I felt better immediately. I mean REALLY better. Not just no longer dizzy, or gripped with fear, but I felt lighter too, like maybe I could glide now, like Gabby. All my anxiety about the job interview was gone, and I almost... well... I almost felt giddy. I felt like laughing. And I realized at that very moment that I hadn’t laughed, really laughed, since I was alive. That kind of made me sad for a minute, but it was only a minute and then I felt good again. It was a whirlwind of emotions, a sensation kind of like being high, but with more euphoria, and less nausea.
“Wow, that’s an awesome patch!” I said to Gabby, who laughed out loud in response. “Here’s another little pleasure I can offer, if you think you can manage it. How about a cup of coffee?”
“Sure.” I answered with my newly chipper voice. Oh fuck, maybe I’ve drunk the proverbial Kool-Aid and am about to become a grinner! “Unless it’s from the organic place, then never mind.”
“Oh no! This is my coffee! I brew it myself. How do you take it?”
“I like my coffee like I like my men. Strong, tan, and artificially sweet.” That line always got a laugh when I was breathing. Gabby didn’t. But she did give me one of those “oh-you’re-so-silly” half grins.
Suddenly there was the sound of a door being swung open. I mean swung open. I could actually feel a small breeze from the direction of the door. And from behind it a loud booming voice with a sharp clipped accent bellows “Oi, Gabby! I assume Ms. Patterson has been through the orientation process? I would think, given the amount of time she’s been out there that she’s not only oriented, but quite possibly, fully trained to do YOUR job!” It was loud, but it wasn’t mean. He didn’t sound grumpy at all. Maybe a little exasperated, but his voice was filled with humor. I pictured an old man with a beard, like Santa Claus, only from Ireland or Scotland or somewhere. Gabby was not the least bit bothered by all of the yelling. She just walked, or glided, over to me with a steaming cup of coffee that looked and smelled better than anything I’ve ever seen down here. I gave myself just one more second to breathe it in, and then took the first glorious sip.
“So, time to bite the bullet?” I ask with just a bit of the old trepidation back for an encore.
“Yes, it’s time for you to meet the boss.” Gabby was back to her old grinning self.
“Thanks, Gabby, for the coffee and for the patch.” I said, with sincere gratitude.
“No problem. Good luck, Louise.” she answered as she ushered me into the corridor.
With just my thoughts, because I knew she was still reading me, I relayed one more message...
‘Even though, as you know, I’m not stupid. I know what an adhesive bandage looks like, and I know I started to feel better the second you touched me.’
I could hear Gabby laughing out loud again as I approached the open door that would change my life... death... whatever.
Chapter Six
Human touch is very rare in Hell. I remember when I was at IP&FW there were a few in the call center who tried to date, but it never really worked out. First of all, there’s no real age or aging down here. People just show up, usually the same age when they died, because I guess that when we die, we approximate ourselves through memory. I really don’t know, but I do know that no one ages once they get here. If they show up young, then they stay young. If they show up old, then... well, you get it. So, anyway, there’s no way to know just how big of an age difference there is. You may look the same age, but one of you may have been here for a hundred years while the other just arrived yesterday. Makes for bizarre dinner conversation. The only thing I could compare it to in the world would be a just spurned divorcee having dinner with a confirmed bachelor. She’s all sobbing and screaming while he looks bored and asks for the check. And you haven’t seen sobbing and screaming until you see someone eternally damned, who is sobbing and screaming. And of course, there’s no possibility of getting lucky after a date in Hell. Fucking is as futile as masturbation. You can work at it for hours but it will never come to fruition. Most likely, more of you, than not know that feeling, right? We’ve all been there. Now, just imagine being there for ETERNITY. Sound like fun? Didn’t think so.
At any rate, that was why I was confused about the whole Gabby situation. I mean, I knew that the whole “patch on my arm” thing was bullshit. I knew that I felt better the instant she touched me, but after that, I was just baffled. Was it because Gabby possessed some weird mojo that could make vertigo disappear? Or was it that I’ve been here so long that I was actually craving human contact? And why had she touched me? Did she know that she would heal me? Or was it more of that “trying to make me more comfortable” thing that she had going on. While I’m asking myself a bunch of mind-fuck questions, how did she get away with that? I mean, all I did was help a guy get back online and BOOM... don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out! She made coffee for fuck’s sake! GOOD coffee at that!
