour.
He's very upset. He needs to figure out where he's going to live.
And so he does something he's never done before. He picks up the
phone and dials Mr. Fauntleroy's number, intent on calling off
work.
When Mr. Fauntleroy recognizes Albert's voice, he says, "Why
aren't you on the road? Don't you know a storm is coming? If you
don't get on the road right now, you're going to be late for your
shift!"
Albert buckles immediately, lying, "That's why I was calling,
sir. I just wanted you to know I might be running a little late
because --"
"Because you're talking to me?" interrupts Mr. Fauntleroy.
At that moment a bolt of lighting strikes close by, causing a
clap of thunder and a crack of static through the phone.
"Is that thunder?" asks Mr. Fauntleroy.
"Yes," says Albert, hearing a gush of rain hitting the
house.
"You see what I mean?" says Mr. Fauntleroy. "I'll
bet the roads are already terrible. So why the Hell are you wasting
time talking to me when you should be on your way to work?"
"I'm leaving now, sir."
"Dumbass," says Mr. Fauntleroy. Then the phone goes
dead.
Upset, and not happy about driving in this weather, Albert puts
on his raincoat, only to discover he doesn't know where his car
keys are. He searches for over ten minutes before he finds them.
He is just leaving the apartment when the phone starts to ring.
Albert hurries back inside and picks up the phone. "Hello?"
Mr. Fauntleroy shouts, "Why haven't you left yet? Go, Go,
GO!"
Albert hangs up the phone and runs for the door.
Driving in this storm is harrowing.
When he finally gets to the Frigid Shack out on the old highway,
he's almost an hour late. The place has been abandoned. Bob --
the guy who works the shift before Albert -- didn't wait around
when his shift was over.
The telephone is ringing when Albert finally gets inside the tiny
kiosk.
He picks up the phone, knowing it's Mr. Fauntleroy. "Where
the Hell have you been?" His boss sounds especially angry.
"And why don't you have a cell phone, like every other kid
your age?"
"I've applied everywhere, sir. No network will have me."
"Well, you're almost an hour late! What if a school bus had
come along with a bunch of starving kids wanting slushies?"
Looking out through driving sheets of rain at a deserted country
intersection, Albert still doesn't bother trying to disabuse Mr.
Fauntleroy of his school bus fantasy. "You're right, sir.
I'm sorry. It's just that the weather --"
Mr. Fauntleroy interrupts, "Since you are where you should
be now, the weather is no longer my concern. Push lime and licorice
tonight. Both are near critical."
"Near critical" means the syrups in question are over
two weeks past their expiration date.
Albert sighs. "Yes, Mr. Fauntleroy."
"And don't call me again unless you spot a tornado."
Albert's boss hangs up.
Thunder crashes and rain pours.
Albert begins wiping himself down with paper towels, using all
six of the ones he's allotted per shift for his personal use.
He's worried. He knows he'll never be able to get an apartment
on his own. He'll be rejected everywhere he tries. He doesn't
have a bank account -- rejected -- or any kind of credit -- rejected
-- or even a library card, for that matter.
Albert doesn't know what he's going to do.
He steps out of the Frigid Shack, into the storm, looking up into
the pouring rain. "What am I supposed to do? I can't afford
an apartment on my own! And no one would rent to me even if I
could!" He wails, "I need money! I need --!!"
A lightning bolt strikes Albert Albert squarely on the forehead,
killing him instantly.
******
Outside the pearly gates, a stout angel -- who looks like a bearded
Edward G. Robinson -- produces a seat made of clouds and tells
Albert he'll have to wait.
For a long time, he watches as an endless parade of souls go straight
up to see Saint Peter.
No one else is made to wait.
Albert slowly realizes he's been singled out yet again.
He walks up to Edward G. Angel and asks, "Why do I have to
wait? Is there some problem?"
Incapable of lying, God's winged attendant says nothing.
"Could I please see the Angel in Charge, now? Please?"
