two weeks pass...
two weeks pass...
Tom Hanks dies and goes to heaven.
As he sit in the waiting room, he hears his name called by an archangel who invites him into a private room. All is white marble, lit from within, extending outward endlessly.
"Thomas J. Hanks?" asks the archangel.
"That's me," says Tom Hanks
"Mister Hanks, you are a blessed individual, a rare specimen among all that we in heaven call human."
"Me?"
"You. You have attracted the attention of the almighty with your mastery of the craft of storytelling, mendacity of emotion and wizardry of impersonation. Mister Hanks, it is my glorious duty to let you know that you are God's favorite actor."
"Oh my gosh."
"Indeed. Mister Hanks, what I am about to ask you is unprecedented in my many millennia as a servant of our Lord God but it comes directly from the Unknowable itself. God has requested a private audience with you."
"Wow!"
"Will you accept this request from your creator?"
"Well! Yeah!"
"We are pleased to hear this. Mister Hanks, I am sure you have much experience meeting with fans in your mortal life."
"Certainly."
"So I imagine you understand that fans have a picture in their minds of how they would like those meetings to go."
"Sure...?"
"We hope you will also understand the request that God Almighty, as a fan of you and your work, has asked me to convey to you today."
"Okay."
"God wants to take an audience with you whilst wearing the shared mortal garb of your greatest role."
"I don't understand."
"Mister Hanks, God has taken the most enjoyment from the role you played in Bosom Buddies."
"I'm sorry, what?"
"The 1980's ABC prime-time sitcom Bosom Buddies. It is the Almighty's favorite television program."
"Seriously?"
"An angel never lies, Mister Hanks. It is considered, in heaven, to be the greatest human drama ever created."
"But that was... I mean, it was a paycheck. I was doing it for a paycheck and I was young and-"
"Mister Hanks, the ways of God and man are unknowable. Much of what we think matters is nothing in the eyes of the universe. The plight of the smallest sparrow can move our Lord with all the impact and pity of a hundred years of human war. The Divine is as truly Unknowable and so are its ways."
"I was nominated for six Oscars."
"Nevertheless! It is unwise to question Divinity!"
The face of the archangel shimmers, revealing a vulpine visage rising from some impossible depth, teeth dripping ichor and blood, eyes like embers of fire...
"No! Wait!" screams Tom Hanks. "I'm sorry! I didn't... of course! I'll do it! I would be overjoyed to be in his presence!"
"Its presence."
"ITS presence, of course! Anything! Anything for a fan!"
The angel reassumes its previous form.
"We are pleased to hear this Mister Hanks. And we trust you would be willing to... indulge this particular fan?"
"Without question! Anything! It's an honor!"
"Excellent. So as I was saying, God loved you in Bosom Buddies."
"Right. Great... great show."
"And as a fan, the Almighty would like to meet with you in character."
"I... well, sure!"
"Wearing the costume you wore in that program."
"The, the dress? The wig and the dress?"
"As you say, the wig and the dress. And then the Unknowable will appear in the mortal garb of your costar."
"...okay?"
"And the two of you will be, in visage and in heaven, truly Bosom Buddies."
"Okay."
"It's for a selfie."
Well, thinks Tom Hanks, why not? He has been to thousands of funders' brunches, industry meet and greets, press tours, red carpets. What's one more now? And so what if it's in a dress and a wig? The years have not been kind to the outdated drag caricature he played so many years ago and it has never set quite right with Tom Hanks in his heart that he rose to prominence on his strength playing a sexist stereotype. Perhaps this meeting is an equalling to some cosmic scale, a final opportunity to repay a cultural debt on behalf of millions of men and women for whom passing was not comedy, but survival.
"You know what, let's do this!" says Tom Hanks.
"Excellent," says the archangel.
And suddenly a dressing model appears next to Tom Hanks with a floral print blouse, a pink pantsuit and a chartreuse silk scarf. Hanks changes into the costume.
From on high, as if on gossamer thread, an auburn wig of curly hair and a thick string of costume jewelry pearls descends. Hanks puts them on.
The marble floor silently opens up, like a toothless mouth, to reveal a makeup mirror and a selection of blushes, lipsticks, eyeliners, mascara. Hanks expertly applies his face.
Tom Hanks is alone in the room of infinite marble now, reaching into his past and resurrecting Kip Wilson, Manhattanite graphic artist in his twenties. Or wait! Did God expect to meet Buffy? Was he meant to be in character as his character or as his character in character? There is no time to decide.
A supernova flash explodes before his eyes, leaving everything white on white, incomprehensible and stunning. Hanks' vision slowly starts to clear and he sees before him, only a few feet away, a creation of pure and exquisite light, draped over with the very same dress and wig that he has just put on himself.
There is a voice that's not a voice. It sounds to Tom Hanks like that of his mother and father and self and the ocean all wrapped into one.
The voice says: "TOM HANKS!"
And then again, this time discernibly querulous:
"TOM.... HANKS?"
Tom Hanks says "Yes God?"
There is a grumble like a volcano.
"ARE YOU... THOMAS JEFFREY HANKS?"
"Yes God."
A pause like that after a lightning bolt.
"... THE ACTOR?"
"I.. I like to think so God."
The grumbling again now, but it is less volcano and more throaty and impersonal, more a voice from a drive-thru loudspeaker.
"OH. OH DEAR. THIS IS EMBARRASSING."
Tom Hanks squints into the light. "Lord? Is everything alright?"
"I AM SORRY MY SON. IT'S JUST THAT... WELL, I THOUGHT YOU WERE THE OTHER ONE."
"The other one?"
"THE LITTLE ONE. THE BLONDE. WHAT WAS HIS NAME?"
"You mean Peter? Peter Scolari?"
"RIGHT! RIGHT, RIGHT. SCOLARI. I ALWAYS FORGET HIS NAME. SO THAT'S DEFINITELY NOT YOU THEN."
"Um. No?"
"GOT IT. MY BAD. AND YOUR NAME WAS...?"
"I'm... I'm Tom Hanks."
"TOM HANKS! OF COURSE! TOM HANKS! GIVE ME A MOMENT HERE..."
There is the sound of a hundred thousand abaci beads clicking, a million keystrokes, the scratch of quill on parchment, books cracking open, accounts being read.
"TOM HANKS, TOM HANKS, TOM HANKS. AH YES! TOM HANKS!" says God.
"YOU GO TO HELL."
two weeks pass...
two weeks pass...