Awake in Hell Read online

  “Okay.” I croak in response, “But...”

  “There will be a cab waiting for you outside your apartment in approximately 9 minutes.”

  “Yeah, but....”

  “Please hurry Louise. You don’t want to be late for your very first appointment.” I swear you can HEAR her smiling.

  “Okay, but...”

  “Bye now! See you in 22, no wait...21 minutes!”

  Dead air. She hung up. So I yell into the ether through the antique mouthpiece...

  “BUT I HAVEN’T PUT IN AN APPLICATION YET! HOW DID YOU KNOW I GOT THE NOTICE??”

  I let the receiver fall out of my hand where it swings by its cord against the wall. I figure if there’s anyone else out there who wants to call me it really doesn’t matter whether or not the device is hung properly.

  I go to my closet and waiting there is an absolutely ridiculous adult size taffeta pastel blue dress with a flowery sash. The kind of dress a soccer mom would buy for her 7-year old daughter to wear on picture day or to church. What are those little blue flowers called? Pansies, maybe? For some reason, it looks familiar to me, and makes me kind of sad. But for the life of me, I can’t remember where I’ve seen such a goofy dress.

  I pull it over my head and smooth out the ruffles slipping on the matching patent leather Mary Janes. I grimace as I put them on. Today promises to be a weird day. Even for Hell.

  Chapter Four

  Thanks to the fact that everyone sweats profusely down here, make-up is pointless. They do sell it at the chain stores. The women who work there put layers and layers of it on their faces, I think out of sheer boredom, since they can go hours without a customer most of the time. So, when you see someone walking down the street looking like a cross between a deranged clown and hooker who’s been pummeled in the face by several johns and her pimp, you know exactly how she spends her day. Or, you can at least narrow it down to three ways: deranged clown, abused hooker, or most likely working at a chain store.

  The chain stores are enormous. Unlike the high-rise mirrored front downtown buildings which are TALL (so I would assume. I’ve never seen the top of one of them.), the chain stores are just big. They sprawl out all over the edge of the city. Like the big chain stores from the living world, the front of the stores is taken up by miles of concrete, divided by yellow lines to depict parking spaces, with an occasional one being used as a corral for shopping carts. And yes, in Hell every shopping cart has the little wheel that is askew, so the cart is constantly veering left. Some things are just a given down here.

  But unlike the stores in the breathing world, these stores are ghost towns on the inside. Most of us never go in after we’ve been here long enough to know better. However, if you occasionally find yourself in need of something, or if you’ve recently fallen and bumped your head, then you may find yourself inside a chain store. The people that work there are worse than the people at the call center at IP&FW. If you ask them where something is, they will give you directions to the opposite side of the store. That is, if you get their attention. Most likely, when you walk up to one of them they will be “busy” reading a magazine or applying yet another layer of make-up on their hideous faces. Here’s the bizarre thing — just another one of those things that make you realize exactly where you are — no matter how empty the store seems to be, it will be packed when you want to check out. Everyone will decide to check out at the exact same time. That’s the magic of truly being damned.

  Anyway, today I’m grateful for the no make-up thing, since I would have been tempted to put little circles of blush on my cheeks with little eyeliner freckles on top. That is how horrid this outfit is. I’m trying to decide if I should be quoting Bette Davis from Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? Or Do-Se-Doing with a guy in a 10-gallon hat and sparkly cowboy boots, when my cab pulls up. The driver hangs out the window and says “Lou-weeze Patterson?” Then he responds to my nod with a jerk of his head and barks, “get in, I got 13 minutes to get you downtown.”

