Awake in Hell (8 page)

Funny,
I’ve perused so many of my memories from my life since arriving here, hanging
on to what I do remember to make up for the fact that I don’t remember so much
of my later life. Yet, the memory of
Comegy’s
was
tucked away somewhere and has taken this long to come out and play. Was it the
garden and subsequent thoughts of flowers? Was it because I had yet another
traumatic day and these memories were a symptom?

With
my thoughts a jumble, my arms aching, and emotionally exhausted I pulled into
the truck bay at TCC. Evil Santa was waiting for me, clipboard in hand, looking
quite officious. I hopped out of the truck and said, “Well boss, I heard the
gears grinding a little but I don’t think I totally destroyed the truck. 
Which is quite an achievement, if I do say so myself!”

He
looked at me with this weird face... like part mad, part sad... and said,
“Sorry, Louise. This isn’t going to work out.” Then he handed me a pink slip. An
actual pink slip!

“What?
What in the fuck are you talking about? I did a fabulous job today!!” My mind
is reeling. What could I have done? I was surly, I picked up trash,
I
almost ran over a kid for fuck’s sake. How do you lose a
job picking up trash on the first day??

“Oh,
yeah, you started out really great! We were really jazzed about you in the home
office! You were out less than 15 minutes when the phones started ringing with
complaints.” he stopped to chuckle for a few seconds. “You really know how to
piss people off, Louise. I would have thought you were born for this job.” then
he paused. “But then....”

“But
then what??” I demanded to know. “Is it because I was kind of nice to Mrs.
Barnes?”

“Kind
of nice?” Evil Santa says accusingly. “No, it’s because you spent 3 hours with
her, helping her clean out her yard, even after you knew what she was going to
do once it was clean!”

“You
don’t really believe that she is going to be able to grow anything down here,
do you?” I said, now openly speaking to him like the mentally challenged person
I believe him to be. “If I had thought she could possibly get even a weed to
sprout up in this shithole I wouldn’t have helped. But, knowing she’s actively
participating in an exercise in futility, I figured, what the Hell? I’ll take
the garbage... since I’ve got a GARBAGE TRUCK. And what moron would have given
me the keys to a garbage truck if I wasn’t supposed to collect trash? So, if we
follow that line of thinking to
it’s
obvious and
logical conclusion, that would mean YOU, wouldn’t it St. Nick? You would be the
total fuckin’ moron who gave me the keys, then sent me off to pick up
trash.  And now, after one fucking day, is giving me the boot! Well, that
is bullshit! And I’ll make sure the temp agency knows it!”

Yeah,
okay.  So, all of that is totally not true. I’m actually rooting for Mrs.
Barnes and her garden, but I can’t let Evil Santa know that and I absolutely,
positively, cannot lose my job today. Having to go sit in front of
Deedy
and tell him I got sacked right out of the gate would
be the single worst moment of my entire life. And keep in mind, that once when
I was living, I actually got so drunk that I threw up, shit my pants, and
passed out all simultaneously. Facing
Deedy
would
feel worse than that. I have to try and save this crappy job, if I possibly
can.

Evil
Santa starts laughing again. “Yep, Louise, you sure know how to piss people
off. Sorry.” Then he forces me to accept the pink slip. I look down at it and
read with tears welling up in my eyes:

Termination
for Inciting Hope

Chapter
Ten

 As
I walked back to the agency, I’m vacillating between total rage, panic, and
humiliation. First, I’m just plain pissed off. The reason I took this crazy
temp job gig is because the agency implied (though they never came out and
said...
hmmmmm
....) that there might be some loophole
that I could use to get out of here. To go where, I don’t know, but anywhere is
better than here, right? I mean, let’s look at the choices: Purgatory — that’s
a possibility. Sitting around in nothingness hoping someone will pray me into
heaven. However, considering the fact that I’m not, and never have been
Catholic (I didn’t even have a lot of Catholic friends. There was, Molly
O’Brien, in elementary school who was a good friend of mine. But after my first
sleepover at her house the combination of my giggling at the dinner table when
they crossed themselves, and sneaking her dad’s cigarettes after her parents
went to bed... well, suffice it to say, Molly turned green after 3 puffs of a
Camel unfiltered and we started a small fire in the living room which pretty
much put the kibosh on the two of us ever hanging out again.)
means
I’m probably not on the “Will Call” list at the
Purgatory Club.

