Awake in Hell

by Downing, Helen

  “Yup.”

  “Then, I, your maid of dishonor, will be there with bells on. And no one, not even your scary mother, will be able to stop me!” I said as I lifted my glass.

  That is where I woke up this morning, disappointed at myself all over again. Not to mention, feeling just a teensy bit sorry for myself that I was able to prove Linda wrong and never actually grow up or old. That, along with feeling the accompanying exhaustion that comes from a night of epic nightmares, forces my head down on the heated window pane as I lift my face (with eyes closed to prevent the blinding effects) to the sky and say, “Sorry Linda, Hope today you are happier than you were yesterday, and I hope all your tomorrows are wonderful.”

  I drag myself out of bed and take a peek inside my closet. It takes a moment for my brain to register why there is an orange jumpsuit hanging in there with my name over the left breast pocket.

  Oh yeah, today is my first day at work.

  Chapter Eight

  I pause briefly around the coffee shop area thinking I might get a cup before work, but then the mayonnaise jar thought occurs to me, so I skip it. I’m counting on dehydration to get me through this experience.

  I’m also kind of enjoying my jaunt to employment today. While on earth, wearing an orange jumpsuit would be a veritable testimony to the bad choices you had made so far in your life. In Hell it’s obviously clear that poor judgment was pretty much a ruling factor during your time as a breather. Paying for it now, day after day at the Devil’s leisure, you would think would build up a sense of camaraderie down here. But, since most of us showed no real humanity when we were actually human, I guess that would be too much to ask for in the land of the damned.

  So, down here the rule is, “he who doesn’t look as uncomfortable as me should be hated, sneered at, and glared down on the street” And, if you are one of the ones wearing something that looks like it may not be pinching you in your naughty bits, or riding up the naughtier ones, you feel free to gloat about it.

  And, while orange has never been a good color for me, and it denotes the fact that I’m a garbage man, it’s not exactly an uncomfortable outfit. So, I’m doing my share of gloating this morning. I even smile and wave at the folks that I pass on the street, who naturally shoot invisible daggers into my midriff with their evil stares.

  Besides the jumpsuit, I’m thinking that this could be a whole new start for me down here — making the best of a shitty situation, as it were. Well, in reality, the shittiest situation ever. But still, a new start with a new job, with clothes that can be mildly tolerated if not necessarily catwalk material. And I get to be out and about. I get a change of scenery, always miserable, but changing, right?

  So, feeling as optimistic as one could under my circumstances, I round the corner to the trash collection company. TCC for short. The smell hits me before I even get within eyesight of the place, and all my optimism is drowned in an ocean of noxious fumes. It’s a clinging, sticky kind of stink. The kind you know is going to take refuge inside your nose and start screaming ‘Sanctuary!’ Sort of like Quasimodo every time you attempt to sniff or blow it out. It’s the kind of smell that is usually hard-wired into your gag reflex. But of course, down here there really isn’t a clear path from your digestive tract to the street, what with being a construct and all, so I get kind of green around the gills, but never actually boot.

  I stumble into the building marked with the Trash Collection Company logo hoping for some relief. But I just find that in an enclosed space, even the enormous office complex that is TCC, the stench is more concentrated. I don’t know whether to breathe from my mouth, and risk somehow tasting this Hellish smell, or just say ‘fuck it’ and stop breathing altogether. I mean, what’s the worst that could happen? Breathing has got to be optional in the afterlife right? So I give it a try and actually hold my breath. When I start to feel lightheaded and lose all peripheral vision, I surrender and take a deep breath, followed by a strange choking noise from the fact that my throat is actually closing to keep the odor out. Damn all of us and our illusion of life!

