Awake in Hell

by Downing, Helen

  So, I told him about my mom and dad and Linda. I told him about Hank and how the day before Linda’s wedding I had a huge bachelorette party and got totally wasted and begged her not to marry him. I told him about my cancer. How I remember lying in bed with people around me, but I can’t imagine who all those people would be. I told him about my Mom talking but I don’t remember what she said. Then I told him about waking up under the overpass and realizing I was damned for eternity and how that’s been working out for me. I rambled on and on and Deedy actually listened to every single word. He laughed when I tried to be funny, he cooed when I tried to be wistful, and when I tried to invoke emotion by talking about my regrets and fears he looked at me like I was full of shit.

  “What? I’m not allowed be contrite because I ended up in Hell?” I say after one of those ‘oh please’ looks from Deedy.

  “Of course you can. But here’s what I wonder... ”

  I waited. For a while. Then I finally explode with exasperation. “Wonder about???”

  He looked at me, looked into me. His eyes locked on mine and for a minute I actually got goose bumps. There was a fire in his stare, like his eyes were made of the same stuff as Hell itself. It was like he was a peeping Tom but instead of looking at my body through a window, he was looking at my soul. Which actually felt more intimate than if I were standing in front of him naked. Then suddenly, it was over, and Deedy was back to being the little boy stuck inside a grown man’s body. His face and eyes filled with laughter and kindness, once again.

  “I wonder how you feel about garbage.” He said suddenly.

  “Garbage? I can honestly say that I’ve never spent a single moment of my life, or afterlife, contemplating it in any way.” I say with a hint of disgust.

  “Well, my darling girl, that is about to change!” said Deedy, with the enthusiasm of a game show host telling me I’d just won a million dollars. But instead of a million dollars, he handed me a small yellow slip of paper with an address on it.

  “What is this? A piece of trash I’m supposed to think about?” I said.

  Deedy laughed out loud. “Nope. This is your first temp job. You, Louise May Patterson, are now in the waste management industry!”

  “A Garbage Man?” I say weakly, my stomach already starting to turn.

  Okay, so I think that I accidentally lied to Deedy. I have actually thought about garbage. Well, more specifically, I’ve thought about garbage collection. There was a brief affair once with a guy who owned a trash collection company — married of course. He found himself, out and about, each Wednesday morning trucking around suburbia, a landscape consistently cluttered by both trash cans and bored housewives. It didn’t take long to find his true calling, which was collecting conquests as well as rubbish. The coffee klatches in town were full of twittering, middle-aged women, who spoke in whispers of Don “the trash man” and his sexual repertoire. Eventually, the rumors trickled down into my crowd. So, as a public service, of course, I decided to find out what could be proven or denied.

  To that purely altruistic end, I stood outside one Wednesday morning and watched as his truck hopscotched its way down my street picking up cans from either side with a lumbering zigzag that just screams GARBAGE TRUCK. Don, “the trash man” was a very handsome, African-American man, (not Denzel good-looking, but damn close for this town) with a body built by manual labor. In the morning sun he looked like he had been chiseled out of ebony. What can I say? I was ready to approach this pursuit of truth with gusto. Occasionally he’d stop and talk to someone, usually female. She’d have a cold drink or a plate of some baked good to offer him and they seemed to be having harmless conversation, about the weather or a local sports event. When in reality, they were probably planning an encounter for later in the day. That guy’s appointment book must have looked like a doctor’s office diary. He must have ordered Viagra by the case. When he finally got to my house, I was acting as disinterested in him and his truck as I could muster. Instead, pretending to be studying something terribly important in the yard, as if there was anything in my front yard to hold my interest at that hour of the morning, aside from the prospect of getting laid by a semi-pro.

  “You up early or just going to bed?” he said to me that first morning — just kind of jumped right in, so to speak.

  I answered him with the same flirty tone of voice. “Figured I’d come see what all the fuss is about. You know, the whole ‘early bird’ propaganda that you hear all the time.”

  “So, you’re bird watching?” he said with a sly smile.

  “No, I’m out here hunting for a worm.” I returned. (Yes, the double-entrendres were flying like bullets in a Dirty Harry movie.)

  He finished with the can in front of my house and had just set it down, empty. So, I fired off a question. “What happens if you have to pee while you are on your route? Are you allowed to knock on someone’s door and ask to use their powder room?”

  Now, believe it or not, I have used the “what if you have to pee” question as a pick-up line on many occasions. All with great success. Whether it’s a paraplegic, or the guy standing in front of the seafood restaurant in a lobster suit, or the garbage man... the response is always the same.

  “Wow,” said Don, laughing. “You are the first person to ever ask me that question!” Then he looked at me with new eyes, as if to say ‘this one’s got moxy!’

  It was as if I’d written the script and he was right on cue.

  Then he started to tell me about various public restrooms or porta potties on his route and how one learns how to time where and when they stop for coffee in coordination with how far one is from the nearest public facility. Then, he said the most horrifying thing I’ve ever heard in my life. “But I always keep a mayonnaise jar under the front seat in case my calculations are off.”

