“Do you remember how he died?” Deedy asks.
“Drug overdose. Big surprise,” I say with sarcasm.
Deedy looks at me questioningly. So I continue, “He was a celebrity. All celebrities die of a drug overdose, murder, drowning in their own pool, or psoriasis of the liver,” I say matter-of-factly, as though everyone in the universe has come to the same conclusion.
“Wow, that’s a broad generalization,” Deedy says, casually.
“So what does Tom Thomas have to do with our Joe?” I ask.
“Joe was the reporter who scooped the biggest exclusive of that year. Maybe even of that century.”
I reach into the deepest caverns of my memory, searching for the old dusty jar marked “Useless pop culture facts from when I was alive.”
“Yeah,” I say. “That Tom Thomas, my mom’s generation’s biggest heartthrob since Elvis Presley, was as gay as a picnic basket?” The memory came back suddenly.
“And unlike most of Joe’s stories, he did not have to rely on his own imagination credited as a source close to the star. He had a spurned lover with photographic evidence to out Mr. Thomas. It was a glorious victory for him and his paper.” Deedy has just a touch of edge in his voice.
“So he didn’t lie, and he did his job. He did it well, so it would seem. How does that constitute a bad day?” I realize I am literally sitting on the edge of my seat. I scoot back and wait for an answer.
“Because it was the day after that exclusive hit the streets that Tom went to visit his neighbor. The neighbor was a somewhat famous drummer for an up and coming rock band. He was able to supply enough heroin for Tom to end his life.” Deedy looks up and finishes the story looking directly at me. “That was the first and only time Tom had ever done heroin. While all the papers, legitimate and tabloid, reported it as another celebrity doing too much of his favorite drug, most everyone in the inner circle suspected suicide.”
“But why?” I ask incredulously. “Why did he feel that was the only way out? By the time the story came to light his career was long over, and the stigma regarding a gay actor playing straight roles was a faded memory.”
“My darling girl, you too died young, so you never knew the sensation of growing old. The world changes around you, adopts new ideas and accepts new things, but people rarely do. Even though the world could take Tom Thomas being gay, Tom couldn’t live in a world where he was out. All he knew was his secrets, the compartmentalization of his private and public lives.”
“So back to Joe,” I respond quietly.
“Joe had cultivated some real relationships during his career. That is what he was known for, having actual sources. It didn’t take long before he realized the whispers about Tom and suicide were true.”
“And he felt like he had single handedly ruined a man’s life,” I finish with conviction.
“He felt like he had single handedly ended a man’s life,” Deedy says. “He went to a local bar, planning to drink until he felt better, or until he forgot altogether. When the bar closed and he hadn’t accomplished either of those goals, he got into his car and drove home.”
“That didn’t work out either,” I say.
Deedy closes the file folder and slips it back into the desk. He folds his hands under his chin, a move I’ve seen so many times. “The thing is, Lou, if he had never written that story, never had to endure the horrific consequences, his life would have gone so differently. There was a path he could have taken that would have given him prestige and fame. There was another one where he might have become a novelist and won awards. There was one where he got married and lived in a small town running a local paper that wrote about little league tournaments and pot luck dinners.”
I can see the pain in his eyes. I have never heard him talk this way. I never realized that the chess game he plays in his head is seeing not just what was, what is, and what will be. He can see everything that could have been. I can’t imagine how his heart breaks every moment of every day as he watches us, his creations, make choices that lead us away from him and into despair.
“I understand why he ended up in Hell, but why was he there so long before he got this shot?” I wonder aloud.
“Because at his core, Joe is a good man. When he passed he was filled with so much shame and grief that he could not see any good at all within himself. That brand of ruefulness takes a long time to work through.”
I get a fleeting thought that I must express. “Are you saying that because I was an awful person, but didn’t feel as guilty as Joe, I was able to escape fire and brimstone in half the time?” My tone sounds a bit more accusing that I intend.
“No,” Deedy says in a tired voice. “In fact I was not, if you can possibly believe such a thing, referring to you in any way. I was talking about Mr. Watkins, the guy who is still as of this hour, in the land of eternal suffering.”
“Okay, fine. But can I ask a question that is sort of about me?” I ask.
“Of course,” Deedy says, laughing now.
“Besides follow him around, what exactly are my duties?”
That question did the trick. Deedy is now back to his usual effervescence. “Believe it or not, I need you to be as bad as Will when it comes to following him around. It’s a very fine line. Don’t look completely incompetent but just make sure he knows he is being watched.”
“Okay, why?”
“Tell me you didn’t feel just a little better when you knew Will was around? When you felt there was always a pair of eyes on you?”
“Yeah, that was nice,” I admit.
“And when the time comes, I’ll need you to stay close and protect him. You know how it is at the end. Things might get a little hairy.” Deedy is suddenly serious.
“Is he going to have to go to the Day Care Center?” Even I can hear the fear in my voice. Those memories are still a little too fresh for me.
