Awake in Hell

by Downing, Helen

  I swear, as I’m heading out of his office toward bay three for my cab, I can hear him sniffle as if he’s crying. I wonder for a moment if he’s crying over his own fate or if he’s crying for me.

  As soon as I get inside my car I feel at home. In the world of breathers and breeders, I never cared about my car. I had a driver’s license and occasionally I even had a car, but it was usually a piece of shit beater car that I used simply to get from point A to point B. I never understood people who named their car or took photos of their car and framed them or spent more on their car payment than my parents did on their first mortgage. I thought of my car as a tool, an occasional place to sleep or fuck if there was absolutely no alternative. But my car was never an extension of myself. So I never got people, especially men, who had a more intimate relationship with their transportation than they had with wives, mistresses, or children.

  But that was then. This is now. And today I get it. Because after working at a call center in a teensy weensy cubicle that looks exactly like the 42 others on either side of it, I understand why people feel at home when they are in a car. It’s like sacred space, small enough to feel intimate and everything adjusts to fit you — just you. I adjusted all the mirrors and the seat. I wish I had something really personal and me-like to hang from the rear view mirror. I’m wondering if the radio works and I’m about to try it when the smaller, cb-like radio below it goes nuts. I hear Tim’s slow-speaking tone come over and say “cab 3, cab 3, Louise, you out there?”

  “Tim, I’m directly in front of your office in the car bay!”

  “Oh good... wait a second,” he said and then his giant head popped up from nowhere in the window. He gives me a great big smile and a wave then disappears again.

  “Did ya see me?” he says with an obvious smile.

  “Of course I did!” I say laughing.

  “Okay, well I have your first pick up. It’s on Moss Ave and 3rd Street.”

  “Okee doke. Is there a map or something in here?” I say looking around.

  “Nope. Sorry.” He says.

  “Not a problem!” I say and back out of the bay with a huge grin.

  This job should be a cake walk.

  So here I am. Driving around like a maniac, not even caring which direction I’m going with a guy in the back seat screaming like I’m torturing his mother or something. It took me about 45 minutes to find the address where I picked him up, so he was pretty pissed off by the time I pulled up and gave him my best winning smile. He got in the car and starting blathering on about needing my corporate office’s number as well as taking down my tag number and screaming about how he was going to be contacting them to complain. So, I’m thinking he’s real new in town. I’m thinking I might just earn a promotion or something on my first day as a cabbie. This job fucking rocks like The Who, baby!

  I notice, with just a twinge of disappointment, that his destination is right ahead. I have to brake pretty hard to stop within a block past it and the guy literally leaps out of the cab and runs behind me screaming. I pull away chuckling and think to myself that I just might be able to make the next guy boot if I try really hard. But, then I’d be stuck in a car that has no working air conditioning and smells like vomit. So maybe that is not such a brilliant idea.

  I get on the radio and call Tim. “Dropped off my first fare. Ready for the next one!” I say with great enthusiasm.

  “Good Job, Louise!” Tim answers with equal, if not greater enthusiasm. “You are a natural at this!” he says with a bit of awe in his slow speech. You just gotta love Tim. Then he comes back on the radio with my next fare, approximately ten minutes from here unless I take the long way around, which of course, I am because I’m that committed to being successful at something down here in Hades. And it’s fun.

  So I turn the corner toward the left (my fare is to the right) just in time to catch a view of something that sends my mind reeling and sets my foot directly on the brake — a red ball bouncing around the corner up a block. I can’t see who’s behind that ball, but I have a clue. I wait with breathless anticipation as the ball turns the corner and the bouncer comes into view.

  Yep. It’s her. The same little blond girl that I am now convinced is here solely to drive me over the edge of my sanity. A hellish vision of something seemingly normal and innocent to make me question my own eyes and what little is left of my earthly brain.

