by Tim Hawken
“By god, you’ve been robbed!” Dante yelled, looking at my squalid existence. I had no T.V., no stereo, no items of any monetary value, just books strewn all over the floor, amid dirty clothes and old newspapers. A sorry excuse for a couch was wedged in the corner.
“It’s okay, Dante,” I said, calming him down. “I told you it wasn’t much, but this is home.”
“Ohhhh, well it’s just beautiful,” he said cheerily, as if he’d forgotten his initial reaction. “It’s a palace, a wonderful Mahal; I love what you’ve done with the place.”
“It’s okay, Dante,” I said again softly, “I know it’s a dump. Now, how about that soup? I don’t know about you but I’m famished.”
I walked to the cupboard and pulled out two tins of my favorite, minestrone, turning on the rusty electric stove. I slopped both tins into a pot and placed them on the cooker, then turned back to Dante, who now sat quietly in the corner reading one of my books, absent-mindedly stroking his teddy bear. I watched him as he read, flicking the pages backwards instead of forwards. He looked back up at me watching him.
“You must have been someone,” he said to me, resuming the conversation from in the car like it had only just happened.
“Why’s that?” I asked him. “Anyone can be no-one if they’ve done nothing.”
“But what about this picture?” he said, holding up a Polaroid he had taken from the pages of the book in his lap. It showed me after one of my early fights, Coach holding my arm in the air in victory. I turned my back on Dante and pretended to check on the soup. I thought I’d thrown all my photos away, but I must have left that one as a bookmark and never taken it out.
“That was from another life,” I said, burying my head in the fridge to avoid looking at him. “Do you want a drink?” I yelled from inside the refrigerator, as the cool air swirled around my embarrassed, burning face. I held a six-pack of beer above the fridge door to get his attention.
“So you were someone, then!” he said in answer, “and yes please, I’ll have two cans if that’s quite alright with my host, I’m very thirsty.”
I took an extra six-pack from the fridge, laughing at Dante despite my shame at him finding my photo. Dumping the cans on the bench, I then poured hot soup into two bowls and took them over to where the bum was sitting on the floor, reading the book again. I looked at the pages. It was Midnight’s Children by Salman Rushdie. It had been one of Coach’s favorites.
“Here you are,” I said to Dante, passing him his two beers and bowl of minestrone.
“Thank you kindly,” he said, placing the book lightly to the side. “So why do you say that photo was from another life? Did you lose your marbles as well? Did the stress get to you like it did to me? Do you ever want to fight again? You still look young, if a bit out of shape -- too many of these ones,” he said shaking his can of beer innocently.
I sat back, defeated. There was no getting angry at Dante. He was like a child, not really knowing what he was saying. Before I could stop myself, I said it.
“I killed a man, and now I’m afraid.” I quickly pressed the cold aluminum of the beer can to my mouth and drained its contents, scared I’d never stop talking if I didn’t plug myself with alcohol.
“I see,” Dante answered happily. “Well, there’s no dishonor in being afraid. I assume it was an accident, killing the man? I mean, you haven’t murdered me yet, so it’s obviously not in your heart to just go around ending lives, now is it?”
“Of course not!” I snapped.
“So why let your fears rule you? That’s where the shame lies, not in an accidental death. The real disgrace is in killing yourself slowly with gambling and beer.”
I stood up, now angry as hell at this stranger in my house. “And what would you know?” I roared, sending soup flying onto the carpet. “You’re no better than me, living on the streets and begging for money. Your only friend is a crappy, filthy, children’s toy with stuffing hanging out of it!”
Dante looked down at Virgil with tears in his eyes. He picked him up, stroking his head. “He didn’t mean that, Mr. Virgil,” he said. “You’re a beautiful bear. Come on let’s leave him alone, he’s angry at us for telling him the truth; some people don’t like hearing what they already know. Let’s let him sleep.” He got up and started to walk out the door.
“Please wait!” I called after him. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it.”
Dante turned slowly with a sad face. He pressed the bear’s mouth to his ear.
