The Senator at the Gates

This is a work of fiction. Any characters resembling any persons alive or dead are entirely intentional.

One last beep rang out as darkness overtook the Senator’s view of his empty hospital room. In his last moment he could see the empty chairs around the expensive suite. He always had thought the chairs would be full in this last moment — that his family would be gathered around him, singing his praises as he passed on to the next world. But he died alone.

In breathless silence he began to grow accustomed to nothingness. It was much quieter than anything he’d ever experienced before. He couldn’t even hear the blood pumping through his body. There was blood there still, he knew, but he supposed that to hear it pumping he’d need a working heart. Being dead, Senator Mitchell didn’t have a working heart and as such this empty expanse of nothing was absolutely, 100% silent.

His thoughts felt foggy, like the pain medication the nurses had given him was still swirling around in there, dulling everything. Still, he tried to think. As a Christian, he had assumed that there would be something, so it was rather confusing to him that there didn’t seem to be something. But if there isn’t something, then why was he aware of the nothing?

Just as he began to become truly confused, he realized that he could open his eyes.

Light flooded back into his senses. “So, I’m not dead?” he asked, hoping for the nurse to reply that he was merely sleeping and that his family was here to visit him now. As his eyes adjusted again to light, he envisioned all the loving, care-worn faces gathered around him.

“No, you are dead,” replied a man in a warm yet matter-of-fact way.

The senator looked around as his eyes adjusted. It was very white, and exceptionally fluffy. It took him a moment to recognize the surroundings as being cumulous clouds. In front of him, at a solid gold lectern engraved with images of harps, stood a man dressed in flowing white robes with a long grey beard tucked into the golden cording that tied his robes shut. Behind the man, rising out of the clouds, stood ornate gates made out a whiteish, almost iridescent material.

“Oh wow,” the senator said, “I’m in Heaven.”

Saint Peter peered down his nose at the senator. “Technically, you’re outside Heaven right now.”

“So how does this work? Do I get to pick out my house? I’m very particular about architecture, and I’ll need a staff of course.”

The saint put up his hand to stop him. “Mr. Mitchell, first we need to determine if you belong here or if you’ll be staying downstairs.” He cracked open the large book that sat on the lectern.

Senator Mitchell’s mouth hung open. “You have to check!? Of course I’m getting into Heaven,” he said, his voice dripping with indignation.

“I take my job very seriously,” replied the saint, “I don’t mean to offend, of course, everyone must be thoroughly reviewed,” he said as if reading off a script. “Especially politicians,” he added under his breath.

“Well, you don’t have to look to hard to see that I was a good, Christian man.” He puffed out his chest proudly. “Every deed I’ve done was to further God’s plan and make the country the one that He had ordained.”

“Ah, here we are,” Saint Peter exclaimed as he landed on an entry in the book. “Addison Conroy Mitchell, born 1942. Oh, I see…” he trailed off.

Senator Mitchell frowned. “Is something the matter?”

“Didn’t you just say something about being a good Christian?”

“Well, yes. Of course. Read my Bible every day and treated all women and minorities like garbage. Just like God wanted.”

Saint Peter looked baffled. His eyes darted from the book to the grinning old man standing before him and back. “I’m sorry, are you certain it was a Bible you were reading? Now, I’m not the big man of course, but I do like to think I know a little something about morality, and ‘good’ doesn’t exactly apply to anything in this file.”

“I don’t understand,” the senator said, “I denied poor people healthcare, didn’t I?”

“Well, yes.”

“And I laughed at the deaths and financial troubles of millions of people.”

“That’s also true,” replied the saint.

“And I took rights away from women.”

Saint Peter closed his book and stared in shock at the shriveled little toad of a man pleading his case before him.

Senator Mitchell continued rattling off the list of his deeds, “I always made sure to help the rich get richer. I rigged elections to keep myself in power. I championed legislature that ravaged Black communities. And I always, always defended white terrorists and gun manufacturers.” He looked so proud.

Saint Peter rubbed the bridge of his nose and thought it unfair that he could get a headache. “Yeah, you’re absolutely right. You certainly did all that and more.”

“So why am I standing out here? Where’s my mansion? And my underpaid, subservient staff? And some gold would be nice too.”

“Senator Mitchell,” began the saint, “I’m going to try to put this in terms that you will understand. You will not be getting into Heaven.”

“But all my good deeds!”

“From what I can see, the only good deed you ever did was die before you could do anything else. Now, please, if you’ll just take three steps backward the chute will deliver you down to where you belong.”

Senator Mitchell’s face was beet red, wrinkles and all. “This is an outrage! I demand you let me inside this minute!”

Saint Peter smiled. “No,” he said.

The senator was shaking with anger, but he took a deep, calming breath and reached into his pocket. He pulled out a thick white envelope. “Very well, I know how this works,” he said. He opened the envelope and ran his thumb across all the hundred dollar bills stuffed inside. He took a step forward and placed the envelope on the ornate golden lectern, sliding it towards Saint Peter.

“Just a gift for you,” he said with a wink, “for all your hard work. Now, I think I’ll just be going ahead into my rightful place in the Kingdom of Heaven.”

Saint Peter, without breaking his line of sight on the senator, slid the envelope of cash off the lectern and into a wastebasket that miraculously appeared at his feet. As the envelope hit the bottom of the bin it exploded into flames and burned to a crisp.

“Senator Mitchell?”

“Yes?”

Saint Peter smiled. “Go to Hell.”