Fresh, new tears are now flowing. “There was nothing true about anything I said that day.”
“Except that happiness is fleeting. Maybe not for all the reasons you listed in your rant, but even that is sort of true. Happiness doesn’t last because if you are happy every single day, it starts to feel normal. Then you take it for granted. And I can now tell you that if love is taken for granted long enough, it becomes something else.”
“All right, I know this sounds bizarre. But I don’t think Linda stopped loving you.”
“I will concede that she probably didn’t realize it. We had been together so long, we learned every pet peeve, so we could avoid annoying one another. We learned each other’s favorite things, so we always knew what to do or get for each other. After years and years of that we had nothing to fight about, but we also had nothing new to offer one another. To be honest, by the end we were barely seeing each other.” Now Hank is crying too.
“Hank, I love Linda, you know I do. But you can’t take any responsibility for what she did.”
Hank looks at me and gives me a weak smile. “Lou, you have been dead for a long time, a lot longer than I have to be certain. But I have the advantage. I have lived a lot longer than you. Take it from an old man, Linda made that choice all on her own. But the darkness that allowed her to make it so blindly? I have to be able to admit that I created it. Inadvertently, with neglect not malice, but it was me.”
I just look at him. “Oh, Hank,” is all I can say, once again. I get up and wrap my arms around his neck. “I am so sorry. Sorry this happened to you and to Linda.”
“Don’t be sorry for me. Look where I am. But Linda. Poor Linda.” He embraces me back.
“You don’t know, do you?” I look at him curiously. “No one has told you?”
“Told me what?”
I sit back down. “I apologize in advance. This is not going to be short.” And I begin to tell my story. The tale of my afterlife. About how after I died there was no party or welcoming, just waking up in excruciating heat and orange light. How I got a job at IP&FW and worked there for dozens of years until the day I found Deedy’s temp agency. Well, until Deedy found me, to be more precise.
Hank was suitably enthralled. He found my misadventures from being a short lived garbage collector, taxi driver, and beautician hilarious. He took comfort from the fact that in Hell you can’t remember a lot about your life, and each of those jobs were designed to force me to remember the good in mine, and the good in me. When I tell him about my final job, at a day care center, about children in Hell and what they really are, he looks concerned. His concern turns to fear as I relay my experience there.
“Those little bastards tore me to pieces. But that was what it took to make me remember Dinny. That was pretty much my ticket to Heaven.”
“So what you are saying is Linda has a chance at this?”
“Of course she does. It may take some time, but remember what I was trying to say about time earlier? At some point Linda will be joining you here.” I decide to leave it at that for now. I choose not to tell him about my new assignment or why I asked for it. I get the feeling that he may not be able to wrap his head around all that right now. So I end the story with only half of it told.
His gratitude however, is complete. He draws me into another bear hug, and we hold each other like dear old friends.
“You know, I think we would have been much closer in life if I had lived long enough,” I say.
“Well, now we have eternity, right? Thank you for everything, Louise. From the time I got here until tonight.”
We say our goodbyes, and I am actually looking forward to getting home. It has been a long, weird day. I open up my door and walk into my apartment and realize that it’s not over yet. Seems I need one more surprise.
My apartment is exactly like I left it this morning. Except it is completely empty. No comfy couch, no soothing fireplace, no huge bed with a mattress that I can sink into. I start looking through closets and find a cot that I set up and fall into. I seriously consider getting on my knees next to it, but I know I would be talking into a void. Instead, I lie back and try to sleep. Just another wonderful day in Hell. I think as I drift off to dreamless slumber.
CHAPTER TEN
Joe gets up and walks to his closet with the reckless abandon of a long-term resident of Hell. He puts on what looks like pirates britches. He actually wishes he had a mirror so he could check himself out. For the top it’s one of those turtleneck sweaters that spies always wore in the movies in the 60s. Since Joe is pretty sure he remembers when these were actually in style, it doesn’t seem that bad. Until he gets it on. Then he gets the cosmic joke. When it’s blazing hot outside and you are wearing a turtleneck, you might as well just walk around with a giant chain around your neck slowly strangling you all day.