  Now, I know you want to hear how I lured him into my house. Which was consequently, empty due to the fact that my mother had gone to the nearest city with my aunt on a shopping trip and my dad was, of course, at work. You’ll also be wanting to hear about all the nasty things he did to me on my mom’s kitchen counters. And how she never knew it because if she had, she would have set fire to them or possibly ripped them up with her bare hands before ever preparing food on them again. When you mix someone as practiced and proficient as Don, ‘the trash man’, with someone as committed to the craft of freakdom as myself, raise the mere sport of fucking to a fiery level of passion that can only be described as an art form.

  But unfortunately, I cannot tell you about that. Because now, all I can think about is that mayonnaise jar.

  As I’m walking back from the interview (I had foregone the idea of finding the special tagged cabbie to take me home), that is the one distracting thought that keeps ricocheting around inside my brain. I’m in Hell, and I’ve just secured a job that requires a mayonnaise jar under the best of circumstances... which would be in the land of the living... and I’m stuck in ‘the-worst-case-scenario’ world.

  As I reach my apartment I’m totally spent. What a crazy day. I am emotionally, mentally, and physically exhausted. Today I discovered a phone where before there was none. I met a telepath. Pretty sure the first one ever in my experience. I went higher into the abyss we call a sky down here, than ever before. I had the best cup of coffee in Hell, I’m almost certain. I sat in pure comfort for a little while, and talked to another person about something more substantial than how hot it is, or what I wanted to eat or just to say “Fuck you!” for the first time since arriving here. And that other person happened to be Deedy, the most remarkable being I’ve ever met in life, or the afterlife. I survived my first ever job interview, and even came out employed. Something I probably could be quite proud of, if I had the energy.

  Yet, as I stumble up to my tiny apartment and collapse on the bed, I kick off my Mary Jane’s and allow myself to drift off with one singular thought...

  You just know I’m going to have to pee in a jar tomorrow.

  Chapter Seven
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  Epic dreaming. When I was alive, I used to love those few and far-between nights when my brain would decide that it was going to entertain me. Creating in my subconscious this delicious story, that played out like a film with grand cinematography and everything. Epic dreams are always fictional, but with great metaphorical value. They usually star me and my friends doing amazing things, like flying through jungles (sans aircraft since we can actually fly!!), swashbuckling on a pirate ship, or hanging out at some fancy nightclub with our favorite pop stars. And the next day, while it was still fresh in my memory, I’d call up Linda or some other friend who had made an appearance in the show from the night before, and tell them every detail of the dream. And then, we would start analyzing what the dream meant.

  “Maybe flying means letting go of something, or someone...or maybe it just means getting high!”

  “I read in a book once that swords and knives in dreams mean penises.”

  “But I got to slow dance with Liam while you were singing the Titanic theme on stage!”

  “Wait, so if I stabbed you with a sword, does that mean that I wish I had a penis??”

  It would go on and on and by the time it was all said and done, the dream was worth a few laughs, an argument or two, and the occasional “Do you think I’m actually gay?” heart-to-heart conversation.

  Epic dreams stay with you, sometimes for days, always replaying in the back of your mind. That’s what makes epic dreaming so wonderful. Unless of course, you are in Hell, which, as I’ve made it abundantly clear, I am.

  Down here, epic dreams are never fictional, but they are crystal clear and stick with you like glue. They are vivid memories, but not ones that I yearn to see again. They are the acts and deeds that brought me here in the first place. You know how people say, when you die your life “flashes before your eyes?” I wish that were true. Because a flash of what I’ve done would be hard to witness, to be sure, but it would be over quickly, then I could move onto the next adventure. But to have to relive those moments, in great detail, over and over for eternity — that is the greatest punishment the devil, or whoever is responsible for this wretched place, could inflict upon me or any of us. When we first met I said, “dreams are the one thing Hell can’t take away, but that is not the whole story. Hell can also give nightmares. The worst part about it, is these nightmares have already come true.” My nightmares are my past, and the burden I carry with me down here is getting heavier with them every day, week, month and year that I’m forced to confront them.

  So when I sat up in bed this morning I knew why my face was drenched with tears. I didn’t even hit the snooze button. Today, I’d rather be anywhere than in bed, where I’d just relived one of the darkest days of my life - The day before Linda got married.

  Now, let me explain. It’s not like I just decided to pop a nutty at Linda’s big night out with no warning or provocation. There was a significant pattern that led up to my behavior, long before the fateful bachelorette party. I had witnessed the proverbial writing on the wall well in advance of that night. From the first moment that she burst into my room at Mom and Dad’s and showed me the ring and asked me to be her maid of honor (and yes, I know how ridiculous that sounds, but who else would she ask?) I was in full-blown panic at the prospect of what was about to happen.