So, my mind is a jumble, but I’m still feeling good overall when I get to the office at the end of the hall. The door is now slightly ajar, so after a moment of consternation, wondering if I should knock or just walk in, I hear that lovely voice come from inside. “Do come in Louise, I think we’ve both been put on hold long enough.”
When I walked through the door I had about 3 seconds to take in my surroundings. If I had known that I only had 3 seconds I would’ve paid more attention. However, I didn’t. So, all I got was the temperature in this man’s office was SUBLIME. It wasn’t cool, but it wasn’t hot either. It felt like early summer after a drenching rain. It felt...well, fresh. Where exactly in the LITERAL Hell am I? How is this happening? Oh and the chairs, have I mentioned the chairs yet?? None of these chairs look broken, wobbly, or look like they could moonlight as torture devices. In other words, they don’t look like any chair I’ve ever seen in Hell! They looked comfy and soft, and I really want to sit in them.
I also noticed one of those nameplates that people always have on their desks. Why do people have those things? Pure vanity, or maybe they occasionally forget who they are. Then of course, I realized that I didn’t know this guy’s name. Perhaps they do have a use. I glanced at it, registering the name MR. DEEDY just as Mr. Deedy, himself, unleashed like a tornado.
“Hello, Louise May Patterson!” It was almost sing-song. He was so enthused. “Born, according to your resume, on April 6, Year of Our Lord, as they say, 1957 and expired on October 3, 2000. You’ve been wallowing in the depths ever since. You were employed in life as....” He stops to page through a short document on very nice parchment that has my name typed across the top... ”well, guess not. And employed in Hell at the infamous IP&FW where you were recently terminated due to… ah, due to actually helping someone.” He begins to laugh. “Silly girl. They HATE that at IP&FW. Do have a seat. Let’s chat a while.”
I sink into one of the chairs and immediately fall in love —with a chair. I’m never getting up. This chair is more comfortable than my bed.
Now, despite the fact that he did not take a break, or even a breath here, I’m taking a break just to make my head stop spinning. Mr. Deedy is not like anyone I’ve ever met or seen. EVER. First of all, he’s REALLY tall. Like basketball player tall. You know in those old cowboy movies when the gunslinger would come to town and the saloon girl would slide up to him and say in a seductive voice “My goodness, ain’t you a tall drink of water!” Well, that gunslinger would have to stand on a stool to look Mr. Deedy in the eye. And thin. To call him wiry would be insulting to wires. Heroin addicts probably feel fat around him. My friend Bonnie from high school had an eating disorder and used to pass out in the middle of a sentence, and she wasn’t as thin as him.
He’s odd to be sure. When he first approached me I held out my hand to shake his, like every job interview I’ve ever seen on TV or in a movie. Since that is my only frame of reference, I expected him to grab my hand and say “Firm handshake, good sign!” or something. But instead, he kept right on talking and looked down at my hand then looked at me
and shook his head ‘no’ while he continued his non-stop diatribe. Who does that? Maybe he’s OCD or a germaphobe, but who would be afraid of germs after they’re dead? I wonder if he’s afraid to touch Gabby. He probably should touch her. Then she’d get rid of whatever freaky thing he has that makes him leave a girl hangin’ with her hand stuck out like a panhandler. Or perhaps whatever country he’s from doesn’t do the handshake thing. Maybe they kiss each other’s cheeks or whatever. I honestly do not know about stuff like that, because European television and movies are boring and stuffy, and no one exotic ever comes to the town that I lived in when I was alive. By exotic I mean anyone who’s from anywhere other than the tri-county area, let alone from another country.
He’s not particularly good-looking. He looks almost cartoonish with sharp features, and a pointed and very prominent nose. His teeth that don’t sit right in his mouth so his tongue seems to be moving around in there like it’s pushing them to the side when he speaks. He has big eyes like a porcelain figurine, and wild hair. Which, by the way, appears to be the creation of product. I giggle at the thought of Mr. Deedy walking into one of the chain stores and asking the clerk, with 17 layers of make-up on her face, where he can find hair gel. He carries himself like a little boy pretending to be a man, with his chest stuck out and never knowing quite what to do with all those limbs. All of that, combined with his height and lack of girth, and Deedy makes one Hell of an impression.