  I stumble over to the reception desk and can barely speak. The girl behind the desk should be named Anti-Gabby, since she’s the diametric opposite of Gabby in Deedy’s office. Instead of floating around passing out coffee and making a girl feel better with a single touch, this girl is rooted to a chair, filing nails that are now sharpened points at the end of her fingers. She’s chomping on gum and looks at me with an expression that is the perfect blend of boredom, torment, and disgust. How awful it must be for her to work in this malodorous environment. I flashback on a movie I saw once, where the characters were exiled to a bog of stench. The guard there had no idea how bad it was, since he’d been there so long. It was like his nostrils had burned away the smell. Even though the movie was a fantasy, and it didn’t take place on earth, it obviously also didn’t take place in Hell. Here, I don’t think anyone gets used to anything. That’s part of the whole “damnation” thing, right? I mean, how many people do you know right now who are stuck in a life, a marriage, a place, or just a state of being that makes you think, ‘If that were me, I’d have already run a hot bath and opened up a packet of razor blades.’ Yet, they go on... because it is the life they’ve gotten used to, and they can’t imagine anything better. How would it be if in Hell we all became complacent or even content? That would hardly be a punishment. And we are here to be punished, to be sure. For time endless.

  Anyway, working here has done nothing for Anti-Gabby’s disposition, which was not that great in the first place, being as she was sentenced to the aforementioned, eternal damnation. She can’t have been pleased when she got into her closet this morning, considering her pants suit is made of a quite porous, muslin dyed, pukey green color and highlighted with dark brown spots, that could have been put there by a designer but looks more like baby diarrhea. I stop for a moment to wonder if every day she has a particularly odor-absorbent outfit waiting for her or if she’s being particularly punished today. I wonder if I asked, if she would answer. Then, by looking again at the scowl with which she greeted me, and still holds on me like a gun during a mugging, I quickly figure that the answer would be ‘no.’ She’s probably not exactly the forthcoming type. Speaking of, I also stop to notice that in front of her is an old-fashioned switchboard with lights and small buzzers going off, apparently to deaf ears. She’s not even looked at it, let alone answer a single call.

  There were a couple of folks at IP&FW who used to just put people on hold and never go back to them. They were usually picked to be employees of the month. If I were feeling more gracious, I’d tell her to go down there and put in an application. But well...no, this is not a place where I want to make new friends, and it’s not exactly like she’s been the most gracious hostess as of yet. So instead, I clear my throat as best as I can and croak out, “Hello. My name is...”

  “Louise Patterson!” a booming male voice from behind me finishes my sentence. I turn around and find a huge man dressed in a very similar jumpsuit to mine (except that his is filthy) and the grubbiest beard I’ve ever laid eyes on. Why would he, if it’s true that we’re all just figments of our own imagination, bring that fetid beard to Hell with him? And, when I say he’s huge I don’t mean tall and lean like Deedy, or muscular like Don, “the trash man” — I mean fat —terribly fat. His enormous belly, although confined by the jumpsuit, is still able to hang over to touch his knees. That, and the beard, makes him look like a demented Santa Claus. Suddenly, I’m scared to respond to my own name.

  “Okay?” I finally say, strangely posing it as a question.

  “You’re back here in the truck bay.” he motions for me to follow him.

  Damn. For a minute I was thinking, ‘Yeah, they have office workers at trash companies too! Maybe I’ll be sitting behind a desk filing my nails all day.” But no, not me. I’m on a truck. Do you think they have partners? Will I have to hang with someone else all day? Oh shit! Please don’t let it be scary Santa! And wh
at if there’s not a partner? Do I even know how to drive a truck? I’m pretty sure I never drove anything bigger than a Camry in real life. Crap. Where did he go?

  I was so lost in that little thought bubble that I forgot to pay attention to the behemoth of a man in front of me and he somehow got away. Fuck me. Now what do I do? I’m standing at a hallway and looking down both corridors for the man. Apparently he’s more spry than his formidable frame would allow you to think he was, because he’s gone. A younger man with a clipboard walks by. I stop him to ask him where the truck bay is when I realize, I know that face… I recognize the smirk it’s wearing!

  “Will?” I ask incredulously. “What are you doing here?” It took a minute because he wasn’t wearing the organ-grinder suit that he had on the agency, but it was Will all right!

  “Hmmmmm....” he says, as if giving himself time to think of an excuse. “Working?”