  Now, normally I never, EVER, take cabs in Hell. Why, you ask? Well, you would ask that if you were born and raised in the middle of America where livestock outnumbers people 5 to 1 and everyone is nice. However, anyone who lived in an inner-city-type environment? Yeah, you get the idea, just take the worst cab driver ever and multiply those skills by a factor of a hundred and twenty seven — squared. The only time you ever hear anyone praying in Hell is when they’re locked in the back of a cab, racing down the wrong street, headed in the opposite direction of their destination. All while a cabbie who’s steering with one finger, looking directly BEHIND him hawking Beenie Babies, super vitamins, and pirated DVDs to his fares. That is why I don’t just jump right into the backseat the minute the driver comes to a — thankfully—full stop.

  “I was actually thinking of walking. Can you give me the address for the temp agency?” I say, trying to sound casual, like ‘Hey, it’s a lovely day down here in Hell, perfect for a nine mile walk in a dress that makes me look like Shirley Temple on crack!’

  But the cabbie just chuckles and says “Not today Ms. Patterson. I have a special tag. I’m cleared to take you straight to the agency.”

  I have no idea what that means, but for some reason I trust that it must mean that he’s okay. So, I hop in the backseat, sort of wrap the frayed seat belt around me for a false sense of safety, and say, “Let’s go, then!”

  It takes 11 minutes before he pulls up to the biggest, shiniest building I’ve seen yet. I’m ashamed to say that I’m actually feeling nervous. Okay, maybe a little scared. All right, close to booting all over the sidewalk kind of terrified. Why? Then it hit me. I’m 43 years old, and I might have been 43 for a few years now. And, fuck me running, but this would constitute my first ever job interview. I not only have no skills, but I have no experience in bullshitting people to make them think that I might have some skills. I’m screwed! I try to turn around and jump back into the cab, but the driver just laughs and guns it. I get a lung full of burned rubber as he drives away. So, I take a deep breath, smooth out my ruffles once more, and head inside. How hard can it be to do a temp job, anyway? Right?

  Chapter Five

  At IP&FW everyone worked on the first three floors. The building was obviously a high-rise, and so there had to be many stories above us, but no one ever went up there. In fact, the elevators only went up to number 3. Not that you could take the elevator, since it was always out of order, but we all had our turn of trying to duck under the caution tape and giving it a try. I once walked up the additional flight of stairs to the fourth floor, but the doors were all bolted, so, no entry that way either. I remember thinking that this was the one thing that didn’t make sense, since it would have been much more tortuous for us if we’d had to walk up 17 or 18 flights of stairs, instead of just 2 or 3. I guess part of being sent to Hell is that nothing is supposed to make sense to you ever again.

  And that’s the other thing. Everything down here is dirty, and with the orangey light it looks even dingier, except for the giant buildings which are always gleaming. The outside of this building is so sparkly that I can barely look at it. How do they keep it that clean? Someone has to be on one of those pulley cart things 24/7, with a super squeegee and a lifetime supply of Windex, to keep just one of these buildings in this condition. Yet, I’ve never seen anyone on a pulley cart thing. Not once. Of course, I can’t really see all the way to the top of the buildings, because of the whole fuck-up-your-eyes-whenever-you-look-up situation. Anyway, that was what I was thinking when I walked into the lobby of the agency. So, I was distracted and didn’t hear when a guy started calling my name.

  “Louise!”

  “Louise Patterson!”

  “Louise?”

  “Last call for Louise Patterson?”

  Then, this really young guy with a sweet face and a slight build, which happened to be dressed like a monkey on an organ grinder, steps back into the elevator and says “Another no show. Man, the folks down here really are a bunch of hea
d cases...”

  Wait. Did he just say my name? Why did he say “down here”? Did he just call me a head case?

  “WAIT!” I yell as the elevator doors begin to close. “I’m Louise Pat...”

  The doors shut. ‘Great job dumbass.’ I think to myself. ‘You made it as far as the lobby.’ That was what I was thinking. But while I was thinking that, I was apparently yelling this:

  “FUCK FUCK FUCKITY FUCK!”

  And I was only halfway through this particular expletive escapade when the elevator doors re-opened.

