Hot Dogs with Jesus’ Son
Jack, the Son of the Son of God, needed a break from heaven.
After years of requiring actual effort to run, Slack Heaven was slowly returning to a state of self-sustainability. There had been a major overcrowding problem for awhile. Jack took in as many new residents as he could on a first come, first served basis, but I knew he hated turning away even one worthy soul, so he put all his focus on making efficient use of the space. Most folks there didn’t realize how much work it took to ensure Slack Heaven lived up to its name, but that was only because Jack did such a good job of it. My husband Bob and I did what we could to help, but of course, we were there because we were big-time slackers ourselves.
Luckily, the larger Slack Heaven got, the more room the living logs had to grow, and accommodations were finally catching up with the demand. We still needed to limit the number of souls we could accept, but we weren’t turning away nearly as many as we used to, and all we could do now was wait.
Jack had long ago lost the ability to greet every new resident personally. Slack Heaven had grown to the size of a city, and most residents had never met him in person. The Holy Spirit software running in our heads made it so that we could immediately recognize each other by name, and Jack’s literal Christian lineage allowed him to love that many people. But when folks did get a chance to meet him, they were usually more starstruck than friendly. It got to the point where it was better for Jack to keep an aloof distance from all but his closest friends.
All of this meant that Jack both needed a break and had the ability to take a break, though he might not have noticed if I hadn’t been there to prod him.
“You need to party, dude,” I said.
“I guess I could put something together,” he said. “Maybe a concert, call in some reborn bands. I wonder which afterlife Trent is in these days...”
“No, dude, you definitely don’t need to organize a party,” I said, “you need to go to a party. Let this place take care of itself for awhile.”
Jack was constantly receiving invitations. He had thousands that he hadn’t even looked at. Even after we had the android Marvin sort through them to find the ones that were upcoming and nearby, we still had over a hundred possibilities. Neither Jack nor I knew how to pick, but we knew someone who did.
“No, no, no,” Bob said, sifting through a stack of scrolls. “Too wild, too pedestrian, too straight, too gay, too sober...”
“It’s been decades since we got out of this place,” I said. “Try to find someplace with lots to do, and we can make a vacation of it.”
“Just make sure weed is legal there,” Jack said.
“Oh my gods,” Bob said, dwelling on a scroll, “now that’s a name I’ve not heard in millennia...”
“Let me see,” Jack said. Bob handed the scroll over.
“Who’s Akhenaten?” Jack asked.
“Only the most fabulous pharaoh of the Bronze Age!” Bob said. “But of course, you wouldn’t have heard of him.”
“Isn’t that the guy they erased from history?” I asked. “Scratched his name off the temples, and all that?”
“From what I heard, the gods chucked him right out of the universe itself,” Bob said. “Probably why the party is on the Other Side.”
“I don’t know,” Jack said. “It sounds stuffy. Dress code is white usekh...”
“His parties were infamous back in the day,” Bob said. “Super classy, but still a good place to get your dick sucked on the sly. And if the city of Akhetaten is anything like the original, there should be plenty to do!”
As usual, Bob twisted our arms so gently, we didn’t even notice, and soon our bags were packed and we were dressed to party. “White usekh” apparently meant little more than a gold-trimmed shendyt around the waist and a beaded white collar. It was less than I preferred to wear, but I figured everyone would be dressed that way. Bob couldn’t help but crack a joke about pearl necklaces.
The shendyt didn’t have pockets, but I at least managed to tuck my inhaler into my waistband. The inhaler was a small device that could get me high off a single puff, very convenient when travelling. It had a slider with eleven settings that allowed me to choose how high I would get. I set it to “baked” and took a puff before we left.
“We can’t take the balloon through the Curtain of Light,” Jack explained as we approached the hangar.
“Do you have a flying saucer?” Bob asked.
“Better than a flying saucer,” Jack crowed. “I’ve got a flying monstrance!”
