Heaven Is a Place Where Nothing Ever Happens

Angels. More prayers for the sick and suffering. Richard Lewis. Books and poems and a movie.

If that’s too much of a commitment, but you’d still like to help us, you can also make a one-time donation.

Now let’s get to Sunday. Everyday is not silent and gray.

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Comedian Richard Lewis died on Wednesday. He was 76 years old, funnier than ever, and sober for 30 years. He also held one of those enviable positions in sobriety that many aspire to but few attain: angel.

Just like Matthew Perry, he's survived by the people he helped along the way.

Between the prayer submissions this week and the reading about dead sober people and angels, I thought about this old essay from 2019 about some of my frequent relapse daydreams. This one was more of an afterlife relapse–some side of heaven that looks like a French cafe. And in that heaven, I'm given the choice to drink, plus many other exciting options, which you'll read about.

I know a few people who have decided to ditch their sobriety if they become deathly ill, just drinking and drinking and drinking until they turn to dust. If I’m in the same predicament, I don’t plan to drink…but cigarettes? I will smoke until my lungs collapse and then eat all the butts. 

Here's this mini-essay, and then we'll get to your prayer submissions and all the usual Sunday stuff after that. 

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I have relapse daydreams every now and again, usually on days when I get nostalgic from a whiff of cigarette smoke, or I smell some stale beer on a sidewalk. 

In my most recent one, I imagined myself as a 70-something, and I'm seated at a smoky table, the kind you'd find in a '60s French cafe. I am fit, but not in an obnoxious way. You can see my veins, but they're subtle and not big blue pipes ready to burst. My skin is tan, but I'm not cancerous. I have all my hair, and it is white and thick, like a unicorn's mane. My ears and nose have not outgrown my face. I am entirely alone. And no one there knows I'm a drunk. 

A waiter came by my table to drop off a small cocktail menu and a heavy ashtray with some fancy matches. Before I could say, "Wait, you can smoke here?" he had moved on to the next table. Because there was a live band at this daydream cafe, it was tough to hear what he said, but I hoped it was, "I'll be right back for your drink order."

Two people are seated beside me with a box of Marlboro 100s on the table. The pack looks new and freshly opened, the kind that casual smokers have with them for the nights they go big. It's not my brand, but that makes the prospect of having one more okay. I don't even have to ask to bum one. The faceless people gently nudge the pack in my direction. The music is loud but not obnoxious. It's mostly songs from Dylan's "Desire" album. 

"What is this music?" I ask. I can't see their features because they floated in smoke. 

"Whatever you want it to be," they said. I choose Dylan's "Desire" album. 

The volume gets a little louder, and we all float in smoke. 

I noticed there was a long hallway near the back of the cafe. The couple told me there were rooms back there. 

The man began to tell me about The Missing Room. His voice sounds like Don Cheadle's for some reason.

The Missing Room has a long table of lost personal items: the sets of keys, the wallets, the cell phones, the bags of drugs.

"Even the old toys that vanished when I was a kid. I can remember sobbing about these things!" Cheadle said. But now it's all found. 

He also said the rooms offered security footage of when his things got lost–or stolen. 

"Sometimes people find out their mothers are thieves," Cheadle said. 

I began to imagine what I was searching for the most or what would be a surprise. I always wondered what happened to my passport and my pet snake, Rambo.

The music volume lowers, and a woman's voice comes through the smoke. She says I should skip The Missing Room and head right to Very Nice Things People Said About You While You Weren't Around Room. 

"It gives you the date, time, location, and, most importantly, the identity of the person who said the Very Nice Thing. Once you enter that room, you won't want to go into another one." 

But before that, they said I should pop by The Distilled Joy Room, which also sounded worthwhile. You get a VPN code for a personal laptop, and then you can access all the days of your life where natural joy took place when no MDMA or mischief was necessary.

"It's like VR. You jump right into a cloudless day when you're 12 years old on the Little League field just before you make a diving catch," Cheadle said. 

Imagine!

The waiter finally came back and asked me what I wanted. 

I went with a Shirley Temple. 

He seemed happy with my choice. 

I also asked for 30 red stirring straws because I will try not to smoke. 

(There are more of your prayers behind the wall, as is the rest of the Sunday log and more recommendations and reading to get you through the day. Jump in. You’re ready!)