  There was monkey suit boy staring at me with a bemused look on his face. “Well then, step on up for the ride of your life, Ms. Patterson!”

  Now, I’m really about to hurl. I’ve fucked this up 7 ways from bloody Sunday and I haven’t even gotten to the office yet. So, I decide to use the one skill I happen to have...the skill of seduction. I check my reflection in the elevator doors and start swishing my hair around, and open my eyes really wide, trying to make them look more doe-ish.

  “So, obviously you know my name, what’s yours?” I ask in my sweetest tone.

  “I’m called Will, ma’am” He really is just adorable, with big brown eyes hiding underneath a mop of dirty blond hair. I would describe him as middle-America average, but I’m sure there are some girls in the small town he grew up in who are still dreaming of him.

  “Oh Will...” I say giggling like a schoolgirl, “Don’t call me Ma’am, it makes me feel like I should ask you if your Mom is home!” Giggle, giggle... damn this is hard when you’re on the verge of a total panic attack.

  Will, the Monkey Suit Boy looked at me and started to laugh! That’s a first for me, and not a pleasant one. Most men on earth would be panting by this time, if not out of sincere interest, at least because an obviously-easy, hot girl targeted him for some reason and he’s about to have a heart attack.

  “Okay, Louise” Will, the monkey-boy, says with a hint of condescension, “First, Will is not short for “Willing.” And second, don’t worry, I’m not going to tell the boss that you attempted to implode our lobby with F-bombs, okay?” he laughs in a conspiratorial way.

  Relief. “Thanks, Will.” Okay, so Will is a bit of a dick, but at this point I’ll take it. “You don’t have a Xanax on you, do you Will?” I ask, only kind-of kidding.

  “Nope. But drugs don’t work here anyway, so you’re just going to have to shove the stuffing back in, zip up, and... here we are! Floor 37— welcome to the agency, Louise.”

  I’m on the 37th floor? Now my panic attack is accompanied by a weird sense of vertigo. How long has it been since I’ve been this far up in the air? I can’t remember. Partially because I don’t know how long I’ve been dead and partially because of my Swiss cheese memory from when I was alive. I give Will, the Monkey Boy a weak smile and edge out of the elevator along the wall. I’m suddenly feeling very acrophobic. If I were actually breathing I would have fainted by now. I cling to the wall, on the far side of the office, and look across what seems like miles and miles of sky blue carpet, at a woman standing behind a counter holding a clipboard. She’s looking at me expectantly with a Vanna-White smile plastered on her face. I think she’s the phone chick.

  “Ms. Patterson! So happy you made it... glances at her watch... finally.” Yep, that’s her.

  “Sorry,” I say, with just a touch of my panic stricken inside-my-head voice bleeding through, “there was some confusion in the lobby.”

  I’m creeping along as I’m talking like this is totally normal behavior for someone who is trying to get a job. I wonder for a minute about how many folks are interviewing today, how many other pathetic Hellions are hoping that they can get a real “second chance” from The Second Chance Temp Agency. Then I wonder, for just a moment, about how ridiculous I really am compared to everyone else they’ve seen, today or any day. I get to a window and freeze. Holy shit, Can I look outside and see Hell from 37 stories above? I look and see nothing, and then I turn my head back to the reception area and still see nothing. Dammit, now I have to negotiate my way to Vanna totally blind. Then it suddenly occurs to me, that I am the most ridiculous person I’ve ever seen. I’m probably a total freak show to everybody here, “Like Lady Gaga in a nunnery,” I say under my breath. I keep on feeling for the wall, now for the added reason, of not being able to see, combined with the overwhelming fear of falling through the floor.

  “It’s just me and Will who have seen your reaction, Louise.” says Vanna. “And, you’ll be pleased to know that you are our only appointment today.”

  Can she read my mind???

  “Yes.” she says with a grin that I still can’t see but is obviously there. “And, while you are the only appointment today I feel I must remind you that you’re now 7 minutes late for your very first meeting.”

