St. Peter will look a little like your seventh-grade biology teacher, the one who had a green parrotlet he kept as a pet, which would cuddle up in his long gray beard during class and gently snooze.
He’ll glance at you, clear his throat. Refer to his big book. You’ll imagine a little snoring beak peeking out from those whiskers.
“Tell me about this daddy longlegs you caught crawling across your paper plate on the Fourth of July when you were twelve,” he’ll say.
“I don’t remember that,” you’ll reply.
He’ll screw up his face discerningly and scribble something in the book. “And the Japanese beetle you crushed as it scurried across one of the cinder blocks holding down your stepfather’s Goalrilla basketball hoop?”
“You’re asking me about bugs I’ve killed?” you’ll say. “What about all the cancer 5ks I’ve walked? The change I’ve rounded up at Taco Bells to go to various local children’s hospitals?”
“It says here you smushed a centipede with your stepfather’s steel-toed boot, then made your little brother look at it to see if its legs were still twitching.”
Your ears will redden. You’ll see squiggles dancing along your periphery in the painfully blue sky all around you.
“This is outrageous,” you’ll say. “What a metric! What a system!”
“What a metric, what a system,” the chorus of angels standing on the risers behind St. Peter will mewl to each other mockingly.
“I may not have been perfect, sure,” you’ll say. “But to judge me on this?? What if I’d lived an exemplary, saintly life in all regards, but you know, just been inordinately violent toward ants?”
“In our experience,” St. Peter will reply. “That type of person does not exist.”
“What if I’d made my living as an exterminator??”
“Then I assure you, you would not be here even receiving this hearing.”
“What if I’d been allergic to bee stings? What if every kill had been self-defense?”
“But were you? Were they?”
You’ll begin to pace. The clouds under your feet will part satisfyingly, like marshmallow creme, to form a pillowy foxhole for you to march in. You’ll realize then in some back corner of your brain that you’re trying to savor this beauty, this tactile joy, in case it’s the last you ever see of it.
“What if I’d been an anteater?” you’ll shout, pointing a finger. You have him now, you’ll think.
“Anteaters go to Anteater Heaven,” St. Peter will answer dully. “Just as dogs go to Dog Heaven and fish go to Fish Heaven. We have zero visibility on what standards the other kingdoms use in determining entry.”
“You mean there aren’t even any bugs behind those golden gates? They’re all in Bug Heaven? Why do you care so much then?!”
St. Peter will delicately lay his fingers on a red-handled lever you haven’t noticed until just now.
“I think we’ve heard all we need to hear,” he’ll say.
“It’s a test, isn’t it?” you’ll cry. You’ll feel yourself beginning to lower, and you’ll try to step up out of the hole, putting your foot into the formless mist, catching nothing. “You want me to admit fault? Fine, sure, I admit it! I’ve done bad things! Actually bad things! Sinful things! I cheated on my girlfriend once, at that football tailgate when I was a freshman in college and she was still a senior in high school! Or, I worry I did, anyway. I browned out on Mike’s Hard Lemonades. Also, I never tipped when a screen prompted me to! Not once! The screen – it just pisses me off, I can’t explain it!”
You’ll be up to your waist at this point. The angels – and God they are attractive, aren’t they? And seem to be getting more so by the second – will be sadly waving goodbye to you.
“I made fun of – oh, what’s her name – the girl with the lazy eye! Behind her back! In middle school! All my friends did!”
At this, St. Peter will wince, and close his book with a kind of exaggerated finality. You’ll realize then you’ve made a mistake, and perhaps this was the trap all along. But you’ll find the words don’t stop coming now. It feels good now, to keep talking. A release of pressure. Like a good cry, or pulling a soggy clump of leaves from a clogged gutter.
“But she could’ve been doing it to me too, huh?! I’d never know! She – Tara, Tara was her name – could’ve been making fun of me behind my back all the time, too! For my braces and my too-tight, too-dark jeans. The haircut my mom gave me every three weeks! Then it’d all be warranted! It’d be deserved!”
By this point, all you’ll see of St. Peter is the tip of his glistening, bald, pink head, visible over the podium. You’ll hear his voice as the base you’ve been sinking into evaporates entirely. His reply will come to you over the sudden roar of wind in your ears, and the terrifying sense of freefall carving out your abdomen.
“But did she? Did she?”