WELCOME TO HEAVEN (A Five-Star Hotel… Shooting Stars, That Is).

 

WELCOME TO HEAVEN

(A Five-Star Hotel… Shooting Stars, That Is)

A Dreamlike Black-Comedy Farce in Five Tableaux

by Benjamin Gavarre

gavarreunam@gmail.com

WELCOME TO HEAVEN (A Five-Star Hotel… Shooting Stars, That Is). © 2026 by BENJAMIN GAVARRE is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 4.0

CHARACTERS

• HELEN: The Diva of Heaven and General Manager of the Hotel. Glamorous, imposing—half Golden Age Hollywood goddess, half cosmic deity. She wears a shimmering evening gown, astral swan feathers, and dark sunglasses she only removes to wither mortals with a single look. She decides who enters, which floor they get, and on what terms.
• GREGORY: Head Concierge. Wears an immaculate British-cut tailcoat. Eternally sips coffee from a fine porcelain skull-shaped teacup and carries a colossal rubber stamp that booms like thunder when struck, reading: "MADE IN… HEAVEN".
• SAMANTHA: Executive Receptionist. Hyper-efficient, ironic, and disdainful, though capable of surprisingly tender gestures when she thinks no one is watching. She sports impossibly long acrylic nails that clack against her celestial tablet. She is dying to finish her shift so she can go down to Earth for Halloween.
• GUSTAVO (54, though he swears he’s 39): A五十-something man in absolute denial. He wears a cheap party-store vampire cape paired with a bright orange marigold (cempasúchil) on his lapel, celebrating both Halloween and Day of the Dead. Vain, clumsy, and the accidental culprit behind the tragedy.
• LUPE / LUPERCIO (45): Part-time rideshare driver. Practical, skeptical, and fiercely proud of his working-class physique. He clutches the detached steering wheel of his car tightly in both hands.
• LISY (35): Perennial actress of obscure melodramas and a mega-influencer inside her own head. She lives as if a camera were perpetually rolling in front of her. She wears a flowing dress and a marigold flower crown singed black on one side.
• KARLA (50): The neighborhood’s surrogate mother. Good-hearted, self-sacrificing to the point of exhaustion, and paranoid about household accidents. She clutches her handbag as if it held the balance of the universe.
• FLOR (20): Fine Arts student who audits too many Philosophy lectures, and an eternal applicant for grants abroad. She possesses a disconcerting serenity, a dreamy gaze, and dry gallows humor. She is missing her left arm, which flew off during the explosion.

SET DESIGN

The surrealist Art Deco lobby of a grand hotel suspended among the clouds. Stage right, an imposing white marble front desk with a golden service bell and a glowing neon sign: "RECEPTION / ETERNAL CHECK-IN". Upstage, three rolling golden-framed doors (Room 404: Suite of the Eternal Youth, Room ½: Department of Duty Fulfilled, and Imperial Suite: Studio of What Might Have Been) alongside an antique gilded-cage elevator whose dial displays moods instead of floor numbers (Euphoria, Nostalgia, Resignation, Basement). Stage left, an ornate easel displays the restaurant menu and announces: "Grand All Saints & Witches Gala — Tonight at 00:00".

TABLEAU ONE: SOULS IN THE LOBBY

SCENE 1: The Flashpoint

(Pitch black. A ridiculous blast echoes: first a muffled "BOOM!", then the sound of glass shattering in slow motion, and finally the crystalline, posh chime of a luxury hotel desk bell: DING!)

(Lights rise slowly in dreamlike blues and golds. Low white fog hugs the floor. GUSTAVO, LUPE, LISY, KARLA, and FLOR appear standing or sitting on the lobby floor, dazed).

GUSTAVO: (Adjusting his vampire cape, indignant) Hey, no fair! I was invited to a Danse Macabre and—ker-plow!… (Looks down and dusts off his shoe). What is this sparkly powder? Talcum? Dead people ashes?

LUPE: (Clutching his steering wheel in midair, yelling at nothing) I had my blinker on, Officer! The light was yellow! And in this city, yellow means "Floor it, Lupe, unless you want to waste a whole minute waiting for green!" (Turns and glares at Gustavo). You’re the idiot who cut me off, aren't you?! Ridiculous old man! That vampire costume looks like a third-grade school pageant. You got third-party insurance, or are we throwing hands right now?

GUSTAVO: (Deeply offended, hand on chest) Old? Third grade? I am thirty-nine, moron. A very well-preserved thirty-nine. And what would you know about conceptual costume design? What are you supposed to be, a rogue city-bus driver? You’re missing half the costume: you need a bigger beer gut and a greasier forehead.

LISY: (Touching her singed flower crown, projecting like a Greek tragedy) Quiet, everyone, you’re bruising my aura! (Breathes deeply, closes her eyes). What a bizarre silence... No car horns, no sirens, no street vendors yelling outside... no sound at all!... (Suddenly screams at the ceiling). I AM CRAVING PAN DE MUERTO! (Dead silence. She waits for an echo that never comes. She touches her stomach, puzzled). Oh, how strange... because I’m not actually hungry. Not starving, not even peckish… Which is unheard of for me, considering I stress-eat for my art. (Walks to the upstage easel and reads). Look, it says: "VIP Transit Buffet: Crab Omelet and Charcoal-Grilled Snapper". Ugh, revolting! Who eats seafood in limbo? They should serve burgers, French fries drowning in ketchup… (Winces). Ugh… I don’t want that either? Did I lose my appetite? Me, who breaks her diet every twenty minutes?