“What a perfect outfit to endure overwhelming heat, standing over a grill filled with disgusting food, and of course heavy grease seeping into the fabric to make it even more uncomfortable. Not to mention smellier.” Yes, Joe has a tendency to talk to himself first thing in the morning. He then starts to hum ‘Oh, What a Beautiful Morning’ with as much sarcasm as
one can muster while humming.
Today is his fourth day as a short order cook at the diner. He royally sucks at it, which seems to be exactly what they are looking for in a cook. Stan, his boss—who prefers to be called Captain for some probably documentably crazy reason—seems very pleased by his work. This mildly disturbs Joe, since his record thus far is two out of five meals coming back. And people in Hell aren’t polite in good conditions. When they send food back at a restaurant that if it were in the land of the living Zagat wouldn’t even allow their guide to be read within a mile of the property, they tend to do it with a sort of profane flair that sticks with you long after it’s been delivered. Kind of like the grease. The remaining three customers also returned their meals, in a very different way. Yes, sixty percent of the people who ate Joe’s food barfed. Not to mention he has set the kitchen on fire twice. He has a theory that the only reason they still have customers is because people get a sense of entertainment watching him make an ass of himself.
He walks out the door and is pleased because he got out of the house a half hour early. He just sort of wants to walk to work alone today. It is not like he doesn’t like Louise, or that he isn’t very appreciative of her help since he started at the agency. She’s just a little odd and incredibly talkative. And kind of stalkerish. Every day she is waiting for him outside of his apartment and walks him to work. And for some reason, she seems irritated that he has not gotten fired yet, which he finds disconcerting. So, every morning he finds himself having to make conversation with a woman who is a stranger, and seems irritated at him. Joe is a reporter at his core, and he made a living observing people and situations. And his gut tells him that this sudden friendship with Louise is not really genuine. It has set-up written all over it. She works for Deedy, and for some reason Deedy wants him watched. Louise pretends to like Joe so she can keep tabs on him.
He really wants to confront Deedy, but Deedy makes him nervous. Not nervous like “palm sweaty,” “heart beating” nervous, but more like “really wants his approval” kind of nervous. Joe still doesn’t understand why Deedy is so different than anyone else in Hell. The clothes, the office, those incredible chairs. And Gabby with her root beer that is ice cold like he used to drink when he was a kid. Why would a man like that have someone spying on someone like Joe? And why does that bring Joe a sense of comfort? But as nice as it seems, it is also nice just to have some time to process his thoughts and to prepare for another shitty day without Louise yammering at him.
When Joe enters the diner, Stan the Captain glances at the clock and starts in on him. “What’s up with the early bird routine? You trying for employee of the month?” He says in his usual gruff way.
“Why would I possibly assume that arriving early would earn me such a position of honor?”
“Like we even have an employee of the month. Here’s your apron.” Stan tosses a once white apron across the room to Joe. “Get to prepping for the breakfast crowd. I’ll be in the back.” Stan starts back to the kitchen.
“My last name is spelled W-A-T-K-I-N-S,” Joe yells after him. “You know, for the plaque.”
“I’ll write that down as soon as I let go of my sides from laughing,” Stan yells back, with no laughter anywhere in his tone.
Joe has tied on his apron and is currently pouring himself a cup of the swill this place insists on calling coffee, when he hears the first customer of the day come in. He turns around and sees a girl. She looks young, mousy brown hair, a look of confusion and terror in her eyes. She sits at the counter and looks at the menu in a stand-up plastic holder that makes it handy to order from when you are sitting at the counter. She seems to panic as she sets it back down and starts to weep.
Newbie, Joe thinks instantly.
“Can I get you something?” Joe asks, not trying to sound too friendly.