Politeness has never worked for Albert before, but this is Heaven.
He is lead up a long flight of stairs to an even brighter spot
outside the pearly gates. There he finds Saint Peter, looking
quite perturbed.
Albert tells Heaven's doorman, "I'm ready for my final reward!"
"NOT SO FAST!"
It is the voice of God Himself. It's the loudest, most thunderous,
most authoritative, most pissed off voice Albert could ever imagine.
It's even worse than his mother's voice.
If his spirit bladder had spirit urine in it, he'd be wetting
his soul right now.
Saint Peter turns his face upward, into a shaft of bright God-light.
"Yes, My Lord?"
"NO," says Yahweh.
"But Lord, it is his time." Peter consults a long scroll
he has in his hand, nodding. "You see?" He points to
the spot in the list of names. "Today's date, Albert Albert
-- death by lightning strike."
"Lightning strike?" says Albert, a little shrilly. He
looks up at the sky and says to God, "After all the crap
I dealt with in my life, You still felt it necessary to --!"
Saint Peter puts a gentle hand on Albert's shoulder, soothing
him. Albert smells the glory of buttered peas.
Saint Peter is still looking up, unblinking, into the beams of
divine light, as he pleads Albert's case. "He's got a good
heart, my Lord. And he's lived the life of a martyr. I don't think
You've been this tough on anyone since Job."
"I DO NOT CARE!" thunders Almighty God. "I AM NOT
READY FOR HIM YET! SEND HIM BACK."
"WHAT?" shrieks Albert, no longer smelling peas. "I
don't want to go BACK! I want to stay here! I WANT PEACE!"
"SEND HIM BACK," God decrees. "HE ANNOYS ME."
Saint Peter sighs. "Very well, Lord."
Screaming, "Noooooooooooo!" Albert's soul is hurtled
back to Earth.
He awakens in an a hospital room just as his father says, "Screw
him. Pull the plug."
The beeping rhythm of machines changes. Things speed up.
A nurse says, "No, wait, doctor. He's coming out of it!"
Albert's mouth is terribly dry as he says, "No, I'm not!
Kill me again!"
Of course, his plea for euthanasia is rejected.
******
Mr. Fauntleroy visits him a couple days later, in the dead of
the night. Albert is doped up and barely conscious when his boss
gives him the document to sign.
"This," explains Mr. Fauntleroy, "is a contract
stating that, if I pay you $30,000.00 in cash, you will consider
it ample compensation for all that you've been through."
Mr. Fauntleroy shows him the check, which looks like it might
have originally been made for $35,000.00 but the five has been
overwritten with numerous zeroes. "You want thirty thousand
dollars, Bert?"
Albert grins, nods, and gurgles.
"I made the check out to Albert Albert," says Mr. Fauntleroy.
When he snorts laughter, Albert can smell not just cigarette smoke,
but also a potent amount of whiskey.
Uncle Fergie produces a pen and shows him where to sign.
After stuffing the check under Albert's pillow, Mr. Fauntleroy
takes the signed contract and says, "Business concluded."
Albert never learns the reason for Ferguson Fauntleroy's generosity
-- that a local news investigation revealed Frigid Shack kiosks
were primarily made of metal and yet none were equipped with lightning
rods. Albert could have sued Mr. Fauntleroy for millions.
Instead, he goes to a Cash America and forfeits ten percent of
his money just so he can have the other ninety percent.
He discovers Johnny was as good as his word. He burned everything
Albert owned and then gave the charred remnants to Goodwill.
As Albert is settling into a new apartment (which he only gets
by paying double rent), a reporter from the local Eyewitness News
Team finds him and asks, "How did it feel to spend almost
three years in a coma?"
To which, Albert replies, "I spent almost three years in
a coma!?!"
The segment never airs on television. Producers decide instead
to show a segment on sneezing cats.
During the taped interview, Albert is also asked, "Now that
you no longer have a job, what are you going to do with your time?"
"I don't know," is his eloquent reply.
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