KARLA: (Hugging her purse in anguish, pacing back and forth) Sweet Mother of God! The gas valve! I left the stove on with the chicken broth simmering! Let me out of here! I can’t go back to the building and find my apartment in flames! My ferns! My brand-new lace curtains!

FLOR: (Completely calm, sitting on the floor playing with a small sugar skull from her pocket) There’s no going back, Miss Karla. Death is a one-way art installation—an illusion with no return ticket. There are no stoves anymore, no broth, and no apartment.

KARLA: (Stops dead in her tracks) How do you know that, sweetheart? Aren't you the girl from the second floor? The one who won the scholarship to study painting in London?

FLOR: I didn't get the scholarship; they waitlisted me... though I suppose I just freed up my spot. I’m an only child, apartment 204. My mom and I were engulfed in flames when some idiot in the building blew up his kitchen.

GUSTAVO: (Breaking into a cold sweat, fanning himself with his cape) Hey, kid, don't point fingers! I was preheating the oven! It could have happened to anyone. Modern ovens have very confusing manuals.

FLOR: (Taking a bite out of the sugar skull) Well, it happened to you… Kaboom! You blew up half the building and even the car driving past on the street. Sent us all straight to paradise... I think. Congratulations, neighbor: you managed to kill us all just in time to celebrate Day of the Dead… and Halloween, of course. Impeccable timing.

SCENE 2: The VIP Altar and the Rogue Arm

(Dead silence. Everyone looks themselves up and down, checking their clothes. Gustavo lets out a fake, nervous laugh).

GUSTAVO: Dead! Hahaha, what an imaginative kid—I can tell you audit classes over at Philosophy and Letters. At worst, we’re in the VIP waiting room of a very posh private hospital, sedated after a minor gas flash… a superficial singe, a toasted eyebrow… Anesthesia makes people hallucinate the wildest things.

LUPE: (Adjusting his glasses, skeptical) Hold on a second. I actually agree with Count Chocula here. We’re not in an ER, because ERs smell like bleach and this place smells like expensive French perfume mixed with marigolds. And we aren't dead either. Everyone here looks pretty healthy… and rosy. Well, not everyone, but I can vouch that we’re alive. If we were dead, how do you explain this clutch cramp I still have in my left calf?

GUSTAVO: Exactly! You see? Mister Bus Driver backs me up. We are not dead. We are here because… because… well, because there must be a reason! A precise, compelling, perfectly logical circumstance. That’s it.

LISY: (Pulling out her cracked-screen phone, swiping frantically) No service! Not even a single bar of Wi-Fi! This cannot be happening! I was uploading a reel dressed as a tragic Catrina weeping over a candle. If it didn't post, my fans must think I’m in terrible danger… kidnapped by an obsessed stalker, lost in the woods… Dead? (Lights up with sudden vanity). Wait—if they think I died, my engagement is going to skyrocket! Nothing sells like a tragic, youthful demise!

FLOR: (Touching her jaw with her right hand) The upside of dying is that my migraine is gone… Completely gone. It’s funny: no construction noise, I don't owe next month’s rent, and nothing hurts at all… And what’s really, truly curious… is that I no longer have a left arm. (Flops the empty left sleeve of her sweater with complete nonchalance).

KARLA: (Gasps, looks down near a golden planter, and picks up a mannequin arm wearing a sweater sleeve identical to Flor’s) Sweet Jesus, your little arm! Honey, isn't this your arm lying right here by the desk?! It’s in one piece, it just landed on the carpet. Come here, sweetheart, hold still, I’ll pop it right back in. When my nephew dislocated his shoulder playing soccer, I snapped it back with one good yank.

FLOR: (Smiling sweetly) Miss Karla, you are always so kind. But better not. Without my left arm I feel like the Venus de Milo at fifty percent off. I’ll manage just fine. You hold onto the arm for me, just in case it comes in handy.

GUSTAVO: (Staring at the arm in Karla’s hands with a shudder) Kid… what ice-cold nerves, how brave of you… Say, are you sure you didn't get sideswiped by this bus driver here and lose your arm out the window?

LUPE: I’m not a bus driver, dammit! And I didn't hit anybody—your building fell on top of me!

(Suddenly, the golden bell on the front desk rings three times by itself: DING, DING, DING! A rose-tinted spotlight illuminates the reception desk).

SCENE 3: Soul Reception

(From behind the desk, GREGORY and SAMANTHA rise slowly, as if on an invisible elevator platform. GREGORY wears his immaculate tailcoat and sips coffee from his porcelain skull cup; SAMANTHA types with her impossibly long nails on a transparent tablet. Both exude an unsettling bureaucratic calm).

GREGORY: (In a velvety late-night radio voice) Attention, esteemed guests! Welcome to the Grand Hotel of Heaven, Five Shooting Stars. Everyone have your karmic passports ready, please! We are overbooked due to the holiday weekend in the Northern Hemisphere, so I do hope for your own sakes that you confirmed your reservations prior to expiring!