  In Hank’s defense, it wasn’t just the fact that she was marrying him, or the fact that she was marrying at all. It was all about to change. Linda was leaving me behind so that she could go play grown-up with a job and a car and a husband. “And then, she’d eventually have babies, carpools and parent-teacher conferences.” Linda was meant for so much more than bake sales and soccer practice. She was supposed to transcend with me to a higher purpose. To be forever young. A child of the universe who floats and coaxes whatever she needs and leaves it all to luck and chance and chaos, if for no other reason than just to see what would happen. This is what true intelligence, beauty and loving life is about. It’s about not falling into any of the traps that society sets for us, to try and make us be what they are. It’s about seeking adventure and wringing every bit of fun you can get out of living. Leave the breeding for the mainstream. We are better than those folks, and why couldn’t Linda see that?

  That was the exact bullshit I said to my best friend on the eve of her wedding. Only I was so drunk it came out as one giant, slurry, run-on sentence with the occasional “fuck me, I lost my train of thought” or “hey cutie, what are you doing later?” or “Who do you have to blow to get a shot of tequila around here?” thrown in for good measure.

  Oh, and did I mention that I said all of that in the form of a toast, in front of all her friends — and family?

  And that includes her mom and 83 year-old grandmother.

  I finished my diatribe with this pearl of wisdom:

  “Would you like to know the secret of the universe, kids? Cuz I’ve got it right here. Men always want what they can’t have, and never want what they’ve got. Women always want what they used to have and they will settle for anything or anyone that gives them the illusion that they can have it back. There will be moments, and this might actually be one for our Linda, when you can actually sit back and say that you are content, almost happy with your life, with yourself and the one standing next to you... and you should embrace those moments, because they will all go away— quickly.”

  And in my nightmare, as in life, I sat down to an awkward silence that would have been quite embarrassing if I weren’t so clueless or wasted. Everyone was squirming in their seats or looking at me like I’d just reached up into my own nose and pulled out a giant slug and set it free on their fucking table. Finally, after what seemed like hours, Linda got up and raised her glass and said:

  “Lou, you aren’t exactly being fair. Maybe I’ve hijacked a seat on this ride long enough. Because after all, let’s face it, I’ve never really been as intelligent or beautiful or charming as you... have I?”

  Everyone in the room burst out laughing. They all walked up to Linda and pat her on the back, telling her what a great a retort that was and how she was showed so much class. They thought she should consider her friendship with me like having a Barbie or Mr. Potato Head. Something you leave behind with nostalgia and good memories, but you can’t muster up the patience to play with anymore.

  But here’s the part that makes me feel like I deserve Hell more than you know. Amidst the laughter and congratulatory “zinger” comments, and the alcohol fog that I was in, Linda and I locked gazes. At that moment, I knew she meant what she said, and it broke my heart. It broke my heart that she, the most wonderful thing that had come into my life, could still think I was smart and funny and beautiful even as I was humiliating her, and myself, at a party where she was supposed to be the center of attention. I was always a spotlight whore, and considered bad attention better than no attention. However, tonight was supposed to be Linda’s and I had pissed all over her parade. Here we were, on the night before the most important day of her life, and her best friend/maid of honor (stop rolling your eyes every time I say that) is not being supportive or excited for her or making sure she’s creating memories to enjoy in her old age. No. Instead, I acted like an ass, and in the process somehow reminded her that I could have actually been right. Perhaps, Linda was choosing to settle, and most probably she was happy, a lot of the time, being trapped for a change. It had to be refreshing to not have to be “on” all the time, and to not have to be second fiddle to her psychotic best friend. However, her friend’s and family’s reaction to my inspired (yet, granted, grossly inappropriate) toast was just a reminder that she was once a person who could say and do anything she wanted or thought without remorse or fear.

  Still, all those revelations aside, she was really pissed at me. Later, after everyone had begged off and gone home, she and I sat at the bar drinking after hours with the bartender who threw caution and possibly his ABC license to the wind and kept on serving us.

  “You know, I understand why you are such a
huge bitch. I just don’t understand why you pick these times to display it,” she said with a twinge of resignation in her voice.

  “Sorry, babe.” I said, and I meant it. “I just panicked. I’m feeling abandoned so I lashed out. What’s that saying about you only hurt the ones you love?”

  “I think it’s a song, actually. But, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that we are always going to be friends. You are always going to need me, to call at 2 a.m. for a ride, or to pick apart a dream or a new guy. And I am still going to sit by the phone and wait for that call, and be just a little jealous of you as I’ve always been. But my life is going to look different now. People grow up, Lou. Even you may have to face it one day. Just because we allow ourselves to change, doesn’t mean that we failed at what we were doing before. It just means that we’re allowing it to turn into something else.”

  “Letting the past become the future.” I say, trying to sound profound.

  “THERE’S the secret to the universe, kid!” Linda said laughing.

  “Yeah, well let’s not forget that Ms. Margarita has some serious culpability for that little speech!” I responded, as I waved to the bartender for another round.

  “Maybe she can talk my Mother off the ledge so that she won’t tackle you, to keep you out of the church tomorrow,” said Linda.

  “So, you are really going through with it?” I said, with a just a bit of sadness.