“Virgil says he knows you didn’t mean it, he wants to stay, Mr. Michael, if that’s alright, it’s too cold for him out there.”
“Of course,” I said, my anger melting away. “I’ll get you some blankets, you must be tired.”
I hurried to the cupboard before he could change his mind and pulled out my only spare blanket. I made the couch into a bed for Dante while he watched me quietly. I’d obviously scared him with my outburst. Once I’d finished, I turned to him.
“I’m sorry I yelled at you. Please, sleep and stay here as long as you want to. I’ll let you sleep. I’ll just be in the other room if you need anything.”
Afraid to say anymore, I walked into the other room and flopped down on my bed. I felt so ashamed that I’d snapped at Dante. He was right. I was afraid, and I was killing myself passively. My life had turned from constant activity to a life of forced laziness. My world consisted of drinking beer, reading books and playing the slot machines at a casino. The only reason I went there, instead of the bars was because the Riviera never closed and no one seemed to notice if you stayed there all day every day. My life was slowly accumulating to a large heap of nothing.
I lay on my back and stared at the ceiling, trying to stay awake. As much as I loathed being awake, I hated sleep even more. My dreams showed me what I could have been. What I never was. They haunted me with visions of a mother I never knew. Many nights I also dreamt of dying in violent and horrible ways. I could never make myself wake from those dreams. My eyelids grew heavier and heavier. As hard as I tried to stop them, they crept down over my eyes. For the first time in over a week, I slept.
I awoke with the smell of my mother’s perfume still in my nostrils, like jasmine flowers. As usual, I never saw the detail in her face, just a black outline, her smell and a sense of despair. It felt like I’d only just fallen asleep, but the grey light coming through my window told me it had been at least a few hours.
I heard the front door close softly and I jerked alert in my bed. I recalled the events of the previous night. I had brought a mentally unhinged stranger into my house -- Dante. I jumped up and ran into the lounge. The place was its usual mess, but there was nothing missing that I could see. The couch had been slept on, but there was no sign of Dante. I opened the front door and looked down the driveway. There was no one around. The ground was still moist from the sprinkle of rain the night before. I could see fresh, bubbling footprints in the gravel leading away from my unit and down the street. Dante had obviously just left. I almost ran down the road after him to make sure he was okay. I’d actually enjoyed the company of another person in my home, even if he was slightly crazy. I was alone again. I needed a beer.
Opening the fridge I reached in, but the normal stack of cans was gone. In their place was a note, the photo Dante had found the night before and a skipping rope. Taking the bundle out of the fridge, I put the contents on the kitchen bench. The note was scrawled in a beautiful, open cursive script. It read:
Dear Saint Michael,
I thank you for your kind gesture and hospitality in letting us sleep in your home. Virgil hasn’t slept so well in all the time I have known him. We are truly grateful.
I found this skipping rope buried in the back of your cupboard when I was searching for a pillow. I think that you should use it to become a somebody once more.
Don’t let the past rule your future, Michael, you still have your mind. I suggest you use it and begin your journey into a life of consequence, rather than letting
it slip away like mine. A man much better than I once said that “a life lived in fear is a life half lived.” Listen to those words.
Mr. Virgil insisted that we take your alcohol also. I’m sorry, but there was no convincing him otherwise. He says it makes you fat and lazy, and that we would be doing you a favor.
Goodbye, Michael, from both of us and good luck whatever you decide to do.
Sincerely,
Dante A.
I put down the note and looked at the photo of me smiling with my arm in the air. Those were some of the only days in my life that I was actually happy, where I felt like I was worth my skin. I picked up the skipping rope. Maybe it was time I started living again.
eight
MY EYES FLUTTERED OPEN to see Satan smiling at me, holding out a beer.
“Here you are, Michael. Sloth finally got back to us with those drinks.”