“His experience will be different, but you will still know,” he answers.
“Right,” I say breezily, standing. “Easy Peasy Mac and Cheesy! Where do I start?”
Deedy gives me one of his signature smiles. “And you accuse me of talking rubbish. Downstairs with you, Ms. Elevator Repair Person. He should be arriving for the first time in about a half an hour.” Deedy stands and approaches me. “And now, my darling girl, this is goodbye until the end of the assignment.”
“Why?” I ask with panic. “I thought I was able to return to Heaven every night!”
“Relax, you will. But you won’t be able to see or talk to me. And I’m sorry, Lou, but I have to do this.” He puts his hand over my eyes and through the blackness I hear him say “hwyl fawr.”
“I know that one! That means goodbye,” I say as the sensation of his hands on my face disappears. When I open my eyes the room is empty. Not just without Deedy, but nothing is there. No desk, no chairs, no files. “Deedy?" I call into the nothingness around me. There is no answer. I feel a chill run down my spine.
I spin and rush out of the office, hurling myself down the hall toward Gabby. When I see her I feel a surge of relief. “Gabby!” I exclaim and realize after I speak that I am screaming.
Gabby turns and floats toward me.
Floats.
Like when I first met her. She no longer has wings.
I remember the first time I saw her in Heaven, my surprise at her seemingly new accoutrement. “Gabby!” I had said. “You grew wings!”
“I’ve always had wings, Louise. You just couldn’t see them before now.” She had explained to me, all those years ago.
Now she looks like she did then. I start to hyperventilate. Gabby rushes over to me and puts her hands on my shoulders. “Don’t panic, Lou. It is just protocol.”
“Am I back to being totally blind?” I say, rushing over to the windows to peer out.
When I was in Hell, looking up was like looking directly into the sun. Today my eyes are painfully reminded of those days. There is no more beauty in my world, just blinding light and nothing else.
“It’s okay, Louise. It is just camouflage. Joe has to be able to see and interact with you, and you have to fit in as much as possible. Try not to worry.”
Try not to worry? Riddle me this, angel girl.
“Can Heaven really be Heaven if you can’t see God?”
CHAPTER SIX
Joe pulls on his clothes by rote, barely paying attention to the almost comedic ridiculousness of the outfit. After all these years, nothing can surprise him anymore. If he is being honest with himself, he really doesn’t care either.
He hasn’t really cared about a whole lot for the last, who knows how long. A dozen years? A hundred years? Fifteen minutes? Time means nothing in eternity. And down here, what would be the point in trying to track it anyway? There are no holidays, technically you no longer have a birthday after you are dead, and the only thing that separates day from night is the tossing and turning of a few sleepless hours compared to abject misery and a thankless job in the wakeful ones.
Thinking about work makes Joe’s head hurt. His brain is still reeling over recent events. He cannot believe that after all this time, however much time that may be, he summarily lost the only job he’s known not only in death but in life. Joe stops to remember when he first bit the proverbial dust. Once he realized that hell was an awful lot like any earthly city, only with shittier people and a much higher heat index, he found his way to the offices of the one thing that every earthly city, no matter how big or how small, has to have. A newspaper. Once he had walked into the editor’s office and announced what he had done to find himself sentenced to eternal fire and brimstone, he was hired on the spot. Since then, Joe has found himself spending every day of his afterlife on the city desk of the Hellion Gazette. His job was mainly writing stories cunningly designed to make everyone, well at least everyone who would buy and read a paper down here, feel even more miserable than they had before they read it. The circulation stayed relatively low, compared to the population. Readers were mostly newbies who buy the paper out of habit, since that was what they did when they were alive. Even after the boxes with the disgusting websites showed up, the numbers remained steady. Of course, it always spiked a little every once in a while, and Joe had learned that was probably the month of January back in the land of the living. Just one of the many fascinating facts Joe had learned while working at the Gazette. More people die in January than any other month. People also die more often at the beginning of every month than the end. And if you are looking to be a true part of the “in crowd,” you’ll want to die at eleven in the morning.
Anyway, Joe was a natural from jump. He had even gotten some hate mail for his work, which in Hell is the equivalent to a Pulitzer Prize. Yesterday started like any other day, sitting in the editor’s office getting the day’s miserable assignments. The editor with the gruff voice of a lifelong smoker, asking who wants to write a story about the thirty-fifth anniversary of the construction on 7th avenue. Joe passed on that one. He had written the story about the thirtieth anniversary of the construction on 7th avenue. Was that really five years ago? Seems like yesterday. He offered the story to the guy who got the assignment. All he had to do was go through it and change all the thirtys to thirty-fives. Put in a few fives and go home early. The next story on the block was an expose of one of the superstores at the edge of town. Specifically, how long it takes to get out of the store once you walk through the doors and make the dreadful choice to actually make a purchase. Some folks have claimed standing in line for as long as six days. Joe leaped at the opportunity to finally get the chance to write about the superstore. With its piss poor customer service, the shoddy products, and the exorbitant amount of makeup the women who work there seem to be forced to wear. All of this under the roof of a great white elephant is exactly what poses as a shopping experience in Hell. He was thrilled when the editor handed him the blue post-it note with the assignment written on it. This was going to be his most depressing story to date. And it will practically write itself.
