When I Die, I'm Going To Sicily (not the one in Louisiana)

It’s 94 degrees in Manhattan on Sunday, June 8, and my friend Ray Ray drags me to Macy’s to go shoe shopping.

On the way home, on the downtown Seventh Avenue train platform, I spy a group of tourists (19 of them, as their tour guide keeps repeating), several holding Bibles. Once on the train, one of them wanders off from her group, Bible in hand, directly toward me.

“Where are you going?” she asks. “Where are you going when you die: heaven or hell?” I wave her off, telling her that it’s too hot to answer questions and that I don’t talk religion on trains.

Undeterred, she turns to Ray Ray. “Where are you going when you die?” Ray Ray turns and smiles and, in a deadpan voice, tells her:

“Brooklyn. I’m going to Brooklyn.”