The flying monstrance was larger than any flying saucer I’d ever seen. It was a flat disc of long gold panels and a latticework of gold rods sticking out horizontally from the cockpit like sun rays, all studded with gems and mirrors. The cockpit itself was a completely transparent sphere, with seats and a control panel seeming to hang in midair thanks to a see-through floor. As we climbed in, I saw the name Corpus Filii II etched into the side.
Normally, flying saucers went high above the atmosplane, where you could see the infinite flat earth stretching out in every direction. But we were heading down into the iridescent lake known as the Curtain of Light. This distortion in spacetime separated the infinite half of the world we had all been born into from the infinite half of the world Jack unlocked with his love for me (long story.) As we descended into it, we seemed to pass through concentric shimmering circles, and the ship’s vibration gave off an eerie hum. I’d been through this before, but it was Bob’s first time.
“Why does it sound like a theremin?” Bob asked.
“Dunno,” Jack said. “I’m not a katapetasmologist.”
I expected the city of Akhetaten to look Egyptian—maybe nothing as explicit as a sphinx, but at least some suggestion of pyramids, even if done up in a more contemporary style. But as we approached, the city skyline looked way more familiar than that.
“Is...is that the Sears Tower?” I asked.
“Nope,” Bob said, scrolling through a guide on his tablet. “According to this, that is the Aten Tower.”
“No, seriously,” I said, “that’s the Hancock Center over there!”
“Wrong again,” Bob said. “That would be the Aten Center.”
“This is Chicago!” I insisted.
“It’s not Chicago,” Bob said.
“Dude, sometimes patterns just repeat themselves,” Jack said. “It’s an infinite world, and humanity only has so many ideas.”
“Repeating patterns is one thing,” I said, “but this is way too identical to be a coincidence. Look, there’s the lake!”
“You mean Chicago isn’t the only city built next to a lake?” Bob asked sarcastically. Jack chuckled.
“You guys are fucking with me!” I yelled.
We descended toward Union Station—I’m sorry, Aten Station. A hatch opened, and we slowly hovered down through an underground hangar that looked suspiciously like a concrete parking garage. We came to a stop in a large spot marked out with yellow lines, between a parked saucer and a sleek-looking airship.
I was feeling especially gaslit as we headed up and out onto Aten Street (not Adams Street.) The names on the buildings and street signs were different, but otherwise I was walking through an exact replica of the city I lived in during the early part of the twenty-first century, down to the style of the cars and the clothes on the pedestrians. I felt naked in my Egyptian costume. Despite my abs, I still carried around body image issues from my first life, and being not-back in not-Chicago wasn’t helping.
“IS CHICAGO!” I sputtered as we passed the iconic orange flamingo statue in Aten Plaza.
“Is not Chicago, dear,” Bob said. “We’re a couple billion miles and three major spacetime distortions away from Chicago.”
“If Chicago is even still there at all,” Jack said. “It’s been quite awhile.”
We continued down the street to the Aten Institute (not the Art Institute) where I finally got to see some minor deviations in architecture. Instead of lion statues, there were sphinxes. The columns were covered in hieroglyphs. The figures carved up near the roof were walking like Egyptians, and the words above the entrance read ATEN INSTITVTE OF AKHETATEN.
I was relieved to find even more differences once we were inside. It looked like they had gutted the place. What was once cordoned off into galleries was now a large open ballroom with a marble staircase leading to a balcony on the far end. Or, more likely, that’s just how the place was originally built, because it was not and had never been the Art Institute.
“Is not Chicago,” I muttered to myself.
There were circular tables covered in white linens and a long head table at the foot of the stairs. Guests were mingling, but nobody had taken a seat yet. We were definitely underdressed. Most everyone else had accessorized the basic outfit with jewelry, makeup and a wide variety of headdresses. Most were human, though I did see a crocodile head and a long-beaked bird head in the crowd.
“Do you guys recognize anyone here?” I asked.
“Just the idols,” Jack said.