Then
there’s the whole reincarnation question. Could it be? Could I just be sent
back to do it all over again like a giant mulligan? Whoa, that’s an interesting
concept. Unless... I could be sent back and end up in one of those third-world
countries where celebrities are always going to get their pictures taken with
the poor and wretched children. Those kids always have flies landing on their
lips and pathetic shit like that. This particular option would suck. You know,
partially because I probably wouldn’t even know that the people getting their
pictures taken with me were famous, since I more than likely wouldn’t even know
what a television is, and partially because of the whole “fly landing on lips”
thing.

The
last option? Well, I can’t really think about the last option. I mean,
really... could there be a place in H-town for someone whose eternity has
already been deemed fire and brimstone worthy? And let’s say there was a way to
actually earn a place in Heaven from Hell? How could it be earned or proven
unless the person in question showed a certain capacity for compassion or the
ability to do
good
? Okay, and HOW in the name of
everything sacred, is a person supposed to do that if every time this person
does anything even remotely redeemable - BOOM - down comes the hammer right
smack dab on her damn head??

This
is where the panic sets in. What if this was my only chance? What will happen
when
Deedy
finds out I got fired right away? What
happens if he gives me one of those wise smiles of his, maybe pats me on the
back (probably not though, considering that whole no touch policy of his), and
tells me not to let the door hit me in the ass on my way out. What if I have,
in fact, destroyed any possibility of a second chance? But my real fear? In my
heart of hearts, my actual fear is that I might end up exiled from the
agency... from
Deedy
. Mr.
Deedy
,
the man who seems to know me better than I know myself. Mr.
Deedy
,
the man with the fabulous suit in a world where clothing is punitive, not to
mention office furniture, and the best assistant in town. Mr.
Deedy
, whose company has quickly, yet completely, become
something that means more to me than I can even bear to describe here.

That
cues the tears, along with the crushing humiliation that comes with the
knowledge I may have disappointed the only truly important person I’ve met
since the day I passed away.

I
pause in front of the doors to the agency to check myself in the reflective
glass and try to pull myself together. Also, I haven’t forgotten Gabby’s
special gifts, so I’m also trying to collect my thoughts and make them somewhat
non-incriminating for the mind reader. I’m trying desperately to give myself a
pep-talk, not wanting to dissolve into a giant, wet, snotty mess the second I
get upstairs. Once I feel like I’ve gotten my poop in a group, I reach for door
only to have a uniformed arm reach out from behind me and open the door for me.

“Will!”
I say excitedly as I turn to face his boyish smile. He’s back in his Monkey
Suit.  “How did you change so quickly? Did you pull a Hepburn in the back
of a cab?”

He
looks at me with a confused look on his face. I can’t help but smile, no matter
how awful I feel inside. “So, not a Breakfast at Tiffany’s fan?” I say
teasingly.

He
looks at me and laughs as we make our way across the lobby, once again arm in
arm. “Actually I have had plenty of time. After I left you this morning I was
able to make my way over here. You just caught me coming back from running a
few errands for the Boss.”

I
draw my breath in as though I’ve been struck. Not only at the mention of “the
Boss” but also if he left that early than Will must not know. So, I look at him
and said “You haven’t heard, then?”

“That
you were let go? Yeah, I heard. And, I’m sorry, Louise. Really.” he looks at me
with sincere sympathy. “So, is that where you are headed? Upstairs to tell the
Boss?”

“Trying
to work up the nerve, to be honest. Or maybe waiting for some inspiration to
strike that will give me a great excuse for not being able to go longer than a
day on my first assignment.” I say, all of the sudden feeling dejected again.

“Want
some advice from a relatively new ‘old friend’?” he says.

“Sure.”
At this point, I would take anything.

“Just
tell him the truth. Speak from the heart. It’s not like he won’t know anyway if
you are lying. Surely you’ve already figured that out about him.”

“Yeah,
he’s definitely got a highly tuned bullshit meter.” I say with a sigh. “Will, do
you know anything about him? Why he is here? Why his office is so comfortable?
Why his clothes don’t look like a bad practical joke?”

Will
laughs and says “Louise, I’m just a paltry elevator guy. Those are all
worthwhile questions though — questions for him, however. Not me.”

“Thanks
Will
, for everything today. Without you I probably
wouldn’t have lasted the few hours I did.”

He
gave me a small bow and pats me on the arm again. “You’ll be just fine. Come,
My Lady, your chariot awaits!” he says just as the doors open. The doors to my
elevator of doom.