SAMANTHA: (Peering over her tablet at the newcomers, sighing wearily) Oh, Gregory, at this rate we’ll never finish in time to go down for the Halloween party… Just look at them. They have "unscheduled walk-in" written all over them. Not a passport or reservation in sight. Definitely not all VIPs—you clocked that, right? They reek of domestic propane and bewilderment.

GREGORY: (Pulls out a golden laser scanner and passes it over LUPE’s forehead; it lets out a sharp "BEEP!") Let us begin with the gentleman holding the automotive accessory. You are… Lupercio? And they call you Lupe? (Raises an eyebrow). Well… out of hotel courtesy I shall refrain from commenting on your absurd name…. Lupe! For the record, what did you die of… Lupe?

LUPE: (Stepping forward, showing off his steering wheel and flexing his bicep) Look, Chief, for starters I didn't even think I was dead… Look… just look at these arms: strong, solid, hairy… A corpse doesn't have this kind of muscle tone. And feel my steering wheel—still warm from my grip.

SAMANTHA: (Scans him up and down with delicious disdain) He called you "Chief," Gregory… how rustically charming… (Types). Lupe! Cause of admission: occupational road hazard. The steering wheel wrenched free by post-mortem rigor is sufficient proof to deduce that our hairy-armed gentleman here crashed while driving a death-trap public minibus…

LUPE: (Indignant) Don’t make things up, lady! What minibus?! I own my vehicle—a hybrid sedan on an installment plan that I’m two payments away from paying off! I drive Uber Comfort, four-point-nine stars, you hear me?!

SAMANTHA: (Smiling with icy charm) Drove, darling. Drove. Past tense. Imperfect… much like your brakes. You do follow me, don't you? Drove, used to drive…

LUPE: (Stares at her blankly and mumbles under his breath) "Drove… used to drive…"

SCENE 4: The Cake of Discord

GUSTAVO: (Elbowing Lupe aside to take center stage) Excuse me! If you’re done with the dimwitted chauffeur, I would like to state formally for the record that I did not cause anyone’s death… Not on purpose… I am a man of the world, an eligible bachelor. I was simply in my apartment baking a gourmet pumpkin spice cake for an intimate gathering… Well, technically I hadn't put the pan in the oven yet… And yes, I did preheat the oven… and yes, perhaps I turned the dial a bit too far... Hotter is always better, I read that on Google…

GREGORY: (Yawns at length, breathing coffee fumes into Gustavo’s face) Yes, yes, save your breath, sir. You caused the catastrophe thanks to which everyone present is standing here in line without luggage…

SAMANTHA: (Checks her tablet, eyes widening, and lets out a venomous, crystalline laugh) Oh, stop it—Gregory, you have to read this! The cake story is a pious lie! Well, half a lie… He did leave the oven preheating at five hundred degrees with a leaky gas hose, and he did have the flour on the counter, but right here on the astral security feed it shows crystal-clear that he thought: "While the oven heats up, I’m going to take an artistic, 'slightly' elevated and suggestive selfie in the bathroom mirror to send to the receptionist at my gym."

ALL: (Turning to stare at Gustavo in stupor) What?!

GUSTAVO: (Indignant) "Slightly"?! Did it say slightly? No, no, there is nothing slight about my person!

SAMANTHA: (Savoring every word) Word for word! Good Lord… never better said. He climbed onto the bathroom sink wearing nothing but that vampire cape to achieve a "flattering downward angle," tried to suck in his gut, suffered a fulminating cramp in his diaphragm, slipped, whacked his shins… and got wedged upside down between the toilet bowl and the laundry hamper with his legs in the air. He couldn't get out to turn off the oven… Kaput! Ker-plow!

GUSTAVO: (Beet-red with embarrassment, clutching the cape tight up to his chin) Hey! My private life is not public domain! There are data privacy laws even in the afterlife! You have no right to comment on what I did or didn't do in my bathroom before dying! Besides, the bathroom lighting did wonders for my… pectorals!

SAMANTHA: (Pointing a mile-long nail at him) Listen to him, Gregory. He says I can’t comment on his miniature anatomy in distress, yet Loverboy here caused the deaths of seven people for a photo that wasn't even framed right… all you can see is the toilet tank. (Demonic irony). Everything came out backwards for you, young man.

GREGORY: (Taking a sip from his skull cup) What a peculiar fellow. I wager the other guests will want to strangle him on the spot now that they know he and his late-blooming narcissism are directly responsible for their demise… Look, Samantha, they’re already glaring daggers at him…

TABLEAU TWO: MUTINY IN PARADISE AND THE DIVA OF HEAVEN

SCENE 1: The Seventh Corpse and the Impossible Revenge

(Karla, Lupe, Lisy, and Flor stare fixedly at Gustavo. Gustavo backs up two steps toward the elevator).

KARLA: (With terrifying calm, pulling Flor’s mannequin arm out of her purse and wielding it like a club) Let me see if I understood this correctly, neighbor... Are you telling me I left my poor husband a widower, that my photo albums and my lace curtains burned to a crisp, and that this poor child lost her little arm... all because you wanted to photograph your microscopic miseries?

