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Wednesday, April 07, 2010

The Virgin Factory

The Virgin Factory

“Melvin, more virgins,” Irving Horowitz called across the factory floor. The demand for virgins was off the charts what with all the martyrs self destructing on a regular basis. Every martyr required 72 virgins and those virgins had to come from somewhere. That’s where the Horowitz Virgin Works came in. It was a family business. Irving’s father made virgins as did his father before him. Heaven was an accommodating place. You want virgins in the afterlife, virgins you got. But somebody had to make them.
Business was good, very good. The political situation on Earth must be extremely chaotic for so many people to martyr themselves. But global politics wasn’t really Irving’s strong suit. Irving didn’t really care about theology either. Why some poor schmuck got 72 virgins and someone else didn’t wasn’t his concern. Processing the orders, now that was something else entirely.
In heaven, a deal is a deal. That’s one nice thing you could say about God, he never welched on a deal. The Christians have a deal. They get halos, harps and white robes when they arrive. Where do you think that stuff comes from? You think it grows on trees? Someone has to make it. In a factory somewhere, like Irving’s.
Irving used to envy his brothers in the halo and harp business. Nice steady work. And the robe business, forget about it. Too much competition. Too many old Jews in the garment business.
No, selling to the Muslim idea of heaven was a tidy little business especially lately. Some days he’d get a dozen orders. The factory was working overtime. He was hiring. It was exhausting, exhilarating even. Irving would get home late, Sarah would have a nice hot supper ready and she’d ask, “So how was work today?” And Irving would sigh and say, “Eh. Could be better.” And for the Jews, that was heaven.