When
they open again, I’m on the 17th floor. I find myself once again frozen, my
legs apparently turning slowly into spaghetti before my very eyes. The funny
thing is, this time it is not the height that has me all bugged out, it’s
what’s waiting for me inside. I realize, that right at this moment I know
exactly how a murderer feels when he walks into the execution chamber.

“Are
you going to join us today, Louise? Or did you just come to play on the
elevator?” says Gabby from inside. It’s enough to make my spaghetti legs snap
to attention. I step off to find her standing there smiling. And in her hand is
a steaming cup of that glorious coffee. I take it gratefully.

“This
might be my last cup of this wonderful coffee, Gabby.” I say, savoring each and
every sip.

“Why
would you think that, dear?” she says

“I
can’t bear to tell the story twice, so you’ll have to get the highlights later.
Is he in?” I say.

“In
and waiting for you.” she replies, “Go on. You’ll be fine.” Weird, isn’t that
verbatim what Will said to me on the elevator?

I
walk toward the office with my spaghetti legs slowly turning to something more
in the lead category. When I get to the door I pause, steel myself, and quietly
say, ‘Do not fall apart. Do not fall apart. Do not fall apart.”

Then
I walk through the door and fall apart.

Deedy
is sitting behind his desk holding
up a check in front of his face with his smiling eyes peeking over it.
“Bore-Da, Louise Patterson!” he exclaims, apparently in his native tongue, and
he looks so happy for me I just can’t help but cry. Suddenly, his face changes
to one of concern.

“My
darling girl, I thought you’d be more pleased... what, with this being your
first check from the agency!”

I
actually start to sob now. “Yeah, well, you’d better keep it. In fact, put in
it in the curse jar. Because I’m in no condition to watch my language.” I can
literally feel the snot building up inside my head. This is not going to be
pretty.

“Oh
my.” says
Deedy
, with nothing but concern in his
voice. “You’d better tell me everything.”

I
sink into one of his comfy chairs, trying to imprint the feeling onto my brain
since it may be the last time I get to sit in one for all of time itself. “I
will...” I start, knowing that I will tell him about the little girl, and the
spooky way she was there and then wasn’t, and about Mrs. Barnes and her crazy
potluck garden, and about how I felt when I saw Will there, and about Evil
Santa, and driving the truck. But there’s one thing I have to get off my chest
first, so I say, “But first, I have to start at the end. I... got... fucking...
fired!”

Then
I just start to wail.

Chapter
Eleven

At
last I’m lying in my bed after another long and emotional day. Long and emotional
are my new M.O. much to my own chagrin. However,
Deedy
let me talk and talk, which I have to admit makes the new soppy me a little
easier to bear.
Deedy
sat patiently, in another
gorgeous suit by the way, while I regaled him with tales of my day. He didn’t
even flinch when I occasionally forgot myself and let rip a four letter word or
two (or seven or ten...). He laughed out loud at my reproach of Evil Santa
after he copped a feel, and had the good graces to look slightly embarrassed
when I shared the fact I had discovered Will there to watch over
me.   We talked about Mrs. Barnes and her unlikely garden and the
idea of this poor old woman planting mystery seeds in the single most hostile
environment ever known.  Seemed to delight him beyond all reason. However,
even that couldn’t compare to
Deedy’s
excitement over
my story about
Comegy’s
flower stand.

“And
what did you learn about yourself with that uncovered memory?” he asked me.

“I
learned... that… even girls that claim to hate flowers are incapable of saying
no to a man that has one in his hand?”

Deedy
laughed at that. “I’m sure you
must have discovered something else. Something about your own nature?” He
stared at me with those endlessly patient eyes.

“I
guess so. I guess this means that I’m kind of nice! I mean, it was nice of me
to take the flower every day. Oh! And putting it on graves, right? That made me
nice too! It was a good deed kind of thing.” I’d always heard good deeds would
get you into heaven. Maybe I was wrong, and maybe with a few more memories like
this, I’ll be home free.

Deedy
chuckled. “It’s not about being
nice, Louise.” I figured that was too easy. “It is about respect. It is about
the regard in which you held Mr.
Comegy
, by never
wanting to bring him discomfort by refusing his daily gift. And yes, it was
about the graves too. About the very indiscriminate, yet unbelievably
considerate, way you chose to use that gift. To place it on a grave and to pay
your respects to the person it represented, regardless of whether you knew the
person or how that person had lived. You never asked whether she was good
enough, made enough money, or whether he was handsome enough. You never asked
if she cheated on her husband or did he beat his wife? You just left a blessing
on a random grave, and in return you were blessed.”