LUPE: (Advancing with his steering wheel like a ninja weapon) And your balcony landed flat on my roof right when I accepted a surge-pricing fare! How about I drop myself right on top of you?!

LISY: (Hysterical) And my flower crown! I died with full contour makeup and hair styled like a goddess, and nobody got to see me because of you, you third-rate vampire! I didn't even get to take my final selfie! The only picture that made the papers was the crime-scene tabloid shot—charred, mangled, and unflattering!

(Karla whacks Gustavo over the head with Flor’s plastic arm; Lupe tries to strangle him with his own vampire cape; Lisy yanks his ears).

GUSTAVO: Help! Security! I’m being lynched! Hey, stop squeezing, I… I’m not running out of air! (He stops. Lupe also freezes with his hands around Gustavo’s neck). Hey... you’re choking me with everything you’ve got, and I’m not suffocating.

FLOR: (Observing the scene like an art critic) Don’t strain yourself, Lupe… It’s the sweet, discreet charm of the afterlife. You can’t kill someone who’s already dead. It’s an ontological redundancy. Though I admit watching Miss Karla beat him with my left arm has a certain karmic, poetic justice to it. Wait a second, though... The lady with the long nails said seven people died. (Counts them with her finger). There are only five of us here. Where are the other two?

GREGORY: (Consulting his pocket watch) Excellent observation, Miss Flor. The sixth person is your dear mother, Mrs. Remedios.

FLOR: (Blinks in surprise) My mom? Why isn't she down here with us?

SAMANTHA: Because your mother was so punctual and impeccably organized in life that she arrived in Heaven ten minutes before the building finished collapsing. She already checked in, ironed her shroud, complimented the chef on the cleanliness of the clouds, and is currently having tea on the garden terrace. She said you always take hours to get ready and that you’d catch up with her upstairs.

FLOR: (Smiles tenderly) Typical. That’s my mom, alright. She probably already put crocheted covers on the angels’ pillows. And who was the seventh fatality?

GREGORY: The seventh was a street mime who happened to be walking past the building at the exact moment of the blast.

LUPE: Oh, that’s right! One of those mimes who follows pedestrians around the sidewalk! He loved imitating people so much he imitated us blowing up. Pretty funny, huh?

(Celestial crickets chirp from high above, followed by a pathetic "ba-dum-tss" rimshot on a drum).

SAMANTHA: Well, he certainly wasn't funny at all… that mime… so we sent him straight back down to Earth… I can’t stand mimes… can any of you?

(Dead silence. Nobody knows quite what to say… Suddenly, a fanfare of celestial trumpets blended with 1930s cabaret jazz rings out. The lobby lights shift to imperial purple, and the floor fog parts like a stage curtain).

GREGORY: (Snapping to attention and shutting his folder) Behave yourselves, everyone! Straighten your clothes and put that arm away! Here comes the General Manager.

SCENE 2: Helen’s Triumphal Entrance

(The golden doors of the central elevator slide open with a majestic "DING!". HELEN appears, radiant, wrapped in a glowing feather boa, holding a long ivory cigarette holder that blows soap bubbles instead of smoke. She struts to center stage like an absolute diva).

HELEN: (In a deep, theatrical, magnetic voice) My darlings, my adored newly departed… What a deliciously chaotic night to abandon the earthly plane. (Looks directly at the audience and winks). Down below, everyone is dressed up as corpses playing at scaring each other with wicked pumpkins, while up here we have the true stars of the season… fresh, crispy, and lightly smoked… dead.

LISY: (Whispering, starstruck) By all the spotlights in Broadway! What poise, what stage presence... Forgive me, ma'am, are you… the Virgin Mary?

HELEN: (Lets out a musical laugh) Please, darling, I wish! I am Saint Peter’s successor… Poor Peter got far too old and tired of opening and shutting gates… He retired in the nineteenth century; besides, he had atrocious taste in interior design—wanted everything rustic with rusty iron keys. I am Helen, Director of Hospitality of the Hereafter. I turned that boring pasture of clouds into this Five-Star Hotel.

GUSTAVO: (Giving a clumsy bow with his cape) Enchanted, Madam Helen. People of class understand one another. Look, there was a slight mix-up at the front desk because they accuse me of causing an accident (Helen stares at him with dead seriousness) … over a photo…. (Helen’s accusing gaze doesn't waver) that someone took of me… (Helen withers him with a glare). Would it be possible to get the key to my Penthouse now?

HELEN: (Looks him up and down and lifts his chin with her bubble holder) Oh, Gustavo… my delusional fifty-something. In my hotel, no one gets in by the size of their wallet, or how many followers they had, or how many candles are lit on their ofrenda. Here, rooms are assigned by an infallible algorithm I designed myself: The Law of Poetic Hotel Justice. So…

KARLA: Poetic justice? How does that work, Miss Helen? Do you have orthopedic mattresses?

HELEN: It works like this, my dear Karla: in this hotel, every soul receives the exact room they believe they deserve… combined with the very thing they spent their whole life running away from on Earth. However, since tonight is Halloween and the eve of Day of the Dead, I am in a festive mood. At midnight we host our Grand Gala Ball in the Ballroom of the Constellations. If you manage to settle into your rooms without losing your minds before twelve, you shall dine on ambrosia and dance with the stars.