“No one even knew this place existed the last time I was aware of the afterlife,” Bob said. “Though it looks like there are plenty enough hotties to enlarge the old contact list!”
A servant—or, more likely, a slave—wearing only an unbleached shendyt hurried over and whispered in Jack’s ear. Jack motioned for us to follow.
“No, only you,” the slave said.
“My friends stay with me,” Jack said.
The slave wrung his hands nervously, but then nodded several times and lead us through a side door.
“Apparently, we’re getting the VIP treatment,” Jack explained.
We were taken up a back stairwell and into a gallery where a group of important-looking people were lining up. The slave ran over to a thin but well-dressed man. His rough skin looked like he spent too much time in a tanning bed, and he had an aged, sagging face with heavy kohl around his eyes. He glanced at us and nodded as the slave whispered in his ear, then he hustled over to greet us.
“Mr. Christ, so happy you could make it!” he said in a slimy, nasal voice. “I am Vizier Nakhtpaaten, at your service!”
He crisply raised one hand up and pointed the other hand down with both palms facing forward in what was apparently the equivalent of a handshake. Jack awkwardly returned the gesture.
“Please, just call me Jack. And these are my friends, Bob and Leif.”
Bob and I returned Nakht’s gesture.
Nakht explained to us that we had the honor of sitting at the head table immediately next to the Pharaoh, and that our entrance would be announced. He lead us to the back of the line, and asked Bob and me for our full names.
“Uh, let me just write that down for you,” Bob said.
Nakht sent a slave to find some papyrus and a pen, offered us bottles of water, and made sure we didn’t want to borrow some additional jewelry or makeup.
“I think the way to stand out in this crowd is to go minimalist,” Bob said, declining.
“I could go for a robe,” I joked, but nobody laughed. “Never mind.”
Nakht stepped back and clapped his hands to get everyone’s attention.
“Ok, folks, we’ll be ready to start in just a few minutes,” he announced. “When your name is called, please descend down the staircase and stand in front of the next available chair, but—and I can’t stress this enough—do not sit until The-One-True-Voice-of-God-King-of-Upper-and-Lower-Egypt-Lord-of-the-Two-Lands-Living-Spirit-of-Aten-Beloved-of-Aten-Strong-Bull-of-Aten-Great-in-Kingship-Who-Elevated-the-Name-of-Aten-Exalted-Pharaoh-Akhenaten sits first!”
Nakht then went over and spoke with a haughty couple at the front of the line. They went from laughing smugly to storming away pissed.
“I think we got their seats,” I said to Bob.
“Bye, bitches!” Bob said, though not loud enough for anyone but us to hear.
Jack was looking around with only the slightest smile on his face. I could tell he was uncomfortable.
“Sorry, dude,” I said. “I know this trip was supposed to get you out of the spotlight for awhile. If you want to just bail...”
“Nah,” Jack said, betraying no emotion. “It is what it is.”
The lights dimmed, and the doors to the ballroom opened. Traditional middle eastern music began to play. Nakht stood at a microphone holding a clipboard, just out of sight from the crowd outside, and began to MC. Somehow, his wormtonguesque voice dropped two octaves.
“Laaaaaaadies and Gentlemen, welcome to the Aten Institute! Please give a warm welcome to tonight’s revered guests...”
I didn’t recognize any of the other revered guests, but they were all humans with Egyptian-sounding names. From what little I remembered of Akhenaten’s iconoclasm, it made sense that the animal heads were all relegated to general seating. Eventually, we were next.
“Joining us all the way from the Other Side, it is my great honor to introduce Jack Christ and his personal slaves, Bob and Leif Sveinjörmungandersson-Ditch!”
“Personal slaves!” Bob huffed.
“Hush up and smile,” I said.
Jack lead the way, with Bob and me following arm-in-arm, and we descended the marble staircase into the ballroom. Bob was the only one of us that didn’t look uncomfortable—he was grinning his ass off and relishing the opportunity to use his long-ago-perfected princess wave. Between the bright stage lights and the strobing flashes, I couldn’t see the crowd at all. We came to our chairs near the middle of the head table and, as instructed, remained standing.
