Awake in Hell

by Downing, Helen

  Anyway, Comegys used to have a big flower shop downtown. When I was a kid, I remember going there with my mom to get floral arrangements for church, a funeral, or something. But when I was in high school, I guess he figured there wasn’t enough business in Shithole, USA to warrant having a whole entire store. So, he closed up shop and put a stand on the corner selling mainly fresh cut flowers.

  Bouquets of fresh cut flowers are one thing I will never, ever understand. Now, before you start telling me that I was born without the romance gene, let me explain. If some guy wants to actually try to earn my affections he may do so with a number of offerings. Chocolate is ,always a winner. Making my car payment is good too. But please explain to me what loser was the first one to say, “Hey, think I’ll go out and cut some living things in assorted colors from their root structure so that they can never absorb enough water or photosynthesize ever again, give them to my girl so she can put them in a fancy jar and watch them decay and die, thereby proving that I love her.” And what stupid bimbo was the first girl to respond with this lame gift with “Wow, this is a way better present than something I could keep forever, or maybe eat or drink! I’d much rather have my guy say he loves me with a bunch of flowers that I could, if I were motivated enough, go out and pick myself for free. And the fact that within three days they’ll be dried up stalks that I get to throw away, is just a bonus!” I hope to meet those two morons one day down here so that I can poke them in the eye for every guy who showed at my door holding a bunch of overpriced roses instead of something sparkly.

  Rant aside, I was not born without certain skills, specifically those in the charm department. So, every morning when I would walk by Mr. Comegy’s flower stand, he would hand me a single blossom. A rose or a lily, or even the occasional orchid... I’d stop, breathe in the fragrance from the flower and say, “Thank you,” to Mr. Comegy’s with a big grin. He always seemed so pleased with himself so I acted just as pleased. As soon as I got out of eyesight, I’d cut through the graveyard by the Methodist Church and lay the flower on some headstone.

  I’d always stop and read the headstone where I laid the flower. Not assessing the person or deciding on who would get the flower, or anything. I’d just pick a headstone at random and before I left I’d take a look to see who had won my own version of the daily lottery. Every once in a while it would be someone I had known. Someone who had died within the last 12-18 years who I remembered from the neighborhood, from church, or even from school. There was Bruce, this kid I knew from 5th grade who suddenly stopped coming to school. Then a letter came to the entire class from him telling us that he was in a special hospital just for kids. He had enclosed a picture of him sitting in a bed with Ronald McDonald next to him and he was surrounded by toys and action figures and stuff that had been given to him. I was horribly jealous of his luck, until two weeks later when our principle came in to announce that Bruce had passed away from leukemia. After that, the thought of getting free swag from a celebrity clown didn’t seem like such a huge perk. Not in exchange for being dead at age 11. It was sad. We all went to the funeral, and they had grief counselors at school. That was the first time I ever thought about dying. Because he was a kid, like me, and now he’s gone. His mom took it very hard and she would always stop us classmates on the street whenever she saw us and just sort of look at us with tears in her eyes. I knew that we reminded her of Bruce, and in my childhood ignorance I thought that must be a bad thing. So I would hide - yes hide - from her. I’m not proud of it today, but then I honestly thought I was somehow supplying comfort by not making her cry. When I realized that I’d set a flower on his headstone I said a silent apology to her, for my childlike ignorance that barred her from a connection with her son.

  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 b
ed... 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 m
e 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.”