LUPE: And what if we don't like the room? In motels back home, you can ask to switch rooms if the hot water doesn't work.

HELEN: (Smiling with macabre sweetness) If you reject your room or fail the trial night… Gregory will stamp you with a return label and send you back to Earth first thing tomorrow morning… reincarnated as seasonal decorations. You, Lupe, could be a giant plastic pumpkin, or the Creature from the Black Lagoon… that one would suit you rather well, actually.

LUPE: (Gulps) No, no swamp monster… I’ll keep the room, thanks.

HELEN: Gregory! Samantha! Roll out the corridor of doors. Check-in time!

TABLEAU THREE: THE CORRIDOR OF IMPOSSIBLE ROOMS

SCENE 1: The Suite of Honest Mirrors and the Empty Theater (Gustavo and Lisy)

(Gregory and Samantha wheel the three tall golden doors to center stage. The lighting turns surreal, casting elongated shadows to the tune of an out-of-tune music box).

GREGORY: (Standing before the first door, whose glowing sign reads "ROOM 404: SUITE OF THE ETERNAL YOUTH") First up: Gustavo and Lisy. Due to holiday overbooking, you will share a foyer on the Floor of Vanities.

GUSTAVO: (Rubbing his hands together, eyeing Lisy) Sharing a foyer with a young, gorgeous actress? Oh, Heaven is improving by the minute. After you, gorgeous—ladies first.

LISY: (Adjusting her singed crown) Don’t flatter yourself, Vampire Destroyer. I need my private dressing room to prepare my role as "Tragic Departed Ingénue."

(Samantha swings the golden door wide open. A rosy glow spills out, accompanied by canned applause and camera flashes).

SAMANTHA: For you, Lisy: the Grand Royal Theater of Heaven. Three thousand red velvet seats packed to the rafters, follow-spots twenty-four hours a day, and an infinite stage.

LISY: (Hands to her face, moved to tears) I knew it! The universe finally recognizes my dramatic gift! Goodbye to casting directors calling me "over the top"! (Pokes her head through the doorway and her smile freezes). Wait… hold on. Those people in the seats… they’re eyeless mannequins! And they have signs on their chests!

GREGORY: (Reading from his folder with British calm) Indeed. Three thousand mute theater critics. The system is programmed so the mannequins only applaud and toss roses when you speak a genuine truth without acting, posing, or inventing drama. Every time you fake a tear or exaggerate an anecdote… the mannequins will pelt you with rotten celestial tomatoes in dead silence.

LISY: (Backing away in horror) Speak without acting?! Tell the truth without sad background music?! But I don't know who I am when I’m not pretending! That’s not Heaven, that’s psychological torture!

HELEN: (Blowing a soap bubble) The price of stardom, darling. And now you, Gustavo. Down the hall to the right is your bedchamber: the Casanova Suite.

GUSTAVO: (Peeking in cautiously) Looks swanky… Rotating round bed, champagne on ice… Hey, wait—the walls, ceiling, and floor are completely lined with magnifying mirrors.

SAMANTHA: High-Definition Honest Mirrors! In that room, filters and dim lighting do not exist. Every mirror reflects your exact age down to the months, days, and seconds; highlights every gray hair you covered with box dye; displays the gut you’ve been sucking in since 2012; and, as ambient visuals on the ceiling screens, plays an infinite loop of the security footage showing you cramping up in the bathroom while trying to take that selfie.

GUSTAVO: (Shielding his eyes as if blinded by the sun, letting out a high-pitched shriek) Aaaah! I caught my reflection in the bathroom mirror and I look like my Great-Uncle Herbert in pajamas! And on the ceiling screen you can see my calf getting wedged in the toilet bowl! Turn it off! Put me in a pitch-black crypt without mirrors instead! I’m thirty-nine, I swear on my mother’s grave! Well… forty-one… you believe me, right?

GREGORY: (Pulls out his giant stamp and slams it into midair: BOOM!) Room assigned. Next pair.

SCENE 2: The Infinite Yellow Light and the Unplugged Kitchen (Lupe and Karla)

(Gregory wheels forward the second golden door. Its sign reads: "ROOM ½: DEPARTMENT OF DUTY FULFILLED").

LUPE: (Clutching his steering wheel, suspicious) Let’s see what little prank you pull on me. I’m a simple man. Give me a recliner, a TV with the Sunday game, and nobody backseat-driving me, and I’m good.

SAMANTHA: (Opens the door; the purr of a car engine and the rhythmic tick-tock of a turn signal fill the air) Congratulations, Lupe! Your room is a brand-new luxury sedan with leather seats that never stops moving. You are cruising down an open highway toward the eternal horizon.

LUPE: (Beaming) Hot damn! No potholes? No bumper-to-bumper traffic on the freeway? Hand over those keys! (Leans halfway through the door, then slams on the brakes). Hold it… Why is there a traffic light every thirty feet, and why are they all blinking yellow? And who is that lady sitting in the backseat holding a stopwatch?

GREGORY: That is a hologram of your mother-in-law merged with the voice of your GPS. If you step on the gas to run the yellow light, the car automatically resets to mile zero. And if you brake and wait for the green… you must listen to your mother-in-law explain for forty minutes why her daughter should have married her ex-boyfriend the engineer.