Those
three words, “You were blessed,” was enough to make the tears flow freely, once
again. “I swear, I wasn’t anything like this in life. I just wanted you to
know.” I said, as I wiped some bawling-inspired mucus onto the sleeve of that
hideous orange jumpsuit.

“Like
what, darling girl?”
Deedy
asked as he tugged on his
perfectly tailored sleeve, then reached into his desk for a box of tissues in
response.

“This
emotional.  I didn’t burst into tears every time I saw a puppy or a really
great greeting card commercial.” I said with disdain.

“Well...”
Deedy
said thoughtfully “It’s been a rough eternity
for you so far.”

That
made me actually giggle a little. Good old
Deedy
, the
only person I’ve ever met that could make someone smile while literally walking
through Hell.

But
then I told him about the little girl. He almost jumped out of his seat.

“Tell
me about her.”

I
told him about what she was wearing, about the ball, about how adorable she
was. How frightened I was when I thought I’d hit her, and how she disappeared.

“Can
you tell me her name, Louise?” he asked.

“No.
She never told me,” I answered. That’s a weird question, right? I mean, a
little girl shows up in the middle of Hell and all
Deedy
wants to know is her name?

“Okay.
Well, overall Ms. Patterson, I’d say your first day at the agency was a
resounding success!”
Deedy
said, in his game show
host voice.

“Grand
success? I got FIRED
Deedy
.” I answered.

“Eh,
it’s a process.” he replied. “You’ll get the hang of it. Now here’s what I
really need to know. How did you feel about the whole driving thing?”

“It
was actually kind of cool.” I said, with just a bit of pride in my voice.
“Having to control that big old truck, it was the closest thing to fun I’ve had
since I got here.”

“Good.
Because driving is the only skill set you need for your next assignment! And of
course, I’m saying that
half jokingly
. Since the
worse your driving skills are, the more successful you’re going to be!”
Deedy
passes me another piece of paper. “Welcome to the
world of hired transport, my darling girl!”

Another
assignment! And as a cabbie! I was so excited I almost leaped across that big
desk and hugged
Deedy
, if it hadn’t been for knowing
that even the concept of doing such a thing would horrify him in every
conceivable way.  “Thank you, Mr.
Deedy
. Thank
you, thank you,
thank
you!”

My
enthusiasm made him smile. “Now go, and get some sleep. You have to be alert
tomorrow.”

As
I started to leave, I remembered I had a few questions about him, and who or
what he was. I turned and
Deedy
was staring straight
at me, like he knew what I was about to say. “Can I just ask...
”
I started, when he put up a long, elegant hand.

“Not
yet, darling girl... not yet,” was all he said.

And,
for whatever reason, that was just fine with me.

Tonight
sleep creeps onto me slowly, which makes the veil between reality and dreams
get blurred and thin. These dreams feel real, and vivid, and nightmarish. The
fear is especially real, as if it’s in own separate character in the nightmare.
I hate these dreams.

I’m
in a house. It’s an absolutely huge house with an elevator. I’m pretty sure
I’ve never been in a house big enough for an elevator, however, I seem to be
quite used to it in nightmare world. The house seems really run down and in
disrepair, which means that the elevator doesn’t work all the time. I find
myself wandering around, crawling through ducts, going up and down endless
staircases. That’s the part that I hate the most. Nightmares are even more
frightening sometimes than Hell itself. Even in Hell everything has a sense of
reason, time is still kind of linear, and even the supernatural bullshit comes
from such an obvious perspective that you would have to be blind not to see it
coming. The thing is that tonight, as it is most of the time, the dream version
of me never stops and says, “This fucking house makes no sense!!” The dream
‘me’ just gets more and more panicked as I keep getting more and more lost.

I
get to the point where I can barely breathe with fear and something else... the
sense of being alone and knowing that I shouldn’t be. Who else should be here?
Linda? Mom and Dad? Is this supposed to be my house? These are passing thoughts
that don’t actually enter my dream mind but float above it like a voice from
above.

Here’s
the thing, what are nightmares but the subconscious mind exploring the things
that we fear the most? And what is there to fear in life? Well, pretty much
everything including the final and
all encompassing
fear of dying. But if you are already dead, than what is there to fear? People
would assume that death means the ultimate freedom from anything frightening,
but they would be very, very wrong. I can’t exactly say it in words, but I can
tell you that it scares the shit out of everyone down here. And whatever it is,
I feel it tonight in this dream house. I feel it breathing down my neck,
waiting to pounce on me. Waiting inside my aloneness. Perhaps that is it,
loneliness personified, and what could be more terrifying than that? So, I keep
on running through the corridors and ductwork searching for the something or
someone that will bring me peace, even as I realize that I have no idea who
that may be.