Joe virtually skipped to the superstore. He was that excited. His adrenaline was pumping like it used to when he worked as a member of the paparazzi. The word paparazzi is Italian meaning “large mosquito.” While most would say that is because they represent annoying blood sucking versions of journalistic bottom feeders, he would argue that it is because of the buzz he heard in his ears whenever he was chasing a good story. That buzzing was happening now and Joe knew he was going to nail it.
That is, until he arrived. Once he got through the doors he saw something, something he was not expecting to ever see here. Sure there was plenty of fodder for a real “down in the mouth” story that would drive every reader into an abyss of hopelessness. The fact that it took several tries to get through the electronic door, the guy standing in the middle of aisle nine screaming to the top of his lungs, the unsupervised toddler dumping containers of various liquids while frightened workers stood around too terrified of the diminutive demon to approach him. Joe took out his reporter’s notebook, prepared to start scribbling about how wretched every aspect of this place was. Instead, he turned his attention to a small group that seemed to be actually enjoying themselves. Unlike the rest of Hell, where folks either avoided one another or were downright vicious to their fellow residents, these people were smiling, and laughing, and talking. Joe realized it had been so very long since he had heard laughter, seen another human being smile. He was drawn to these people like a starving man to a smorgasbord. He was starved, but not from lack of food. He was starved of human emotion. He sat with them and started to listen. These folks had taken an opportunity, while waiting in this endless line, to build relationships. For some unknown reason, these people had decided to suspend the general misery that the overbearing heat and despair that followed them everywhere, even into this store. Perhaps the additional frustrations had been just enough to cause an opposing effect, like temporal aliasing makes wheels in movies and on television seem to be going backward. Joe found himself writing down things like ‘Long lines help alleviate the loneliness of Hell’ and ‘Every living soul, even those of us with sentences to eternal damnation, apparently retains a capacity for Joy.’
If someone were to ask him why, even today, he would not be able to answer. He played the events of yesterday over and over in his head, and other than temporary insanity, he truly is without defense. He has no idea why those people seemed happy, and he is clueless as to why he was so compelled to document that happiness as completely as he had. All he knows is that when he got back to the office and spent a few hours typing it up and handing in the story, the editor perused it, looked at him as though he was looking at a stranger, and handed him his pink slip.
Terminated for inciting peace and good will.
Once Joe had gotten over the shock of being fired, and wrapped his head around the fact that he had lost the one job he thought was his calling, he began to clean out his desk. It was there, among a pile of papers and old notebooks that a strange post-it note appeared. Unlike his usual blue ones from the editor, this one was yellow. On it was printed in perfect penmanship:
DO YOU BELONG HERE?
CALL US TO FIND OUT!
SECOND CHANCE TEMP AGENCY
(666)-573-2236
He considered this and shoved the post-it into the box with the rest of his “personal belongings.” Then he had gotten up and faced the open stares of his co-workers, giving them all a middle finger of their very own. Then he wondered if one of them had placed the post it on his desk as a gesture of kindness. After looking back at each of their faces, he decided that was probably not the case. This felt like a secret. It felt…special. None of these bozos would qualify as kind or special. As he was walking out the door for the last time, he had to squelch the overwhelming desire to stop by the editor’s office and take a giant shit right on his desk. Laughing at the thought of the expressions on everyone’s face if he g
ave into that prepossession, he heard someone call his name. He turned and saw an old buzzard of a man who had only been working there for a few weeks. Joe seemed to think his name was Doug, but he could not guarantee it, so he just answered, “What?”
“Phone for you, Watkins,” he barked. “I told her you’d been canned, but she says it is urgent and it has to be you.”
Joe goes back to his now empty desk and picks up the phone. “Joe Watkins, City Desk,” he said, out of pure habit.
“Mr. Watkins,” said the friendliest voice Joe had ever heard. “This is Gabby from the Second Chance Temp Agency.”
“Have you called here before? I think I may have gotten a phone message.” Is that why that post-it note had ended up on his desk?
“No, Mr. Watkins. This is my first and only call.” Her voice was like pure cane sugar. He was getting a cavity just listening to her. “I’m calling to remind you of your nine am appointment tomorrow.”
“Sorry, Gabby was it? I don’t recall ever—” He did not get a chance to finish.
“We will send a car to pick you up in the morning at eight thirty-six which will get you here with about ten minutes to spare. See you in the morning, Mr. Watkins.” Then she hung up.
Joe left feeling almost drunk with all the events that had occurred. After a night’s sleep it hadn’t worn off yet. He woke up this morning feeling just as muddled. He gets up, gets dressed, and gets outside to wait for the car, and his future to arrive.
Remembering Hell Page 5