LUPE: (Jumping backward, sweating) Are you people insane?! Waiting at a red light while being compared to the engineer?! That’s unchristian! Down on Earth, running a yellow light is an act of self-care!

HELEN: On Earth you sped so fast to get nowhere, Lupe, that now you have all eternity to learn how to wait for green. And you, Miss Karla? Step up and see your quarters.

KARLA: (Peeking in timidly with her purse) Oh, what a huge, sparkling kitchen! Forty stoves, twenty steam irons, and eighty hanging Boston ferns… (Steps inside and begins searching the walls anxiously). Excuse me… where are the gas shut-off valves? And the outlets for the irons?

SAMANTHA: (Beaming) There aren't any, Miss Karla! Everything is perpetually unplugged, turned off, and fireproof. The pots scrub themselves, the plants are immortal even if you never water them, and nobody in all of Heaven needs you to cook for them, make their bed, or remind them to bring a sweater because it never gets cold here. At last, you can sit in that white armchair and worry about absolutely nothing for all eternity!

KARLA: (Begins to hyperventilate in terror) Sit down and do… absolutely nothing?! What if a draft catches an angel walking barefoot on the clouds?! What if Archangel Michael misplaces his dentures?! I can’t live in a place where I’m not needed! If I don't have a stove to turn off or somebody to fuss over, I’ll get so bored I’ll die all over again from sheer anxiety! (Bolts out of the doorway). At least put a lit votive candle next to some lace curtains so I can keep an eye on it, for charity’s sake!

SCENE 3: The Studio of the Unfinished Work (Flor)

(All the adults huddle on one side of the stage, trembling in front of their open doors. The third door stands center stage. Its hand-painted sign, still wet, reads: "IMPERIAL SUITE: STUDIO OF WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN").

FLOR: (Walks calmly to the third door and looks at Helen) I suppose this one is mine. What’s the ironic catch for me, Miss Helen? A room full of scholarship committee judges telling me my portfolio lacks "conceptual maturity"?

HELEN: (Her expression softens; she removes her dark sunglasses and looks at Flor with a blend of respect and melancholy) With you there is no catch, little Flor. You were the only one in this group who knew exactly where she stood from the moment the first brick fell. (Motions to Karla). Mrs. Karla, please return the young lady’s arm.

KARLA: (Pulling the mannequin arm from her purse) Oh, yes, sorry, I was using it to scratch my back. Here you go, sweetheart.

SAMANTHA: (In an unusually gentle tone, opening the third door) Inside your room is a loft bathed in eternal golden-hour light, canvases the size of buildings, and all the oil paints you could never afford because you spent your money on photocopies and bus fare.

FLOR: (Looks inside without crossing the threshold) It’s beautiful. But I have nothing to paint with, Miss Samantha. I was left-handed. My left arm was the one that knew how to draw; my right hand was only good for holding coffee mugs and signing rejection forms.

GREGORY: (Taking the mannequin arm from Karla and tossing it gently through the open doorway) At the Hotel of Heaven, the parts we lose through the negligence of reckless neighbors acquire artistic autonomy. Look inside.

(A warm, multicolored glow spills from the third doorway. Flor peers in, amazed).

FLOR: (With a genuine, childlike smile) No way! My left arm is floating all by itself in front of the easel… and it’s painting! It’s finishing the mural I left half-done in my bedroom because I was afraid of ruining it. And it looks incredible… It seems that without my head filling it with doubts and insecurities, my arm paints much better on its own.

HELEN: (Stepping beside her) Sometimes we overthink with our heads what our hands already know how to do by heart, darling. The suite is all yours. You may go in and rest.

FLOR: (Looks at the glowing studio, then turns to look at Gustavo, Lupe, Lisy, and Karla, who are huddled in a nervous heap on the hallway carpet. Flor gently pulls her door shut). Thank you, Miss Helen. I’ll let my left arm finish the painting by itself for a little while. If I go in right now, I’ll probably start correcting its brushstrokes. I’d rather stay out here with them—I’ve never had such absurdly tragic models to observe.

HELEN: (Glances at her diamond wristwatch) Suit yourselves. It is fifteen minutes to midnight and the start of our Grand Day of the Dead and Halloween Ball. You have fifteen minutes in this corridor to decide whether to enter your assigned rooms, or have Gregory bring out the return stamp and turn you into plastic pumpkins and sugar skulls. (To Gregory and Samantha). Come, darlings, let’s touch up our makeup—tonight I’m dressing up as a mortal with a mortgage; I want to strike genuine terror on the dance floor.

(Helen, Gregory, and Samantha exit with posh elegance behind the front desk. The lights dim to an intimate midnight blue).

TABLEAU FOUR: MIDNIGHT CONFESSIONS IN THE CORRIDOR

SCENE 1: Marigold Tea and Truth Without Makeup

(The five guests are left alone before the three closed doors. A long silence. Gustavo sits on the floor and takes off his cheap vampire cape, draping it over his knees).

GUSTAVO: (In a quiet voice, stripped of all arrogance) Fifty-four.

LUPE: (Sitting beside him, leaning on his steering wheel) Fifty-four what? Your body count?

