“What do you mean, I’m not being admitted to heaven?’’ I demanded of the celestial bureaucrat who greeted me at the security checkpoint outside the waiting room to get into the registry hall to sign up for the angelic inspection that was required before being admitted to the Divine Presence for final approval and an I.D. card valid for eternity.

“That tone is quite unnecessary, sir,’’ the winged official said frostily.

“Listen. . . .’’ I looked at her nametag. “Listen, Lucy—’’

“Saint Lucy the Chaste, if you please. I find that it’s best to keep things formal when dealing with petitioners for entry into the afterlife.’’

“But I’m already in the afterlife!’’ I said. “I’m dead. I swear to God.’’

She flinched. “We don’t do that here, sir.’’

“Sorry,’’ I said.

“Try not to let it happen again.’’

“Look, I’m here because I died, Saint Lucy, so how can I be a petitioner—’’

“Saint Lucy the Chaste,’’ she said firmly.

“That’s quite a mouthful.’’

She arched her brows. “Nonetheless . . .’’

I silently begged God for patience. “My point is, my life is over, I’m dead, so this is after my life. You know: afterlife. I’m here already.’’

“No, you are currently making the transition between your life and eternity,’’ she said, as if speaking to a particularly slow-witted child. “And in order to enter the afterlife, you’re going to have to fill out the correct application for an entity of your classification and be routed to the right department.’’

“But isn’t heaven the right department, Saint Lucy?’’ Seeing her frown, I added, “Er, the Chaste. Tell me, what do your friends call you?’’

“I’m afraid it’s going to be several millennia before you find out. According to my records . . .’’ She flipped through some pages attached to the clipboard she carried. “You’re scheduled to go to holding for the next ten thousand of your earth years.’’

“ ’Of your earth years’?’’ I repeated. “You sound like someone from a Star Trek episode.’’

“Do you want me to give it to you in metric time?’’

“What’s metric time?’’ I asked.

“Perhaps you see my point.’’

“Oh. Yes. Okay.’’ I frowned. “But . . . ten thousand years? I think that must be a mistake.’’

“On the contrary. In eternity, that’s a mere drop in the bucket. And He Who Rules On High has determined that it’s a fair penalty for your sins.’’

“What are you talking about?’’ I said.

“The Maker of All Things has judged that you should spend ten thousand years meditating upon your misdeeds before your application to heaven can be considered.’’

“My misdeeds? Oh, wait a minute! Is this because I didn’t pay that parking ticket?’’

“Hmmm . . .’’ Saint Lucy the Chaste flipped through her paperwork again. “Unpaid parking ticket, unpaid parking . . . Yes, here it is. Listed under Moral Infractions, Minor.’’

“No way!’’ I said. “That was a totally bogus ticket! I was in a store, only twenty feet away, getting change for the parking meter, when some cop came along and started writing that ticket! And when I got back to the car and explained, he wouldn’t stop writing the ticket! Wouldn’t even acknowledge my presence! It was completely unfair!’’

“Nonetheless, the Lord God Almighty is a supporter of law and order (he’s also a fan of that clever TV show, though he doesn’t like the spin-offs as much), and you were unquestionably in the wrong when you chose not to pay that ticket.’’

“Unquestionably? How can you say that?’’

“The Master of the Universe judges that you were wrong. Therefore, you were wrong,’’ the chaste saint said. “And you’re going into holding.’’

“’Holding?’ What does that mean? Limbo?’’

The saint rolled her beatific eyes. “We don’t have limbo anymore. Don’t you keep up on current events?’’

“Oh, right. I guess I heard about that in the news while I was still alive.’’

Lucy the Chaste shook her head in exasperation. “The Vatican gets a whim, and we have to shut down an entire dimensional plane. You have no idea how much red tape is involved.’’ She sighed. “I really hate popes.’’

“Then I guess you mean I’m going to purgatory?’’

“Bingo.’’

“So you’ve still got that place?’’ I said.

“Yes. At least, we’ve got it until yet another new Bishop of Rome wants to flex his muscles by messing with our system.’’

Trying to get things back on track, I said, “Look, in all fairness, and not suggesting that I deserve special treatment, I have to say that ten thousand years in purgatory seems a little harsh for an unpaid parking ticket.’’