  Why is she here? Why am I suddenly seeing her? Her appearances are becoming more frequent and yes, I’ve already put it together that her sudden entrance into Hell coincides with my working for Deedy. But I still don’t understand what she is supposed to be telling me, or making me do, or whatever. I’m not even sure she is actually here. No one else seems to see her. People walking down the streets of Hades should be staring at a blonde, smiling child bouncing a ball down the street, the same way breathers back on Earth would stare at an alien walking down the street, bouncing a head or something. Yet she gets no reaction from anyone. Which leads me to believe, she is here solely for me, or a hallucination. Can you have acid flashbacks in the afterlife?

  That thought is actually enough to distract me for a minute and I almost lose the little girl. I swerve around a pothole the size of a moon-crater and pull over (actually, pull up on the curb) and jump out of the car. I sprint down the block and around the next corner where she has already bounced her pretty ball and ringlet curls around.

  “Kid!” I say breathlessly as I stoop over to try and get more oxygen in my unfit (and also imaginary) lungs.

  She stops bouncing and looks at me quizzically. Then she looks behind her as only as a child could, or would for that matter. She bends over backwards and tilts her head all the way in the other direction so that she’s looking at the world upside down. I laugh at the sight of her. I can imagine me doing that when I was her age. Actually, I can imagine me doing that at pretty much any point in my life, but I’m pretty sure I would not have been that adorable when I did it.

  “Hey! Found her!” she yells behind her and then stands upright and gets a small rush to her head. You can see the dizziness pass through her eyes immediately followed by a wide smile and a sparkle of sheer delight in her eyes. Good grief. This kid is fucking hilarious.

  “Do not get too attached to that feeling,” I say. “Because when you get older it will become more difficult to get. Just say no, right?” Her response is a precious giggle.

  I’m so busy looking at this little girl and enjoying all the cuteness that I don’t see the man abruptly come behind her. I hear him before I see him.

  “Hey, Weez.” he says, with a twinge of intimacy that gives me chills.

  “Hey,” I say back. I have no idea what else to say.

  I look up and once again I am faced with the most perfect pair of eyes ever created — bluest blue, and so kind. His eyes smile before the rest of his incredibly gorgeous face. This is the beautiful man from my nightmare last night. How could I have seen him in my dream before actually meeting him? Of course, if he’s a hallucination than he’s from my brain anyway so the whole chicken before the egg question is moot — since it’s all eggs and it’s getting more scrambled by the minute.

  I stand up very straight, and stick out my chest. This is a hardwired thing that I always do when I’m faced with a hottie. It’s like Pavlov’s dog experiment. He looks kind of geeky, with the glasses and the hair. But it’s geeky in a “sexy male librarian in a porn movie” kind of a way. He is looking at me too. Yet not at my breasts, which I am basically presenting him like something on Mutual of Omaha’s, Wild Kingdom. Instead, he’s looking directly into my eyes.

  “So tell me Weeze, are you happier today than you were yesterday?” he asks.

  “Probably, if I’m being honest. But I don’t think all of my tomorrows are going to be wonderful,” I say, sweeping my arm around to take in my environment. So, this little idiom must be a thing with me.

  He laughs in response. “I will say this, for a Weasel, you sure are pretty.”


  A weasel? This guy is a total stranger and he just called me a rodent. I think. I’m not exactly sure what species the Weasel falls under, but whatever it is, being called one is probably not a compliment. So why am I smiling? And why do I feel this tremendous warmth toward this strange and beautiful man and his little girl?

  “Well,” I say teasingly, “I may be a weasel, but you are not going to get any points as a bodyguard or babysitter if you keep letting little Princess here wander around Hell all by herself!”

  He smiled a sad smile at me that once again landed on the back of my neck like a pair of ghostly lips. I actually shudder. Then he says “We’re just waiting.”

  “For what?” I say as he casually puts his arm on the little girl’s and guides her in the opposite direction of me. I will admit, watching him walk away is almost as good as him standing right in front of me, but he doesn’t answer my question.

  “Hey, you! Pretty boy!” I yell after him. He just holds up his hand and waves as they turn the next corner, and once again disappear.