GUSTAVO: I turned fifty-four last week. Not thirty-nine, not forty-two. Fifty-four. And there was no Danse Macabre party, and no girl from the gym waiting for my photo.

LISY: (Sitting on the rim of a planter, taking off her singed flower crown) Then why did you preheat the oven and climb onto the bathroom sink wearing that cape, Gustavo?

GUSTAVO: (Fidgeting with the hem of the cape) Because all my friends got married, or moved away, or have grandkids now, and I was terrified to admit I ended up alone from playing the eternal bachelor for too long. I bought a box of cake mix to bake myself a cake all alone for Day of the Dead, because nobody was ever going to put my picture on an altar when I died… And I put on the cape because I thought if the kids in the building knocked for trick-or-treat, they’d think I was fun—the cool uncle on the third floor. I climbed onto the sink not to take a dirty picture… but because the high mirror was the only angle where you couldn't see my empty dining table behind me. I wanted to post a picture smiling so my nephews would think I was at a great party. And then the cramp hit, I fell backward, hit my head on the tub, and… forgive me. Truly, forgive me for taking your lives away over my stupidity.

(A moving silence. Karla sighs, walks over to Gustavo, opens her purse, and pulls out an embroidered handkerchief).

KARLA: (Wiping a smudge of soot off Gustavo’s forehead, as if tending to a small boy) Oh, Mr. Gustavo… if you had knocked on my door in 102, I would have given you half my tamales. I even lied to all of you earlier when I said I left my husband a widower… Do you know why I left the stove on today? Because I made a pot of chicken soup for twelve people… living all by myself. My husband passed away three years ago, and my children live in another country. Every single day I lit all four burners just so the house would smell like family and wouldn't feel so cold. I was terrified of turning off the stove, because turning it off meant accepting that nobody was coming home for dinner anymore.

LISY: (Looking down at her shattered phone, letting out a sad little laugh) What a bunch of liars we all are. I told you I had thousands of fans waiting for my livestream… The truth is my last theater role was eight years ago, playing "Fourth Shadow" in a children’s play. My internet "fans" were twelve fake accounts I created myself under different emails just to leave myself sweet comments like "Bravo, Lisy, you’re a star!"—because if I didn't applaud myself, I felt like I was turning invisible.

LUPE: (Looking fondly at his steering wheel and finally setting it down on the floor, pushing it away) Well, welcome to the invisibles club, blondie. I didn't even need to drive Uber tonight; my bills were paid for the month. I went out cruising on Halloween night because the silence in my apartment weighs like lead ever since my divorce. I liked picking up drunk or costumed passengers just to hear voices in the backseat and chime in with "Yeah, boss, traffic’s a beast tonight." I ran that yellow light because the passenger who had just hopped out wished me a "happy holiday," and I wanted to catch the next fare fast so I wouldn't be left sitting alone in the quiet on the corner.

FLOR: (Moving closer to the group and sitting in the center) Listen to us… how ironic. Turns out we were all living in the same building and on the same block, dying of loneliness inside our little boxes, and it took Mr. Gustavo cramping up on his sink with his oven at five hundred degrees to finally get us sitting together talking in the living room.

GUSTAVO: (Cracking a half-smile) Put like that… I was a highly explosive neighborhood Cupid. Hey, Flor, do you really not hold a grudge against me for your arm and your London grant?

FLOR: Honestly, Mr. Gustavo, I didn't even want to go to London; it rains horribly over there and the food has no spice. I only applied for faraway grants to have an excuse for why I wasn't starting to paint here and now. And as for my arm… look, thanks to you, my left hand is working overtime in there without me even getting tired.

(The five of them begin to laugh—softly at first, then in open, liberating, absurd belly laughs. Rhythmic music begins to swell. They make ridiculous, freeing movements: Lisy places her crooked marigold crown on Lupe’s head; Lupe drapes Gustavo’s vampire cape over his shoulders like a shawl; Karla hugs both Gustavo and Flor).

SCENE 2: The Secret of the Master Key

(As the group’s laughter peaks, the three golden doors light up y swing open by themselves—no longer revealing absurd punishments, but warm, golden party light. HELEN, GREGORY, and SAMANTHA appear. Helen wears a haute-couture witch hat; Gregory wears a bat domino mask over his tailcoat; Samantha sports glittery cat ears).

HELEN: (Clapping slowly with her bubble holder) Bravo! Simply sublime! With one minute to spare before midnight.

LISY: (Standing up alongside the others) Miss Helen, we’ve made our decision. We don’t want your individual suites, or the mannequin theater, or the endless highway, or the unplugged kitchen. If you’re going to turn us into Halloween decorations, go right ahead, just put us all in the same shop window so we can keep gossiping together.

HELEN: (Smiling with genuine warmth) My dear innocents… Did you truly believe this Five-Star Hotel was a torture chamber? Those rooms were never your final destination; they were merely the dressing rooms where you had to take off the ridiculous costumes you wore all the way from Earth.

GREGORY: (Readying his giant stamp) Rule number one of celestial hospitality: no soul may enter the Grand Ballroom carrying luggage stuffed with appearances, guilt, or plastic steering wheels.