Nevertheless, when he laughs, his whole face comes along for the ride and his eyes get a little sparkly. You can tell just by looking at him that he’s kind. Not necessarily sweet, nor gentle, but always kind. He instantly makes you wonder if he’s an actual resident here, or maybe he’s like a social worker from Heaven, who commutes down here to help out poor schlubs like me.
That would explain a lot, like the comfy chairs and the temperature in his office. It would also explain what he’s wearing. Unlike the rest of us who find a new nightmare in our closet each day, this man is dressed to the nines. A beautiful suit that looks like it was tailored specifically to him is draping across his long, lean body in absolute perfection. The exact brown of his eyes, which are both a thing of beauty and a little disquieting. The suit looks expensive too, while everything down here is cheap and poorly-made. If Giorgio Armani was dead (and who knows? he might be by now) I’d be pretty sure he’d made that suit.
“Louise, still with me?” he looked at me expectantly.
“Of course!” Shit, I lost almost half of what he was saying. And that’s a bunch, considering how he’s machine-gunning words towards me at the speed of light. “I was just a bit distracted, admiring your suit. I mean, pardon my French, but that is fucking beautiful. Where did it come from?”
“I was saying that according to this” he looks down again at the resume that I have NO IDEA how he obtained, “that since you found our notice you’ve been plagued with fake memories, emotional reactions well beyond anything you’ve experienced here, and dreams, none of which you remember right? Oh, and that will be 25 cents.” He reaches under the desk and pulls out a jar with the words “CURSE JAR” printed on it. He’s very nonchalant, never taking his eyes off the document.
“Huh?” I’m now confused on several levels. What resume, especially one that I didn’t write or submit, talks about dreams? Granted, I’ve never even seen a real live resume, let alone created one, but I’m pretty sure that they stick to skill sets and former jobs, not private personal fantasies or dreams! Especially dreams that I didn’t know I was having, since according to the aforementioned, bizarre resume I can’t remember them. And the curse jar must be a joke, right? Should I laugh, or just ignore it?
Deedy turns and faces me. “I can’t possibly ‘pardon your French’ as you’ve asked me to, unless you put a quarter in this jar. And, by the way, that word is in no way, shape, or form French. It’s Middle English in origin, originally ‘fucken’ which means to strike, move quickly, or penetrate. How it became the most popular verb, adjective, noun, AND insult in the English language is beyond me. However, it’ll cost you a quarter.” He seems bemused, but he’s still holding out the jar. He’s expecting me to put 25 cents in there.
“Are you serious? Or are you fucking with me?” I ask, truly bewildered.
“See? Since you’ve entered my office you used it as a complimentary adjective and a derogatory verb, neither of which would indicate striking, moving fast, or penetrating. There are now 1,009,614 words in your native tongue. Why do you make that word work so hard? Nor is it, for your information and edification, normal conversation fodder at a job interview. And now, it’s 50 cents.”
Okay, so now I’m vacillating between feeling bad, because he’s right... It’s awful to walk into a stranger’s office trying to pretend to be any kind of professional and start talking like a sailor on leave... But there’s also the principal of the thing, which is that a curse jar is stupid and I’m not giving him 50 cents. So, I react the way I always react when I’m not sure if I’m right but I’m bound and determined to convince someone else that I am. In other words I over-react.
“Mr. Deedy, I apologize for coming here and offending you. As you can tell by my apparent resume, that is and will be forever a mystery to me, I am not well-educated or well-versed in these kinds of proceedings. Obviously, I am highly unqualified for whatever it is I’m here to interview for, and so I’ll go. I promise to put the job notice back where I found it and I can only hope that this simple act will encourage you to take out that weird phone that showed up in my apartment and also forgive my overwhelming debt! Having said all that, I just want you to know that I do not appreciate your condescending manner of pointing out my uneducated speech or your feeble attempts at embarrassing me or making me feel like a giant shitbird. I cannot abide that kind of treatment. Good day, Mr. Deedy!” I say all this with an increasing frenzy. By the time I’m done, I’ve risen from my seat and I’m practically in tears. Oscar goes to... me.
