Salinger goes to heaven, assesses the scenery and is honored at a literary tea

Drawing of J.D. Salinger by Robert Grossman

If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you’ll want to know is why I holed up in New Hampshire like a hermit for practically my whole life and how much great stuff I wrote and never published but just stashed in the attic, where the goddamn squirrels are probably nibbling on it, and all that Silas Marner kind of crap, but I don’t feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth. In the first place, that tabloid garbage bores me and in the second place, I’m not feeling so hot on account of I’m dead.

I’m just going to tell you all this madman stuff that’s happened to me since I kicked off, which in a way was kind of a relief, though it’s no picnic either. Everyone thinks heaven is such a terrific place. The way people talk, you’d think it was a paradise or something but the truth is, it’s for the birds.

First of all, the security is even worse than down on Earth. I had to stand in line about four hours before I even got to the gate, where some moron made me go through a metal detector even though I have no goddamn body. Up here it’s just your soul, which is about the size of a Barbie doll and more or less see-through but when I pointed this out, the moron laughed and said, “You think this is bad, you should see what they go through in Hell.” Then he went into what he obviously thought was a knee-slapping impression of some poor jerk getting his body cavities inspected with a red-hot security wand. I didn’t crack a smile.

Anyway, I finally got settled in my room, which sucked. The brochure said you’re supposed to have “a sublime view of the waterfall, the perpetual rainbow” and all but all I got was a little sliver of the skyline of downtown heaven. Everyone said it would knock me out but trust me, half the time it’s too cloudy to even see the sliver.

Even worse, it turned out I had a roommate. Me! A roommate! I told them about a thousand times, “No goddamn roomie! Here I am about the most famous recluse in the history of reclusiveness and you’re giving me a roommate?” But they just smiled, which they do a lot up here, the phony bastards, and said, “Sorry, but we’re overcrowded, due to all the boomers starting to come in.”

And then the roommate showed up and it was Edgar Allen Poe, who nobody wants to room with since he’s a total lush and has bottles stashed all over the place and is forever whining about how he never made any money or about his tragic lost love. And then I can’t get any shuteye because the loser has about eighteen nightmares a night and wakes up screaming that he’s getting tortured by the Inquisition or buried alive or having his eyes pecked out by a talking raven or some such crap.

Yesterday, they threw me a kind of reception, where all these celebrities and literary hotshots were supposed to attend but aside from Truman Capote, who goes to everything, the pickings were pretty slim. Ralph Waldo Emerson was the MC. He mumbled a lot and put everyone to sleep and I don’t think the guy ever read a word I wrote. Of course, good old Edgar tagged along and got high as a kite on the sherry and puked all over Edith Wharton’s shoes.

To tell you the truth, about the only guy I really wanted to meet up here was Jesus, who I always thought was pretty cool, but they say he never shows up anywhere because he’s kind of perpetually depressed. I can understand it. All that crap he went through and then it turns out everyone’s still as phony and mean and screwed up as ever.

That’s all I’m going to tell about. I could probably tell about what God whispered in my ear when I took his name in vain or about Marilyn Monroe asking for my e-mail address but that doesn’t interest me right now. What I’m going to do now is try to work in a good nap before Edgar gets back from the drunk tank and starts boring me to death again.