SAMANTHA: (Looking at her tablet with a smile she tries and fails to hide) By refusing to lock yourselves away alone inside your obsessions and choosing to laugh together on the hallway carpet… you have automatically unlocked the Shared Presidential Suite with a wrap-around balcony overlooking the Milky Way. Oh, and by the way, Flor… (An invisible stagehand or floating light emerges from the studio door and guides Flor’s arm back onto her shoulder; a magical flash illuminates her, and Flor wiggles both hands in astonishment). Your arm finished the painting. It says it turned out museum-worthy, and that it was starting to miss the rest of you.

FLOR: (Wiggling the fingers of her left hand joyfully) It’s back! And it has ultramarine blue paint on its fingers!

GREGORY: (Stepping in front of each of the five and stamping midair with a magical chime: TING!) Gustavo, thirty-nine plus fifteen: Made in Heaven. Lupercio, driver in no hurry: Made in Heaven. Lisy, true actress: Made in Heaven. Karla, guest of honor who does zero dishes tonight: Made in Heaven. Flor, complete artist: Made in Heaven.

TABLEAU FIVE: THE TUTTI-FRUTTI GRAND BALL (HALLOWEEN IN MICTLÁN)

SCENE 1: The Reverse Ofrenda

(The twelve chimes of midnight ring out, blending into festive music: an eccentric Danny Elfman-style waltz that morphs into joyful swing laced with marimba and Day of the Dead violins. Thousands of golden marigold petals and black-and-orange confetti rain from the rafters. The reception desk spins around to become a glowing bar stocked with bubbling champagne flutes, giant loaves of pan de muerto, dancing skeletons, and glowing jack-o'-lanterns).

HELEN: (Raising a sparkling glass) It is midnight in Heaven and on Earth! Tonight is the only night of the year when the upper floors and the lower floors share the same elevator! Down on Earth, the living set up altars with our photos thinking we come back just for the enchiladas… but here at the Hotel of Heaven, tradition calls for setting up a Reverse Ofrenda!

LUPE: A reverse ofrenda? Who’s that for, Boss Lady?

HELEN: (Pointing directly into the theater auditorium; the house lights come up softly to 30%) For them, of course! For the living who came out tonight to watch us, thinking they have life on a permanent lease!

SAMANTHA: (Stepping down to the edge of the stage, eyeing the audience mischievously) Just look at them sitting out there in the dark, how precious. All worried about whether they parked the car in a tow zone, how much credit card interest they’ll owe on Monday, or whether their Halloween costume makes their hips look wide.

GUSTAVO: (Leaning over the edge of the stage, addressing someone in the front row) Hey, pal! Yes, you in the front row… If you preheat the oven tomorrow morning to bake cupcakes, for the love of God, do not take your phone into the bathroom! Trust me, cramps strike when you least expect them!

KARLA: (To the audience, maternal) And turn off the stove before going to bed—but don't forget to invite your neighbors over for coffee even if you’re out of sweet bread! Clean curtains don’t make good conversation in the afterlife!

LISY: (Blowing a theatrical kiss to the crowd) And if you take a picture tonight, make sure it’s blurry, messy-haired, and laughing your heads off! I swear on my twelve fake accounts that vanity doesn't clear customs in Heaven!

SCENE 2: The Waltz of Happy Imperfections

GREGORY: (Serving dry-ice champagne flutes to everyone) The buffet is officially open, ladies and gentlemen! And for Miss Lisy’s peace of mind, we have canceled the crab omelet: we have pan de muerto freshly baked by the clouds, hot chocolate that restores the soul’s appetite, and candied apples from Eden.

LISY: (Taking a huge bite of pan de muerto, dusting her nose with sugar) Mmm! It tastes like being eight years old before I knew what a calorie was! Dying is delicious!

FLOR: (Looking toward the central elevator as its gilded doors slide open) Hey, look! It wasn't true about the mime—they didn't send him back! And he’s walking out with my mom! Oh, you sneaky devils!

SAMANTHA: (Winking at Flor) What can I say? Not everything I say is true, and not everything I say is a lie… Don’t believe a word I say, ha!

HELEN: Welcome the punctual mother and the silent gentleman! Hit it, Maestro—this eternity is just getting started!

(The music swells into an infectious, elegant, carefree rhythm. A delightful ensemble choreography unfolds: Gustavo bows gallantly in his vampire cape to invite Karla to dance, and she accepts laughing without letting go of her purse; Lupe dances an energetic rock-and-roll number with Samantha, who finally sets down her tablet and spins happily; Lisy dances with Gregory, trying to match his proper British step while munching on pan de muerto; and Flor twirls center stage with both arms outstretched alongside Helen, as soap bubbles and golden marigold petals fill the entire stage).

HELEN: (Center stage, as the dancers gradually freeze around her into a glowing, living postcard) A toast to the living who will one day be our guests, and a toast to the dead who finally learned how to live! Welcome to Heaven: Five Stars, a view of infinity… and continental breakfast included!

(Gregory slams his giant rubber stamp one last time against the stage floor: BOOM! A golden flash illuminates the entire theater).

BLACKOUT

 

WELCOME TO HEAVEN (A Five-Star Hotel… Shooting Stars, That Is). © 2026 by BENJAMIN GAVARRE is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 4.0