The music took on a heavy bass thump. Colored spotlights began to swirl.
“And now,” Nakht bellowed, “please praise the house down for the legendary children of the House! Of! Ateeeeeeen!!!”
The crowd roared.
It was a full-on fashion show. As Nakht announced them one-by-one, the six daughters of Aten sashayed and vogued their way down the stairs, twirling and posing before taking their place in a growing tableau. Bob was enraptured, commenting on every outfit, but other than the color of their dresses, I couldn’t even really tell them apart. I drifted off in thought and enjoyed the pretty lights until we got to Akhenaten’s only son.
“Back from the Other Side and heir to the throne, it’s Tutankhaten!”
King Tut, wearing the classic crown and chin piece from his mummy mask, did his eponymous dance moves down the stairs, bobbing his head forward and back with his face scrunched up like it’d been frozen halfway through shouting yeah!
The music built to a final punch, and the children of Akhenaten struck a group pose. The crowd roared enthusiastically as the daughters stage-jogged to their places at the other half of the table while Tut moved off to the side.
“It’s the moment you’ve all been waiting for, folks!” Nakht announced. “Let’s give it up for the One True Voice of God, King of Upper and Lower Egypt, Lord of the Two Lands, Living Spirit of Aten, Beloved of Aten, Strong Bull of Aten, Great in Kingship Who Elevated the Name of Aten, Exalted Pharaoh Akhenaten! And his wife, Queen Nefertiti!”
A gong sounded, and very danceable upbeat music began to play. On the far side of the ballroom, the spotlights focused on a platform lowering from the ceiling. Over the platform hung the icon of Aten, a great golden disc that had spindly rays reaching down and ending in hands. Standing beneath the icon was a vision of majestic beauty: sultry almond eyes, high cheek bones, thick pouty lips, a perfectly proportioned nose, a strong chin and a neck that went on for miles.
Nefertiti was also on the platform.
“Oh, he’s had work done!” Bob snarked sotto voce.
“A-TEN! A-TEN! A-TEN!” the crowd chanted.
The platform swung around and landed directly in front of the table. Nakht’s instructions had clearly been motivated by more than just deference to royalty—had I been sitting, I would’ve had a terrific up-shendyt view of the Pharaoh. Tut took Nefertiti’s hand and lead her off the platform and around to their chairs. Akhenaten stepped down, and the platform shot back up into the air, leaving the icon hanging above us. Akhenaten raised his arms up toward the icon.
“Praise Aten!” Akhenaten boomed, and the crowd went wild.
“A-TEN! A-TEN! A-TEN!”
“Thank you, thank you!” Akhenaten said, turning to face the audience. His velvety voice was unnaturally deep, somewhere down in uncanny valley, and seemed amplified of its own accord. He’d had lots of work done.
“I’d like to begin tonight by welcoming our guest of honor, Jack Christ!”
Akhenaten did a half-turn to acknowledge Jack. The crowd applauded, and Jack smiled and nodded.
“There are far too few of us monotheists in this world,” Akhenaten continued, “and I think it’s important for us to stick together. We do have our differences, of course. You call this side the Other Side, and we call your side the Other Side. My people worship at the icon of the solar disc, and yours worship a plus sign. Your people believe the one true God is Jehovah, and we believe it is Aten. We are right, and you are wrong!”
The audience laughed. Jack had gone from a smile to a frown the moment Akhenaten said Jehovah.
“But the important thing is, we both acknowledge there is only one true God!” Akhenaten declared to the room. “And so, it pleases us to share a feast with our Christian brothers tonight, in hope that, with patience, they will see the light of Aten!”
“A-TEN! A-TEN! A-TEN!” the crowd chanted. The Pharaoh waved and shook hands with the guests near the front before stepping around to take his seat, allowing the rest of us to finally sit as well.