Mr. Deedy looks at me with a half-smile and one eyebrow raised up higher than the other. It’s not threatening, or apologetic, or even amused. It’s just a simple look, yet I feel like I’ve been struck, hit with some invisible force that takes my breath away. Not to mention it’s like he’s gazing into my soul with those penetrating brown eyes and scanning all my bullshit in a millisecond. He glances at the chair and then back to me, and as I sink into it I reach into my pocket and pull out 75 cents and drop it into the jar.
He then returns to the resume and continues as though nothing has happened. “So, I’d like you to tell me exactly what you remember about the years approaching your demise. I assume your memory is somewhat blotchy, correct? And I’ll also need to know precisely what a shitbird is, and why, not to mention where, they seemingly carry change?”
Yep, I think to myself, I have just been ‘fuckened’.
Deedy was equivalent to my afterlife, as meeting Linda in life. Not that we milkshaked all over each other, but that his impact was instant and measurable. He had put me in my place, but also at ease simultaneously. He is not like any man I’ve ever remembered meeting. To my amazement (since I only heard of these men in fairy tales, he’s no bull-shitter and won’t try to con me. He can be frustrating, sometimes a little condescending, and seems to be amused by me but he’s never even tried to use manipulation, mind-games, or his own ego against me. I would not call him nice, or sweet, or polite; yet he made me feel comfortable, even as he was chastising me for my potty mouth. I would say it’s like meeting a member of your own family, yet it is different from even that. It’s not like your dad, who loves you unconditionally but whose approval you are constantly trying to get, anyway. With Deedy, it’s never about approval or doing the right thing. It’s more like fulfilling some great potential that only he can see. Which is why when the interview took a left turn, I wasn’t sure where I was headed, to a temp job or back to the street.
“Why do you want to know about the years before I died?” I asked, once I recovered from the wh
ole curse jar experience.
“We here at Second Chance Temp Agency believe that we cannot find you a perfect placement if we don’t know anything about the person being placed, said Deedy in his best infomercial sales pitch voice.
“No, really” he continued, more sincerely. “This isn’t just an opportunity for you to work, Louise. It’s... well, it’s just an opportunity. Take advantage of it, and enjoy the company for a little while. Shall I have Gabby bring us some more coffee?”
To be quite honest, I liked the idea of keeping company with Mr. Deedy in his lovely office. It felt like a vacation from my usual Hellish existence, and I loved the idea of more of Gabby’s wonderful coffee, so I sat back and started to talk.
“Don’t you people prefer tea?” I asked teasingly.
“Which people would that be?” he asked me with the same ribbing tone, almost with an excitement of the chance to see what I would say. Great, I’m now being tested on where he’s from.
“English people... or maybe Irish people?” I said, then quickly added “or Scottish?”
He laughed. “Welsh people, darling girl.” Then he said the strangest thing... he didn’t talk about where he was born or about his family or his life. He simply said, “I’ve always had an affinity for the Welsh. You know in Wales the daffodil is considered a work of art, and sheep outnumber people 4 to 1!” he looks at me with expectation, like I should “ooooo” and “ahhhh” over that fact.
“Sounds boring.” I replied. “Almost as boring as where I grew up.”
Deedy, then nestled in his seat and rested his chin on his hands, another boyish move from a seemingly grown man. And said, “Time to tell me all about it.”
Having to talk out loud about my life and subsequent death was surreal. I’ve never told my story to anyone. After all this time (however much time it has been), I can’t really remember which parts actually happened and which parts are little fantasies I’ve made up since being here. I talked about my lifestyle, who I was, who I imagined myself to be, but when Deedy started asking me specifically about my late 30’s and early 40’s I couldn’t unlock anything specific. I tried to fill in the gaps with stuff that sounded like it could be true, but he knew when I was making it up. As I went along, he would stop me and smile and say “Louise, for now you can say ‘I can’t remember’. I’d prefer that to your version of a horrifying bedtime story.” Everyone’s a critic.
Awake in Hell Page 4