“No, I’m fine.” The girl looks around as if she is still trying to determine whether this is a nightmare or not.
Joe sighs. “How long have you been here?”
“I don’t know. An hour? A day? A week?” The desperation in her voice is thicker than pancake syrup. Pancake syrup anywhere but here, where it’s the consistency of play-doh and smells of feet.
Joe is struck by this poor girl. He stops to wonder what someone who looks so innocent could possibly have done to end up here. Of course, after all this time he knows better than to be swayed by helplessness or beauty. But she is beautiful. Her eyes so big and blue, and her hair falls across her shoulders in soft curls. Joe wants to help her, but how do you help someone who suddenly finds themselves in eternal despair? He turns around and grabs a mug. Suddenly, he is filled with inspiration. He takes the mug back to the kitchen and grabs a saucepan. He goes to the stove and is surprised to find that all the ingredients he wants are right there. He starts making his concoction like he was channeling Julia Childs. He is suddenly possessed with the idea of making the most delicious cup of hot cocoa ever made in Hell. He puts in cream, cocoa powder, and sugar. At the end he grabs some chili powder from the spice rack and puts that in too along with a pinch of salt. He tastes it and is actually surprised with his own talent. He cannot recall ever making anything, let alone homemade hot chocolate with chili. The taste explodes in his mouth, but slides smoothly down his throat. He pours it in the mug and takes it to the girl.
“Oh, I can’t,” she says, dismissing it immediately.
“My treat,” he says, pushing the steaming mug toward her.
She picks up the mug and breaths in the steam before she takes a sip. Then her eyes register real surprise as she looks up at him.
“You put chili in here!” she exclaims. “How did you know?”
“Know what?” Joe is bewildered but pleased as he watches her take another long draw from her mug.
When she is done, she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand in a gesture that makes her appear both childlike and seductive. “My grandmother used to make me hot chocolate with chili every time I would get upset. It would always make me feel better.”
“Seriously? I was just kind of improvising. I have never even heard of chili pepper in hot chocolate before.” Joe smiles widely. “Did it work today? Do you feel any better?”
“You know what, I think it did. All things considered.” She stops and looks around. “At least it may help me get through today.”
“That is the best way to handle this place. If you start thinking about forever you will go mad. Just concentrate on today.”
“Thank you,” the pretty girl says as she stands and goes to the door. “Concentrate on today.” She tells herself as she opens it and walks out into the orange haze.
Joe smiles to himself, feeling pretty darn good for a change. He turns and finds himself face to face with Captain Stan. Stan raises one stubby finger to motion to Joe back in the kitchen.
“Am I in trouble?” Joe asks with some concern.
Captain looks at him sadly. “Trouble, no. But gone? Yeah.” He hands over a pink slip.
Joe looks at it with shock. On the bottom of the pink slip it says:
Terminated for Providing Comfort.
Joe is absolutely livid. Yes, he’s pissed that Stan could not see past one itty bitty kind act, but he’s angrier at himself. Am I going crazy? He wonders as he walks briskly toward the agency. This is the second job I have lost in as many weeks. First there was Joe’s debacle at the superstore that got him fired from the Gazette, and now a pretty girl sheds a few tears and he’s jumping around a kitchen like Wolfgang Puck.
Now he’s got the distinct pleasure of telling Deedy that he’s lost the very first temp job the agency secured for him. For a brief moment he is kind of bummed that Louise is not around. She might be able to tell him the best way to couch the information.
When Joe walks into the office there is Gabby standing there talking to Louise. Be careful what you wish for. Thinks Joe. Damn it. Louise is probably reporting to Gabby that he had ditched her this morning. In fact, they do seem to be talking when he approaches and when he gets close they clam up.
“Am I interrupting something?” he says.
“No not at all, I was just leaving,” Louise says quickly. “Missed you this morning,” she starts, then pauses to look at him closer. “Did you have an okay day?”
“Not really,” Joe answers sorely.