“Oh, that’s merely one of your sins.’’

“What are these ’sins’ you’re talking about?’’ I asked. “I know I’m not perfect, but I certainly wasn’t a bad man. I was a good husband and never unfaithful. I was a decent father, even when the kids were teenagers and didn’t exactly inspire feelings of paternal affection. I ran my business honestly, I gave to charity, I recycled . . . Oh, wait a minute. Is God punishing me because I fudged some of the deductible expenses on my business taxes?’’

“Oh, no, of course not!’’ the saint assured me. “Since the Internal Revenue Service is a tool of Lucifer and its employees are his minions—’’

“Really? I always suspected as much!’’

“—the One True God does not frown on mortals who challenge that evil organization’s dominion.’’

“Ah! So . . . you know how I died, right?’’

“If you did not die rescuing virgins or puppies, I don’t need to know,’’ said Saint Lucy the Chaste. “It’s irrelevant.’’

“Not so fast,’’ I said. “I died of a heart attack induced by the stress of trying to clear up yet another IRS screw-up. They were harassing me for not filing taxes that I had indeed filed, and that I repeatedly showed them proof I had filed. One day, after speaking to six bureaucrats in a row who all insisted there was no one in the entire IRS who could help me with this problem, and that they had no supervisors, and that there was no such thing as a complaints department there . . . I got so frustrated and agitated, I had a massive coronary on the spot.’’

“Oh, so that was you? I heard about that.’’ Saint Lucy the Chaste seemed to warm up to me a bit. “Evil can be so trying to deal with, can’t it?’’

“You said it, sister. And the bastards are probably harassing my wife, now that I’m dead. Er . . . can I say ’bastards’ here?’’

“In general, we frown on profanity, but the Lord of Hosts is lenient in instances where it was obviously provoked.’’ The saint patted my hand.

“So if I may ask, Saint Lucy the Chaste, why do I have to spend so long in purgatory?’’

“Hmmm, let’s see . . .’’ She referred to her records. “Oh, dear. It appears that you haven’t voted in a national, state, or local election for the past eighteen years.’’

“I’m being kept out of heaven for that?’’

“Not voting in a democratic society?’’ she said. “You abandoned a moral duty! For eighteen years!’’

“Have you seen the candidates we’ve had for the past eighteen years? As a citizen, I refuse to be forced to choose between the lesser of two evils.’’

“Speaking of evil . . .’’ Lucy frowned as she glanced over my records. “Ah, now I see why you’re going to purgatory for ten large.’’

“What did I do?’’ I tried to see the entry she was looking at.

She glared accusingly at me. “You worked for an oil company!’’

“Huh? No, I ran my own real estate business for thirty years.’’

“Before that.’’

“Before that, I was an accountant in a mortgage company.’’

“Before that.’’

“Before . . . Oh, wait. You mean . . .’’ I realized what she must be talking about. “Oh, my God.’’

“Watch your tongue.’’

“You’re kidding, right?’’ I said.

“We never kid about taking His name in vain here.’’

“No, I mean about why I’m going to purgatory.’’

“We never kid about going to purgatory, either,’’ said Saint Lucy the Chaste.

“It was a summer internship!’’ I said.

“At an oil company.’’

“I was twenty-one years old!’’

“And working at an oil company,’’ the saint reiterated.

“For ten weeks! One summer. In their accounting department. I had to get some sort of professional experience on my résumé before graduation if I wanted to find a decent job!’’

“The follies of youth,’’ said Her Chasteness. “In the end, everyone pays.’’

“I’m going to purgatory for ten thousand years because of that?’’

“The Lord God feels ten millennia will give you sufficient time to meditate upon your misguided professional commitment to big oil—’’

“It was ten weeks!’’ I cried.

“—in a universe where He provided you with an abundance of alternative energy sources to choose from.’’

“At ten thousand years,’’ I said, “that’s one thousand years in purgatory for every week I spent on that internship! And I didn’t even learn anything there!’’

“Sin catches up with everyone in death,’’ Lucy said.

“Oh, for God’s sake.’’ I saw her expression and added, “Sorry. I’m a little agitated.’’

She pulled a few papers from her clipboard and handed them to me. “Fill these out. I need to process you.’’