  Okay, so back in the car and to my next fare. If I were a cab driver in the world of the living, I may be too distracted to drive people around today. But for now, I think I will be fine. I slow down to a crawling pace to pick up the poor schmuck who has been waiting now for over an hour. I expect him to jump in the car and go directly for my throat, but no such luck. This guy is a walking ad for Prozac.

  I assume he’s a newbie. New arrivals tend to either be furious that they ended up here or they just weep for days or weeks or months. This guy is one of the latter. He jumps in the backseat and blows his nose on the sleeve of his burgundy velveteen jacket, which, by the way, is paired with trousers so orange they look like you could juice them. Under the jacket is a wooly turtleneck that makes me itch just to look at it. He’s young. Looks like he’s in his early twenties and with his red swollen eyes and those little snot bubbles coming from his nostrils, he looks even younger. This guy reeks of pathetic anguish.

  “Where to buddy?” I ask in my best cabbie voice.

  “How do you know my name?” he asks with a genuine touch of surprise.

  “I don’t... or didn’t, Sherlock. Surely you’ve been called ‘Buddy’ by strangers before? And seriously? You’re real name is Buddy?”

  “Yes, to the name question and no, to the other one. I didn’t actually meet a lot of people before I…” he crumples into despondent sobs before he can say the word died. That is a tough word to say when you are actually in it.

  “So, you’re a small town guy, too? I was from Shithole, USA myself.” I am now trying to make small talk. Aren’t I an awesome cab driver?

  “Funnily enough, no,” He says through tears, and not just a little bit of snot. “I was born and raised in Brooklyn. But I had a very religious mother. Well, she was fanatical. I think if we actually knew any of our neighbors they would have called child services and saved me from a life of torment.”

  Crap. My small talk skills need massaging.

  “Sorry, about all that. I just need to know where you want to go.” I ask, trying to get this back on track.

  “Where would I like to go?” he says wistfully as he takes another swipe of his endlessly seeping nose with his sleeve. “I would like to go to school. Instead of being home schooled by a woman who believes that William fucking Shakespeare was one of those liberal homosexuals with an agenda to promote cross-dressing and molesting young boys while he wrote filthy pornography to display in front of the unwashed masses. Or that the theory of evolution is a plot by the Jews to snuff out the one true faith! And don’t even get me started on what she thinks of math, poetry, or any of the core subjects that any person should know if they are to become a productive member of society. And computers? Do you know that I was seventeen fucking years old before she’d even allow a computer in the house? And then, only because the Good Reverend Barker, from the God’s Way Television Network, decided to get himself a website complete with prayer lists and the ability to make donations from the comfort of your own home with a debit or credit card! I had to wait until she was asleep so that I could get online and give myself some facsimile of a reasonable education!”

  Holy shit. This guy has some issues. However, I’m driving a cab, not operating a confessional.

  “Well, you do seem kinda smart,” I say, trying to be nice.

  “Kinda? I have an IQ of over 170! I could have written my own ticket. MIT, Harvard, Yale, anywhere! Even with a public school education. But no, public schools have dances and dances are just fronts for teenage girls giving each other abortions in the restrooms while the boys gang rape the hormonally charged prostitutes that the state hires to be teachers. That, by the way, is a direct quote.”

  If it wasn’t so terrible, it would be kind of funny.

  “Wow. But you know, everyone thinks their Mom is crazy....” I said. Bad thing to say — real bad. It would probably be best if I stopped talking altogether.

  “Crazy, Mom? No. Crazy Mom tells you that you look thin even though you are thirty pounds overweight and she cooks enough food to feed a small country and expects you to eat it. Crazy Mom collects little cartoon frogs and places them on shelves all over the house. Crazy Mom buys you ugly sweaters every Christmas from QVC and makes you wear them out in public. Crazy Mom may be exasperating, but you always know she loves you.” Buddy is now in full blown rant mode, and I need help. I start looking down the curb hoping someone, anyone, will show up and try to hail me down. I see her ahead. A woman who looks about thirty-five but dressed like she’s seventy-five in a dull, gray polyester suit with a skirt that falls to her shins, is standing just ahead of us with a panicked look on her face. With Buddy still screaming in the backseat, I pull off to the side until I’m directly in front of her. I lean over and open the passenger side door and say (over the sobbing rants of the mad man in the back) “Hey, need a ride somewhere?”