Suddenly,
I find myself on a staircase.  I’m standing on a landing at the top,
looking across a large foyer over to the other side, where there’s an identical
staircase. Standing on that staircase is the little girl.  The same little
girl from the trash truck incident. I feel that same wave of affection and
familiarity as I recognize her. She’s smiling now, unlike the last time I saw
her when her adorable face was contorted with anger. I smile back and wave at
her. She squeals, like she’s actually happy to see me. Then she says, “You
found us!” and claps her hands in pure, childlike joy.

“I’m
very relieved to see you again. You scared me when you dashed off from my
garbage truck!” I started to say, with just a mild tone of scolding. Then I
realized she said ‘us’. “Do you have someone with you, sweetie?” All of the
sudden, he appeared behind her.  An absolutely gorgeous man, of average
height, not of average build. More like a brick shithouse, with muscles
straining against the seams of a black tee shirt. Dark, wavy hair that is cut
short, as if he’s trying to make it submit yet, it’s still just a little wild.
His skin is golden, just tan enough without making him look like he spends too
much time in a tanning bed. His strong, sinewy arms are encircled around the
girl’s shoulders.  When his glance darts from her to me, I find myself
staring into the most beautiful blue eyes I’ve ever experienced, smiling at me
from behind wire rimmed glasses. I feel my breath draw in quickly as I return
his gaze. Then I notice him looking again at my small, strange friend. There’s
a sense of familiarity they display toward one another. Maybe they are related?
Maybe he’s her protector in the afterlife? I am aware that there are so many
things running through my head. First, I’m hoping, against hope, that this
precious girl is not dead, that she’s just a figment of my warped imagination.
Second, I wish upon every star, that I will never see again, that I could feel
that protection, that kind of devotion, to have strong arms to wrap around me
and take away all the fear in this horrible house, or maybe even from Hell
itself.

Finally,
the one thought that leaves me feeling cold, as it drills into my brain, is
what if I am what’s waiting in the darkness, the unknown demon that sneaks
around in the black and makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up? What
if the handsome man is protecting the little girl from me?

I
bolt awake and sit upright in my bed. Nightmares suck. My head is pounding with
images from my dream still banging around up there. I sit in the stillness for
a moment and recall the faces that had been real to me just a few minutes
before. Why is this little girl suddenly everywhere? Is she a lesson I’m
supposed to learn? Is she a symbol? Is she my inner child who can’t be kept
inside anymore? And the man with her — what a man! Kudos to my imagination for
coming up with something like him. However, no matter how lovely he was, how
blue those eyes were, there was a certain sadness in them. It’s a realization
that chills me now, even in the bright light and heat of the day.

Who
are these ghosts that haunt the dead instead of the living? And why are they
haunting me?

Okay,
so speaking of the heat of the day, it’s time to shake off the horrors of the
dark and get to work. Today, I get to be a cab driver! That concept might
create some anxiety inside of me if I were living, since I rarely go unescorted
beyond the three or four blocks of my own address.  Mainly because I was
born without that internal compass everyone else in the universe apparently has
inside their brains. My complete lack of a sense of direction is still a source
of amusement in some circles. When I turned sixteen and got my driver’s
license, my mom said she would send me to the store and never see me again. Of
course, she was eating those words when I turned thirty and was still sponging
off her. However, in Hell, the thought of me being responsible for getting
people places, particularly on time, spawns anticipation instead of fear. Here
cabbies don’t ever know where they are going and they never get you there on
time. The only reason every cab ride in Hell doesn’t end with a fiery crash and
a huge body count is primarily because we are all already dead and,
metaphorically at least, already on fire.

Cab
drivers don’t wear uniforms. The fact that I’ll be inside of a metal box with a
choice between no climate control
or
spasmodic blasts
of even more heat is a little worrisome.

Whatever
the closet prepares for me today, I sure hope it is something a little
breathable. That thought is bouncing around in my head as I approach the portal
to my daily torture chamber, a.k.a. my closet. Then, as I open the door, I
realize that I should never think thoughts like that as I am opening anything
in Hell, because it had obviously read my mind and produced the diametric
opposite of my wish. This is an absolute testimony to the bottomless cruelty
and the punitive irony, and just a bit of sardonic humor that whoever is in
charge of this process must have in spades because there it is... FUCKING
LEATHER.