I looked at the forms. “Ten thousand years. Jesus.’’

She flinched.

“Sorry, sorry,’’ I said. “So who’ll be keeping me company in purgatory? A gazillion oil company executives?’’

“Oh, no,’’ she said reassuringly. “We don’t let their sort into purgatory. They’re routed straight to . . . you know.’’ She pointed down and leaned forward to whisper, “The other place.’’

“They go straight to hell?’’

There was a bolt of lightning and a deafening crack of thunder.

“Wow!’’ I blinked. “I guess that’s another word I’m not supposed to use here?’’

“It’s considered to be in bad taste.’’

“So purgatory is full of . . .’’ I shrugged. “Interns?’’

“It’s full of people who need to meditate on their sins.’’

“Sounds like a charming place to spend the next ten thousand years,’’ I said morosely.

The saint gave me a sympathetic look. “Take heart. You’re in eternity now. Ten thousand years isn’t long.’’

“It sure sounds long.’’

“No, no, not at all. Most people are in purgatory for much longer than that.’’

“Really?’’ I said.

“Oh, yes.’’ She perused my records again. “You see, you really were a good man. If not for that one youthful sin—’’

“It was an internship.’’

“—you’d be out of purgatory by his time next week. Even in metric time.’’

“Jesu—er, gosh! You’re saying that one incident accounts for virtually my entire sentence in purgatory? In that case, I repent! I repent right now. Fully and unconditionally!’’

“I’m afraid there’s more to penance than that.’’

“Look at my record,’’ I insisted. “I never worked again in oil after that. I worked in mortgages, then in real estate. I sold affordable homes to hardworking middle class people. I installed solar panels in my own house and drove a hybrid car. I was one of the good guys!’’

“Yes, but—’’

“I loathe the oil industry!’’

“So does Yahweh, but—’’

“I spit on big oil! Ptooey!’’

“We don’t spit in heaven.’’

“We’re not in heaven,’’ I pointed out.

“Oh, right.’’

“But in a fair universe, we could continue this conversation there, instead of in purgatory,’’ I said. “Come on, Saint Lucy the Chaste. How about giving a guy a fair break?’’

“Well . . .’’ She bit her lip, then said, “To be honest, the Master of the Universe can be a little harsh when it comes to the sins of nonrenewable energy sources.’’

“Is that a fact?’’

Saint Lucy the Chaste leaned close to whisper, “It just bothers Him so much that mankind failed what He thought was an easy test of free will. You know. On the one hand, lots of sunshine, it’s right there, and it doesn’t pollute anything. On the other hand, a finite amount of oil, it’s way underground, and it’s pretty hard to wash off egrets. The Lord God thought it was a no-brainer and you people would all make the right choices without a struggle.’’

“The Lord God didn’t count on profit margins, did He?’’ I said.

“There’s a flaw in every grand plan,’’ Saint Lucy the Chaste said with a sigh.

“Look,’’ I said, “I acknowledge that my life was not entirely without sin, but do you think you could cut me some slack?’’

“Hmmm.’’ The saint tapped her quill pen on her clipboard. “Well . . . all right. I’m really not supposed to do this for anyone who worked in oil, tobacco, or Hollywood, but you seem sincerely repentant, and the rest of your catalogue of misdeeds is fairly minor. So I will file a petition with purgatory management to enroll you in a work-release program.’’

“Work-release?’’

“Yes,’’ she said. “Technically, you’ll still be assigned to purgatory, but you’ll only need to check in with them once every metric annum. And if you get a good report from your work detail, you can reduce your sentence by up to sixty per cent.’’

“So I’d have a chance of getting into heaven in a mere . . .’’ I took deep breath. “Four thousand years?’’

“Yes. I can see by your expression that you think that still sounds like a long time. But you’ll be doing important work. And time flies when you’re busy. Whereas I’ve heard that time passes rather slowly in purgatory.’’

“Yeah, I suppose that sitting around and contemplating your misdeeds would tend to make minutes feel like hours.’’ I frowned and asked, “But what does ’work-release’ mean in the afterlife?’’

“You will return to the earthly plain.’’

“I’m going to be reincarnated?’’

“No, that’s a different classification. You will maintain your present, eternal, unearthly form. In performance of God’s work, you will probably come into contact with earthly beings—’’

“You mean people?’’