Akhenaten proclaimed, “Tonight we shall dine on an ancient recipe native to the people of this land. Prepare your taste buds for what we like to call the Akhetaten-Style Hot Dog!”
Slaves were quick to place plates of food in front of everyone at the head table, and yes, there on the plate was a hot dog on a sesame seed bun topped exactly the way God intended: yellow mustard, sweet relish, chopped onions, sliced tomato, a dill pickle, celery salt and sport peppers.
“Is Chicago!” I said through gritted teeth, my face turning beet red.
“Breathe, dear,” Bob said, patting my shoulder before turning to a slave to ask, “Do you have any ketchup?”
The crowd began to talk amongst themselves as they ate, and Akhenaten spoke to Jack at a volume more appropriate for dinner conversation.
“Tell me, Jack, what do you think of Aten so far?” Akhenaten asked.
Jack smiled and spoke calmly.
“I think if you ever attempt to speak my Grandfather’s hallowed name again, I will rip Aten apart worshipper by worshipper until not one spindly arm remains. And I think you’re lucky that was not Grandpa’s actual name.”
Whoa.
Bob, Nefertiti, Tut and I all heard what Jack had said. We held our breath and watched to see how Akhenaten would react.
Akhenaten laughed heartily.
“I like you!” he said. “You are without fear. This is an important quality for the leader of an afterlife.”
“I didn’t come here for your assessment,” Jack said.
“Not assessment, just advice,” Akhenaten said. “You’ve run your afterlife for, what, a little over three hundred years now?”
Shit, had it really been that long?
“The fourth century can be a make-or-break time for a new religion,” Akhenaten continued. “I have been cultivating the truth of Aten for three and a half millennia. My wisdom is at your disposal.”
“I’m not trying to start a religion,” Jack said. “I’m just building a cool place for chill souls to go when they die.”
“Papyrus by any other name would still serve as sheet,” Akhenaten countered. “If nothing else, there are practical concerns. Who is your lawyer?”
“Why would I need a lawyer?” Jack asked.
“You don’t want to wait until after you’re accused of resurrecting a poltergeist to go looking for a lawyer,” Akhenaten said. “But don’t worry, I know a very good one that I’m sure you can afford to keep on retainer. Who does your marketing?”
“I definitely don’t need marketing,” Jack said. “Slack Heaven is packed. I already have to turn souls away.”
Akhenaten grinned.
“That question was a test,” he said, “and you passed. Marketing is useless. You’re either worshipped, or you’re not. But you at least need a liturgist...”
“I’m not even sure what a liturgist does,” Jack said.
“Oh, they’re really important!” Bob chimed in. “They make sure that your worshippers are saying the right prayers on the right days and that the altar cloth matches the vestments and that nobody wears white after Mabon. Even I’ve got a liturgist!”
I gave Bob the shut-up look.
“I got a guy I call,” Bob said sheepishly, “on special occasions...”
“I don’t have worshippers,” Jack said.
“What do you call the souls lining up at your door?” Akhenaten asked. “You’ve got so many worshippers, you’re already generating prophets. There is one in particular who’s become a thorn in my side, preaching about you along the shore of Lake Aten every morning. I’ve considered having him executed. What do you think I should do with him?”
“Oh, is that why you dragged me up here and made me the center of attention tonight?” Jack asked scornfully. “You’re hoping I’ll deal with someone who’s annoying you?”
“I have offended you,” Akhenaten said, withdrawing. “I apologize. That was not my intention. What would you have me do to put you at ease?”
“Just...chill,” Jack said, calming down. “I came here to chill, not to talk shop.”
“Tell me more of this thing you call chill,” Akhenaten said.
“Look, let’s start over,” Jack said. “Hey dude, I’m Jack. It’s nice to meet you.”
Jack made the gesture of greeting Nakht had used earlier. Akhenaten smiled.