“Yeah, well. What do you expect? Remember where we are!” she says with a smile. Then just as she is walking away toward the elevator, Deedy’s voice comes booming from down the hall.
“Mr. Watkins, I presume?”
Gabby looks at him and with her head motions him back to the office.
When Joe walks into Deedy’s office, he seems almost jovial. “Joe, my boy! Have a seat!”
Joe sits down and rubs his palms on his pirate britches to try to make them dry. “I have something I need to tell you,” he says nervously. “I was…fired.”
“Finally,” Deedy responds. “Tell me what happened.” Deedy sits behind his desk and folds his hands. “Tell me about it.”
Joe relays the story about the hot chocolate. And about the subsequent pink slip.
“Why do you think you felt the need to help that poor girl?” Deedy says, opening up a file and grabbing a pen.
Joe’s mind opens and is flooded with memories. He begins, “It was not my life’s dream to be a paparazzi. I used to have real dreams of writing real books. I was going to write the great American Novel. I used to imagine myself becoming the new Twain. Or at the very least, a halfway decent facsimile of the new King.”
“Oh, Stephen King? Did you write scary stories? I’ve always loved scary stories!” Deedy is excited now.
“No, it wasn’t the genre, it was the notability. Writers that just seem to be able to come up with the perfect stories that will ensure their immortality, not to mention the ability to sell a gazillion books.”
“Right. Gotcha. Perhaps those writers were able to refrain from diversions?” Deedy says playfully. Then he makes his signature move. At least Joe has seen him do it several times since meeting him. He sits back and props his feet up on his desk.
“Sorry. Anyway, when I was trying to write I would go to this diner near my apartment. I was so young and so full of affectation that I actually thought writing in a diner made me seem more talented.”
“And it didn’t?” Deedy asks innocently.
Joe decides to let that go. “One day I was sitting there just staring at a blank piece of paper, amazed at how empty my brain had become. This woman came in and sat directly across from me. I didn’t even look up at her. She just started talking to me like we were old friends. When I finally did look up at her, only to confirm that I had never laid eyes on her before, she had already told me that her parents preferred her younger sister, she had recently dropped out of
college, the fact that she had loved and lost three dogs in her lifetime, and I was pretty sure she was about to tell me exactly when her menstrual cycle started when I finally interrupted her. I thought I was going to tell her to shut the fuck up and leave me alone, but when I opened my mouth it was to ask her name.” Joe stops to revel in this newfound memory, and to put a quarter in Deedy’s curse jar.
“And that was terrible?” Deedy asks.
“No, it was incredible,” Joe responds. “Tara was her name. She became my girlfriend. We were together for six years. To this day, those were the best six years of my life.”
“What happened?” Deedy is continuing to make notes in his file.
“Well, I stopped writing. I became complacent. Then the job at the paper came, and I was getting a paycheck. Of course, all confidence and sense of self-worth bottomed out. I started to grow distant, more sullen with each passing day. Until…”
“Until?” Deedy sits up and leans forward.
“Until her father died. It was sudden, unexpected. Tara was devastated. But of course the funeral was uncomfortable. She and her sister getting competitive. Her mom, grief-stricken lashing out at her daughters. At one point, I took Tara’s hand and started to walk. I really didn’t have any idea where we were going until I looked up and realized we had arrived. At the diner. At our diner. We went inside and sat in our booth, we ordered hot chocolates, and we talked. We told stories about her dad, laughing and crying for hours.” Joe now wipes a slight wetness out of the corner of his eye.
“You provided comfort. With hot chocolate,” Deedy says.
“I guess I did. Of course, it still didn’t last. We broke up within the year.”
“But you broke up because you had completed your journey together. It was time to go your separate ways. Still, a nice memory though, am I right?”
“Yes, the best. And over time I really did enjoy my job,” Joe says, finally relaxing after the emotional storm of remembering Tara.
Remembering Hell Page 8