“Yes, people. But you will not go back to being a person.’’

“What will I be? An angel?’’

She snorted. “Goodness, no! Only saints become angels, and only with special training.’’ She chuckled at my naiveté.

“So what will I be?’’

“People have a variety of names for entities who are on earthly visitations as part of various departmental work-release programs in the afterlife: ghost, spirit, poltergeist—’’

“Oh, my God! Er, sorry. I mean, those things are real? I thought they were just stories.’’

Saint Lucy the Chaste sighed. “I’ve been telling Yahweh for metric decades that we need to make the nature of these entities clearer to mankind, in hopes that people would pay more attention to their work. But He’s been in such a snit about global warming, He claims there’s no point in trying to reason with mankind, we’re better off just scaring them.’’

“So that’s what I’ll be doing? Scaring mankind?’’ I looked down at the puffy white cloud I was standing on. “Boy, I don’t know, Saint Lucy the Chaste. That doesn’t sound like very noble work. I want to reduce my purgatory sentence, but I really don’t want to harass people. Couldn’t I do something a little more like community service? Maybe clean up—’’

“Hang on,’’ the saint interrupted me. “Message from the Lord God.’’

“Huh?’’ I looked up and saw a plump, winged cherub fly up to Lucy’s ear to whisper something to her.

The saint listened for a few moments, while the fluttering of the cherub’s wings made a faint humming sound.

“Ah-hah! Splendid idea!’’ Saint Lucy smiled at the cherub. “The Maker of All Things always knows best, doesn’t He?’’

The cherub chirped and giggled, then flew away.

Saint Lucy the Chaste said to me, “The Lord of Hosts has suggested the perfect work detail for you.’’

“He knows?’’ I looked around. “I mean, He knows we’re talking about this?’’

“Of course! He knows everything. He’s omniscient and omnipotent. Also ubiquitous.’’ Lucy added, “He also speaks more than two thousand languages. But I digress.’’

“He knows I’m trying to reduce the purgatory sentence he slapped on me? And He’s not angry?’’

“Yahweh gets bad press,’’ the saint said. “He’s much more merciful and forgiving than organized religion would lead one to believe. Since you seem truly repentant about the oil thing, He has suggested a work-release program that I believe you can join with true enthusiasm.’’

“Which is?’’

“The Infernal Revenant Service.’’

“I’m going to be a revenant back on earth?’’

Saint Lucy nodded. “Your job will be to torment the minions of Lucifer and to protect mankind from them.’’

“Oh? Hey! That sounds fine. I could feel good about doing work like that.’’

“Given your own experiences with the spawn of, er, the other place—’’

“My experiences with who?’’

“The Internal Revenue Service,’’ she said.

“Oh. Right.’’

“Considering that, the Lord God thought this would be the right work-release placement for you. The Infernal Revenants are assigned exclusively to the IRS, and it’s a big job.’’

“I see,’’ I said.

“I’ll help you fill out the necessary paperwork in purgatory, and after you’ve served one week there for that unpaid parking ticket—’’

“That bogus ticket.’’

“—you can join the Infernal Revenants and start haunting the servants of Satan—’’

“Otherwise known as the IRS.’’

“—and wreak havoc on their evil works.’’

“So what do I do? Rattle chains, fiddle with the lights and electricity, leave messages in blood on the walls, that sort of thing?’’

“That sounds like a good start,’’ the saint said. “But there’ll be much more work than that before your service culminates in your application for entry into heaven. Yahweh would like to see the Infernal Revenants send the children of Lucifer back to the fires whence they came by the end of this metric millennium. So there are big plans in the making. Your team captain will fill you in on the details when you report for duty.’’

“Excellent!’’ I said. “The Lord God sure knows His stuff. There’s no work-release detail I’d rather be on. The IRS caused my fatal heart attack, after all! They’re the reason I’m here now instead of vacationing in Hilton Head with my family.’’

“Ah, but remember,’’ the saint cautioned me. “Haunting the IRS isn’t vengeance. It’s a sacred duty.’’

“Understood, Saint Lucy the Chaste. Now let’s get started on that paperwork, so I can report for duty!’’

And whether it’s duty or vengeance, I expect the next four millennia to pass rather quickly now.