“Hello, Jack, I am Akhenaten,” he said, returning the gesture. “It is...nice...to meet you, too.”
“So,” Jack said, “heard any good bands lately?”
Soon Jack and Akhenaten were deep into a discussion about the divergent musical styles that had developed on either side of the Curtain over the past several millennia. The mood at the table lightened significantly. The hot dog course was followed by a wide variety of far more exotic courses—though honestly, there probably wasn’t anything that couldn’t have been ordered from an ethnic restaurant in the Loop back in the day.
After dinner came dancing and drinking. Bob ended up on the dance floor with King Tut, while I had a decent conversation with an amusing but clearly shady sarcophagus salesman who had been sitting next to Bob. When Bob returned, he was proudly holding a Mold-A-Rama yellow wax sculpture of the icon of Aten, though within minutes he had broken off one of the spindly arm-rays and had to go get a new one.
Jack pulled out a joint that’d been tucked behind his ear the whole time and shared it with Akhenaten. I didn’t try to butt in, I just set my inhaler to “blazed” and took a puff.
“This stuff is great,” Akhenaten smirked, “but have you ever tried Malört?”
As a small act of defiance against the absurdity of it all, I didn’t warn Jack about the Malört.
“Is not Chicago,” I whispered merrily as I watched him gag on the shot.
The night went by fast after that, and all too soon, Akhenaten was bidding us farewell.
“I have to go perform the sunrise ritual at Aten Stadium,” he slurred, “otherwise the sun literally won’t come up tomorrow!”
“Can’t you get someone else to adjust the aetherostat?” Jack asked with a smile.
“Shhhhhhhhhh!” Akhenaten said, projecting spittle. “I am—I am the Voice of Aten! Nobody touches the sun dial but me!”
It was nice to see Jack made a new friend.
Jack, Bob and I stumbled out into the cool pre-dawn air.
“Holy shit dude!” I laughed. “The way you held your own against Akhenaten like that—that took balls!”
“I nearly pissed my shendyt!” Jack admitted. “But it all worked out. He’s a pretty cool guy once he chills out. Most people are. Anyway, anyone need a rest? I could get us a room at the Charriott...”
“Nah,” I said. “Let’s go walk along the lake shore like we used to. You know what I mean. We can watch the sun rise, and maybe we’ll come across that prophet of yours.”
As we walked, I saw plenty more differences between Akhetaten and Chicago. Instead of Buckingham Fountain, there was a golden statue of the icon of Aten. Where the Planetarium would have been, I finally saw something that looked like a pyramid. And instead of a giant Ferris Wheel, Navy Pier had a giant Zipper.
I thought about my families from my first couple lives. I’d never gotten to give any of them a proper goodbye—but then, we rarely do. I was glad I’d always been in the habit of telling them I loved them at the end of every conversation. Those were never empty words from me. I wondered if any of them even remembered me, after so many centuries and so many lives. I wondered if Hannah and I had any dozen-or-so-greats grandchildren. If we did, I prayed they were living well.
As I looked out nostalgically over the lake, trumpets echoed throughout the city, and the first rays of the morning sun peeked over the horizon. Bob walked up from behind me and put his arm around my waist.
“Stater for your thoughts,” he said.
“Time just keeps marching forward,” I sighed. “Even if this were Chicago—and obviously, it is not Chicago—it wouldn’t be the same Chicago I knew. There’s no going back, is there?”
“Not back to Chicago,” Jack said, putting his arm around me from the other side. “Just back to heaven. Sorry to disappoint.”
I laughed, put my arms around them both and pulled them in tight.
“So long as you guys are there,” I smiled, “I’m in.”
“C’mon,” Jack said, “let’s get out of these costumes and go find breakfast. You can’t tell me there’s not a pancake house around here somewhere!”
Arm-in-arm, under the light of Aten’s morning kiss, we went to go find bacon.
Next: Jesus’ Son: The Musical
Doing Drugs with Jesus’ Son is always free.
😂 😂 😂