  She looks down and heaves a sigh of relief. “Would I!” and lets herself in the back where Buddy is now coming to a crescendo of anger and bile.

  “...but my horrific bitch of a mother never, ever made me feel anything but shame and guilt, as if I had asked to be born or was some sort of punishment brought down upon her by her angry, vengeful God!”

  “Okay Buddy. Now it’s time to ride quietly and share the cab with this nice lady,” I said. I realized I was talking to him like a five year old instead of the genius he apparently is, but I don’t care. I’m getting a headache.

  “That’s okay. I don’t mind. I used to be a psychologist in the world. I’m Hazel, and your name is?” she says to Buddy while she offers her hand.

  Buddy looks a little terrified of this female hand in front of him. He turns into one of those beaten dogs you can get from the animal shelters. The kind that really wants to love again but just isn’t sure he can trust you. So you have to put treats in your hand and coax him out from behind the couch. She is able to get his hand in hers without the use of Milk Bones and he timidly smiles at her. “Buddy. My name is Buddy.”

  So, Hazel, according to the conversation I am now able to overhear in my backseat, while I drive around aimlessly since no one has yet given me an actual destination, was a marriage therapist when she was alive. However, she was also pretty much addicted to having sex with married men; so, her track record was not stellar. In fact, she was personally responsible for at least 20% of the divorces in Wichita Kansas during the late 70’s and most of the 80’s. She was killed in a hit-and-run car accident while crossing the street. Ten-to-one odds that the chick behind the wheel was a former patient of hers. Looking at her in my rearview mirror with her shoulder length mousy brown hair and matching dull brown eyes set a bit too close together, along with her button nose and seemingly absent chin (her face just kind of runs down into her neck), it’s actually pretty impressive. Part of me wants to turn around and say ‘Well done!’ and offer her a high five. But unfortunately the exchange between my two fares has wandered back to Buddy, and like a
marathoner on an endorphin high, he’s gotten his second wind.

  “The thing that really pisses me off…” he’s now saying, only not angrily anymore. Now, his voice is more reserved. His tone more resigned. “Is that I felt superior to her because I refused to be held down by a belief system that would allow someone like her, to condemn someone like me. When she would drill into my head all the ways I could end up in Hell, I would laugh at her on the inside. But then, she finally drove me over the edge the day I found the letters from the State of New York. I confronted her about the fact that my father had been seeking custody of me, for my entire life. She had kept him from me, telling me he had died before I was born. She told me that I would never be allowed to use a woman as a vessel to breed my own filth the way he had done to her. Forget the fact that she drove him away with her tirades and her insanity. She blamed me for him, and him for me, and hated us both. That little fact came home to roost, was the day I knew one of us was going to die. At first I thought I’d kill her. I mean it’s not like she didn’t have it coming. But then I thought, when you die you stop. There is no remorse, or suffering, or regret. I didn’t want to give her that gift. If anyone was going to finally have peace and quiet it was going to be me. So I went into the bathroom and took every pill bottle my mother had, ran a bath, got a glass of fruit punch Kool-Aid and sat in the tub taking every single pill. Mom had about twenty different bottles of old pain medication that she had refused to take when she was in pain but she also never threw away. She also had some anti-depressants and a prescription for her diabetes. Who knows what else I took. There were probably some antibiotics and some harmless beta blockers or something in the mix, But in the end, whatever it was, did the job. And it turns out she was right. She was right about everything. And I had to come here. I came here because I wasn’t good enough to even earn my mother’s love.” He said that with a certainty that made me sad. I noticed he was not crying anymore, his hands now moving through his sandy blond hair instead of across his wet face.