I pushed the bottle away as I sat upright again on my stool. It took a moment to readjust to my surroundings. I looked around Sloth’s Lounge to see the bodies of the most languid souls in Hell, lying scattered around me on the floor, rotting and withering away. They were content watching others’ lives on television, rather than living their own existence. I thought about the part of my life I’d just relived. It was a time where I was also wasting my life away like these souls. It made me feel ill. How could I wallow in self-pity like that? How could I run and hide away from myself, drowning myself in alcohol and smothering my senses with the false hope of slot machines? I hated who I was. I began to despise God for the lack of opportunities I’d been given. Born parentless, then out on the streets. I picked myself up, only to be knocked down by a twist of fate: killing a man during an arranged fight. What hope did I have?
“Oh, come on now, Michael!” Satan said, moving his face into my line of sight. “You can’t just blame God for all of your downfalls; that will simply prolong your stay in Hell. Now, I’m not defending him,” Satan laughed, “but we have to take responsibility for ourselves, even if we have been given a raw deal! Look at me, for example. I’ve been shafted more than anyone in the history of the universe and damn right, I’m furious, but I don’t go around whining all day about it. I get on with my lot and am thankful for the purpose it gives me. I also take joy in the fact I’m going to have my revenge one day!” His eyes lit up with a brief flicker of insane malice before he looked away.
“But this isn’t about me,” he grinned, turning back to face me. “Think about what you just saw. You were down and out, but don’t forget the saving graces. You showed kindness to a stranger and a commitment to get back to living. This is exactly the purpose of the visions, to show you not only why you could wallow in Damnation for eternity, but how you could easily make the choice to cross over to Heaven. You see your sins with new eyes and can better your decisions when the time comes. It’s easy to judge others, Michael, but much harder to judge yourself. Most people rationalize their sins, their destructive actions. By seeing yourself again, afresh, you can cut away the pretense, the bullshit excuses and strip yourself bare. You can see yourself for who you really are. But we’re not finished yet. We’ve got more layers to peel back, more of your life to see. Cheers!” He tipped his beer in my direction and then lifted the bottle to his mouth, taking a deep drink.
“Ahhhhh, I love it,” he sighed, looking at his beer and then back to me. “The most important thing of all, Michael, is to learn to enjoy life and accept things for what they are. Take this beer for example. It’s a tasty drink and nothing more. It’s not a crutch or a vice if you don’t want it to be. Now have a drink with me and stop being such a downer!”
The Devil pressed the green bottle of amber fluid in my hand and chinked his own bottle against it, taking another sip and looking me directly in the eyes, as if challenging me to take a swig. I took his cue and sculled deeply. God knows I needed a drink after what I’d been through in the last few hours. The beer slid with ease down my throat, the light bubbles tingling my tongue. It was cold and refreshing. I savored the taste, swirling the drink around in my mouth before gulping it down. I slammed the bottle on the bar and got up out of my chair.
“Alright then, Satan,” I said, with new determination. “Where do we go next? What do we see now?”
“There you go, Michael!” he laughed, jumping up. “That wasn’t so hard -- and look, you haven’t turned into a lazy sod after all. Let’s move on out of this dump, it’s time to go to The Pit.”
Satan waved goodbye to Sloth behind the bar as we picked our way through the garbage-heap of lost souls, who slept on the stale ale carpet. He pushed the doors open and the heat of Hell engulfed us. This time I was ready for it. I braced myself and pushed through, with the resolve to move through this Day of Judgment as quickly as possible. I had already seen part of the train wreck that was my life. I was still apprehensive about seeing the rest but accepted there was nothing I could do to stop it from happening. I had already lived it.
The masses racing along the street stopped dead on cue and we walked into their midst. They whispered and pointed, offering prayers as we passed by, many dropping to their knees. Satan barely seemed to notice. He ushered me back inside the white limousine we’d arrived in. The leather of the seats squeaked as I shuffled over to make room for The Devil behind me. The cool air of the interior gave me a reprieve from the blistering temperature outside. Satan shut the door and rapped heavily on the divider window, yelling, “To The Pit, Driver, with haste.”