  “Were you sent to spy on me?” I don’t know whether to be pissed off or flattered. Why would Deedy, or the agency, send someone out to watch me? Do they think I’m a huge fucktard or are they making sure I’m okay? Will seems taken aback by my question, like he wasn’t expecting me to come right out and ask.

  “Not exactly spying,” he offered. ”Just here to make sure all is well.”

  He said it in such a reassuring tone. It made me feel like I was in kindergarten again and had spotted my Mom hiding behind a tree on the playground at recess, watching over me, making sure I was okay.

  “All right then. Can you get me to the truck bay?” I ask.

  “Follow me.” he says as he takes my arm and we walk down the corridor.

  “Truck Bay.” Will announced like he was still on the elevator announcing what floor we were on. “And by the way Louise, do you realize that you are 20 minutes early?”

  Shit! Being punctual may be the way to go in the land of the living, but in Hell it is right up there with being helpful. I should have been at least a little late. Maybe, if Will had taken me all around the stinkified building before reporting for duty. But now, I’m here and Bad Santa is looking me over like I’m a Christmas cookie. Ugh. I walked up to him and immediately started in with my excuse-making. “Sorry, I’m early, but the walk wasn’t as long as I thought,” when he started to laugh.

  “Not to worry cupcake, the only thing worse than hearing a garbage truck coming down your street first thing in the morning, is hearing a garbage truck coming down your street a half an hour EARLY.” Then he patted me on the bottom and took me to see my newest and shiniest nightmare yet.

  I am now sitting in the biggest truck I’ve ever experienced. You wouldn’t believe it, but the stench is actually diminished inside the cab of the truck. It is still there, and it is still really bad. It’s also even more apparent because it’s mixed with the revolting “gas-station-restroom-that-has-just-been-cleaned” smell of pine, coming from a small green cardboard tree hanging off the rear-view mirror. But, I’m not on the verge of hurling anymore. Well, let me clarify. I don’t feel like I’m going to hurl from stinkiness anymore. Now, I’m on the verge of a panic attack because they expect me to drive this truck, all by myself! Bad Santa just tossed me the keys and said “Map’s on the dash.” Not before he tried to grab my ass again, but this time I shot him a look that said ‘I’m not the run-to-HR-to-file-a-formal-complaint kind of a gal. I’m the girl that will find something sharp and do a dichotomy on you faster than you can blink.’ And while I’m sure that poor, old, scary Santa hasn’t been face-to-face with his Johnson in quite a few years (before and after death), he seemed committed to keeping it, because his hand was in his pocket for the rest of our meeting.

  So here I am. Not even sure where or how to start the ignition on this thing. I probably shouldn’t have scared him that badly. He may have given me a few pointers before he scurried off back in the direction of the truck bay. Back to the truck, I’m kind of in awe of how everything in here seems bigger than it should be. I bet I look tiny in here. That’s a fact I would have liked to have had when I was alive. No need to diet, girls! Just hang out inside of really big things and you’ll look small! The steering wheel is actually bigger around than my arm span. That should make cornering a breeze, right?

  Also, there are more pedals on the floor than I have feet, so, what the fuck??

  What doesn’t escape me is that this giant machine, this mechanical monstrosity, has a sole purpose — to move garbage from one place to another. Isn’t that remarkable? You have it on your world as well, great, huge heaps of unwanted waste piling up, spreading out and filling your world with the same stench and burning piles that are now part of my eternal life. I was never a tree hugger in life, and I wouldn’t consider myself an activist in any way, even now. But I have to admit, that I just hate to think that the world above is slowly turning itself into another version of Hell. And for what? For convenience? Out of laziness? Out of sheer disrespect for what you’ve got? Well, just wait. Some of you are bound to end up here. You’ll see what your children and grandchildren have to look forward to once you’ve piled up enough trash and polluted your air and water to the point where Eternal Hell will seem like a vacation to Club Med.

