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 r
ealization 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.
First of all, as everyone knows, leather does not breathe — at all. It absorbs heat and multiplies it and turns it into a smelly liquid form that then coats every nook and cranny of your body. Leather is bad. And down here, leather is tragic. I don’t even want to know what the inside of my cab is going to smell like at the end of the day.
And secondly, leather should never, ever be worn by anyone over the age of thirty for any reason whatsoever. Hear me living people? Take notes on this. My sorry tale may turn out to be the greatest lesson some poor sap may ever learn. But if you learn nothing from my pathetic life, learn this... stop wearing leather! Now, a leather jacket is fine, and that is a classic look that almost anyone can pull off. And a leather vest? Maybe. Particularly if you ride a motorcycle or want people to think that you do. Leather skirts? Only if the time/space continuum has a glitch and it becomes permanently 1987. But leather pants? Absolutely not. Leather pants are a privilege people! Something you must be young and thin to enjoy. Unless you are Steven Tyler (and even he was starting to look a bit ridiculous in them when I left the planet), take the leather pants the fuck off.
Having said that, it’s time to put mine on. I hate this place.
After spending an extraordinary amount of time trying to pull on a pair of leather pants in boiling heat, I finally leave my apartment winded and pissed off. Despite that, and the nagging sensation of impending exhaustion from last night’s nightmare marathon, I’m feeling pretty positive about today. Today should be tremendously successful by Hellion standards. And no one needs to worry about me accidentally helping someone or inciting any unnecessary hope because today my mood is pretty much black enough to make me feel almost qualified to be a cab driver in Hell.
I follow the directions to the dispatch office of the cab company, printed on the small post-it Deedy had given me. This time, wiser and more jaded than I was during my first temp experience, my eyes are peeled the whole way there looking for Will and his sneaky, spying self. Just as I am approaching the dispatch bay, I see him ducking behind a gas pump. I walk past and say, “watch out, Will, huffing those fumes will give you a killer migraine. Ask me how I know,” and I keep on walking laughing out loud.
Thanks to the Second Chance Temp Agency, I’ve laughed and cried more in the past few days than I would have thought possible just a few weeks ago.
I walk into the tiny glass enclosed office within the car bay. The smell of gasoline and oil is thick in the air, and with the heat it seems like another person inside the garage with me, like a new, stinky imaginary friend. It looks like they have about six or seven cabs — cabs. Not nearly enough for the size of Hell. However, since the idea of having plenty of cabs in Hell is borderline ridiculous, and you’d have to be brain damaged or new to actually ride in one, it really shouldn’t be a surprise.
I walk into the office and expect to see a diminutive man with a cigar and a temper like Danny Devito in Taxi. Instead, I find myself face to face with a GIANT. I mean an actual giant person straight from central casting for the latest fairy tale movie! This guy is HUGE, big broad shoulders that have to span at least four feet. He is so tall that even though we’re in a decent sized office, he has to kind of stoop over when he stands or he’ll hit his head. And he’s got the largest feet I’ve ever seen. I can hear Linda’s voice in my head saying revolting things about the probable size of the rest of his anatomy, based on those clown-shoe sized feet, and I can’t help but glance at his waist for a teensy minute.
He lumbers from behind the desk and comes toward me with a grin that is proportionate to the rest of his body. His teeth are atrocious. Gaps where some are missing, others just black and rotting in his head, and the rest are just yellowed with age and stains. He’s wearing a pair of ordinary jeans, which is kind of surprising, although they are quite short and fall well above his ankles. However, considering he’s got to be almost 7 feet tall I can only imagine these are probably very similar to what he wore in life. His shirt is a little juvenile. A
T-shirt with a childhood cartoon character on it. And it’s kind of feminine. I search my memory banks for a name of this cartoon. It’s something-something-bears. With colorful stuffed bears with rainbows and shit plastered on the front of them. His is kind of lavender. At any rate, humiliating yes, but uncomfortable? No. He grasps my hand and his enormous hand envelopes mine until you can no longer see it. I am literally quite frightened for a moment or two that I may pull back a stump where my hand used to be. He pumps my hand with great enthusiasm and says, “You must be Louise! I’m Tim. I’m so happy to make your acquaintance!” He says it kind of slowly and very deliberately. I shudder as I imagine why he’s found himself here, in this horrible place. I get snatches of, “Of Mice and Men,” and wonder if he accidentally hurt someone. But if it had been an accident, he wouldn’t have ended up here, right? I disengage my hand from him and weakly return his smile. “Thanks,” I reply. “Ready to get to work!”
“Okee dokey!” He says again with a huge grin. “We’ve got three cabs to choose from. One is pretty beat up, it used to be Carl’s. He liked to take customers right up to the door. Occasionally he took customers THROUGH the door,” Tim pauses for single beat then bursts into laughter at his own joke. After a minute of that, he wipes a laughter induced tear out of the corner of his eye and continues, “The other two just arrived. I don’t know where they come from, but I think it might be from the same place where you got that outfit,” again with the pause only this time long enough to give me a sorrowful look, as if he’s finding my fucked-up closet choice more pitiable than his! Harumph! “So no guarantees, sorry.”
“Fine,” I say, with just a touch of an offended tone, due to the whole ‘poor little Louise stuck in leather’ look. “I will happily take one of the new ones out for a test drive!” I didn’t bother to even ask what happened to Carl, since I figured he wouldn’t tell me anyway and I was terrified of the possible answers. The biggest one being that Carl was fired, which would set precedent that it is possible for a person to actually get fired as a cab driver. And
my track record is two for two on the whole getting shit canned thing.
“Good for you!” Tim says, with just a hint of condescension. I’m really not sure whether to like Tim, to pity him, or to punch him in the throat. It’s a strange conflict. He does make me feel just a wee bit anxious and very uncomfortable over his actual presence here. We all believe that there are some basic rules, and those rules help us make sense of the world around us, even if that world is this one. A week ago, I would have said with all the confidence in the universe that there were no innocent children in Hell, but then my new little blonde friend started appearing. And I would have asserted that if you’re slow or mentally challenged, you’re pretty much guaranteed a ticket to a penthouse in the afterlife. But here’s Tim with his gappy smile and his overly concerned looks regarding my wardrobe and now I don’t know what to think. With a shudder, I decide to stop thinking and just go to work already.
“Thanks Tim. Got the keys?”
“Yup,” he says and goes back to his desk. He grabs a set of keys with a large “3” on the keyring and tosses them over to me. “Be careful out there, kiddo,” he says with a hint of sincere concern. I immediately regret considering to hit him. He walks up to me and places one of his giant hands on my shoulder. I look up and into his eyes and again I am overwhelmed by a wave of discomfort. His eyes are so kind. It’s not just hard, it’s damn near impossible to believe that he could have done anything to warrant being damned for eternity.
“I mean it. It gets rough out there. Don’t let it get to you,” he says. Then he pats my shoulder a couple of times and turns his back to me.
Awake in Hell Page 9