We screamed off the curb and I was thrown back into my seat. We wove in and out between cars, accelerating the whole time, going faster and faster. We must have been going over two hundred miles an hour. I gripped the door handle and sat back, fumbling for a seatbelt.
“Oh don’t worry about that,” The Devil grinned at me, “you’re with The Dark Lord, I won’t let us crash!” He waved his hand and all the cars on the road parted like a zipper before us. We surged forward even faster, the City of Hell whipping by in a blur. I tried to calm myself, breathing deeply, looking straight ahead, telling myself I couldn’t die, since I was already dead. The Devil let out another laugh at my side. He was enjoying making me squirm.
“You’re damn right I am,” he quipped, pulling his usual mind reading trick. “We can’t let you get too comfortable down here. You might never leave.” He slapped his leg and laughed again.
“So, where are we going now?” I asked, forcing a smile.
“I told you, we’re going to The Pit,” he said as if that explained everything. “Don’t worry you’ll like it. It’s an entertainment venue.”
“What kind of entertainment?” I asked suspiciously.
“A bit of this and that; live music, avant-garde theatre, tawdry burlesque shows, you know, the norm. There’s probably not too much you’ll see here that you didn’t see up there.” He smiled, pointing to the ceiling. “Well actually,” he giggled, “there may be a few things.”
nine
THE LIMOUSINE SLOWED TO A HALT at a ticket gate. A swinging billboard hung above us. It read in blood-script letters, ‘The Pit’. I looked out the window and caught a glimpse of the toll collector talking to our shark-faced driver. It had a large, bulbous, octopus body with suction cups running the length of eight tentacle-like arms, which still had masculine, human hands on the ends. He waved them around and made gestures while his beak opened and closed, making clicking noises. His whole body shimmered from a light pink then deepened to a storm-cloud purple and back again as he spoke. Finally, he sat back in his chair and pulled a lever at his side. The boom-gate opened and we rolled through as the Octodemon strained to look inside our car. Satan sat staring straight ahead, his hands crossed in his lap.
We snaked through a gigantic car park, past every kind of vehicle imaginable. I even saw a couple of hovercrafts. Finally, our car slowed to a halt in front of a deserted section of large razor-wire fence, which spread around as far as I could see. I looked through, but could only make out a faint-green glow coming from the groun
d near a hand rail, which sat about fifty feet inside the fence. A faint thumping sound beat in the air. Satan opened his door and stepped outside. I followed without much thought. We were obviously here for a good reason. Satan knocked on the driver’s window. It rolled down to expose our predatory chauffeur.
“Wait for us here,” Satan instructed. “We won’t be more than a couple of hours.” He turned back to me. “Sometimes, people stay here for days,” he explained, “including myself, depending on the entertainment of course. Follow me, we’ll check out the view before we take our seats.”
Satan turned and walked toward the fence holding out his hands out in front of him. As soon as he touched the links in the fence they melted away in a hiss of dissolving metal. He stepped through, quickly pulling me behind him. As soon as we were through, the fence hissed again. I looked back to see the alloy chain-links growing back together like they were alive. It would take a long time for me to get used to Hell, I thought.
“You’ll never get used to it,” Satan said flatly. “It’s always changing, so as soon as something seems normal it gets twisted about. I can’t let people settle into a routine, since routine provides comfort. It’s just another reason to make souls want to leave. Most people hate change; personally I embrace it.”
I was about to reply when I ran into the handrail I’d seen through the fence. It hit me square in the stomach and I would have fallen right over the top if Satan hadn’t grabbed me by the back of my shirt. I looked down into a seething pit of activity. It looked as though the ground had been swallowed into a cavern of tiered seating and flashing lights. There were cinema screens every fifty feet or so down, but they stretched into the distance, down into a hole of green light. Waves of sound rolled up from deep below. I couldn’t see the bottom. Satan hefted me back onto my feet. I looked across but couldn’t see the far end of The Pit either. Steam shimmered up out of the middle like a wall of churning mist, which swallowed the green light.