  Okay, enough with the soapbox. I have to drive. And I think I’m going to need my whole brain to concentrate on this particular task. I look around the cab and find an old manual. Bunches of pages are missing, and I assume they are very important pages (because why else would they be missing?) I do find instructions on how to start the damn thing. Get this, there’s a key, and a button, and a gear shift in the floor that all have to be put or pushed or turned the right way in the correct order just to start the motor! Who comes up with this? After six or seven tries I finally get it started and running. Now I have to actually get it moving. The pedal that I assume is the “go” pedal, since it’s on the far right, is surprisingly touchy. The second my toes just brush up against it I’m jerking forward. Maybe it drives just like a car, only bigger. That thought, along with the accelerator propels me forward until I get out of the garage and it’s time to turn onto the street. This giant mountain of a truck turned against me and started to work in opposition. ‘Okay,’ I think to myself, ‘So it’s going to be a fight!’ I use all of my strength to keep the wheels turning in the right direction. The maps on the dash slide off and onto the floor, but if I know Hell like I think I do, they are probably useless anyway, so I just start looking for cans on the street. When I see one up ahead I start to brake.

  Note to self: braking in a big ass truck is totally different than braking in a compact car. DUH.

  I hit the brake and it’s like the pedal is not attached to an actual mechanism that goes to the wheels and forces them to stop. It’s more like the brake pedal is the nerd who got invited, accidentally, to a big wheel frat party and finds itself whispering a suggestion to one of the wheels, who turns and glares at the brake like he’s the biggest moron at the party, but then eventually sees the error of his ways and reconsiders. However, in a feeble attempt to preserve what little pride the wheel has left, it doesn’t just stop immediately, it has to do it at its own pace. So that later, when it gets ribbed by the other wheels it can say it was its own decision to stop, and had virtually nothing to do with anything the brake said to it at any time.

  Yes, for you wondering, I had time to come up with that ridiculous metaphor while waiting for the fucking truck to come to halt.

  Just as I come to a stop, my heart follows the truck and freezes like ice when I suddenly see a small blonde head running in front of the garbage truck. I burst out of the cab and start to walk around the truck so that I can see the apparent child. Even though I know that death has already happened to everyone here, I realize that I’m not quite breathing right now. I assume there are two reasons.

  One, you don’t get to see many kids down here. There are kids, but they weren’t children in life. Well, they started out as children, as we all did, but some folks are not given the option to come here as they were when they passed.
Some people are even just too bad for Hell even. They would get down here and just see a reflection of the world they left behind. They would see it as a playground. So, when they emerge from the dark they find themselves literally playground material. Toddlers. Children in Hell represent the worst of humanity, and they are downright scary! These are not cute little babes with big eyes that fill with wonder over a simple balloon. These are small children who are weakened by their size and their age, whose faculties have been lessened, deem they should start plotting. Their eyes are filled with contempt. They remember who they were, and they remember why they’re here. And I can guarantee to anyone who’s ever sat with friends and complained that their kids are brats, ungrateful, or don’t listen... there is nothing more terrifying than a Hell-child. They are kept primarily out of the general population. Very rarely, we will see one on the street and tend to cross said street, before walking by. I’ve only seen two of them previously. The first time, I averted my eyes as soon as they registered what I was looking at. The fear and the overwhelming sadness I felt when I thought ‘who could this have been in life? What terrible things has that now small and pathetic soul accomplished to earn his place among the children of damnation?”

  The second one was worse, because I was in one of the discount stores and walked down the wrong aisle to see a full blown tantrum from actual Hell. He was growling, like a beast, deep in his throat as though he was part animal. In his eyes I saw more sheer hatred and despair than I’ve seen in everyone else in Hell — put together. There was this woman there, I assumed with the boy, who looked absolutely exhausted. She leaned against one of the huge shelving units and started to weep quietly. ‘What’s worse?’ I remember thinking to myself as I turned and left the store immediately, ‘To come back as one of those, or to have to take care of it!’ For days after, I was terrified to go to any store, for fear I would have to come face-to-face with another one of them. Another growling, fevered, throwing himself around like a Linda-Blair-in-full-possession-mode demon child.