  You know, for a woman who is facing eternity, this bitch sure gets all worked up over the concept of time. Crap, she probably heard that. I’m going to have to watch what I think as well as what I say around here, what with Vanna-the-ever-cheerful-receptionist inside my head.

  “My name is Gabby, Louise. And open your eyes. You can see now.”

  I open my eyes and to my dismay I’ve not made it as far as I thought. I’m still about 50 feet away from the reception desk, and there doesn’t seem to be any other way to get to it but to walk across the room. So, I take a deep breath and take a step forward. Then I panic again. Then I fall to my knees and start crawling. Yep, I’m crawling to Gabby. This job is in the bag, don’t you think?

  I finally make it to the counter and pull myself up as if I’m hanging off a ledge. “I’m sorry.” I say with a shaky voice. “I’m just not used to being so high... well, far up I mean.”

  Why did I feel the need to establish that? Like maybe she would think I was under the influence? It’s like Will said, drugs don’t work here anyway.

  Okay, so when I was breathing, I was kind of smart. “Kind of” because I was great at puzzles, very quick on my feet with a joke, had an awesome memory, tested well... you know, that kind of smart. But I was also incredibly, mind-numbingly, stubbornly stupid sometimes. I remember reading on a bathroom wall once, “A wise man learns from others, a fool must learn from experience.” I remember digging through my purse for a pen so that I could scratch, “I’m a fool then!” proudly under it. I believed in the school of hard knocks. I thought whoever tells me not to do shit that they did, then turn around and talk about a person being the sum of all their experience, is either a fucking hypocrite or assumes that I’m an idiot. One who required spoon feeding instead of being free to have the same “growth” experiences they had. And I talked. A lot. Way too much. I talked and talked and talked about what I was doing, who I was doing it to, and I talked to the wrong people. There were times when my mother would just about have her illusion set. Convincing herself that I’d been out all night just hanging with Linda, having a “girl’s night out”, just a couple of kids blowing off steam. Then I would stumble in and start telling her gory details about the latest party, the latest lay, the latest boutique drug. I wasn’t trying to hurt her, I was just so incredibly stupid that I thought by telling her all of that, she would know that I was smart enough to handle it. Even when she was in tears, I still kept talking. Somewhere, in my muddled brain, I believed that I was convincing her that I was too cool to get damaged. That I was immune to the problems of others like me. Yeah, I was that kind of fucking stupid.

  “Louise.” I look up and see Gabby looking at me with almost sad eyes. Her too-wide grin was replaced with a tender smile. I silently cursed myself once more for allowing my thoughts to wander to something that personal with a telepath around. And how interesting is it that down here the prospect of a telepathic receptionist in a temp agency is only mildly alarming? Instead of continuing to reveal anymore secrets I looked over the counter to see what kind of not-really-funny joke her closet had pulled on her this morning. She was wearing an old fashioned A-line dress. The kind Doris Day would have worn in the
1950’s. Not exactly the height of fashion, but not really horrible either. “How do you…?” I started to ask her when she began hurrying around the counter toward me.

  “As I was starting to explain...” she launched, “you are not the first person to have that reaction when they come here for the first time. In fact, we have these patches to help you with the vertigo.” She waved a small flesh-colored sticker at me. The grin was back.

  “Are you allowed to do that?” I ask, somewhat surprised. “You know, to make people... comfortable?”

  Gabby came the rest of the way from behind her counter and walked toward me. She was so graceful she seemed to float over instead of walk. I was reminded of those old moldy movies my mom used to love. The ones that were all black & white, both literally and figuratively. The women were perfect, with tiny waists and pointy boobs. All the kisses were closed mouth and looked like they should hurt, and people fell in love after one dinner date, then lived happily after ever. Gabby looked like one of those women. Her face up close looked like it was photographed, then airbrushed, then photo-shopped back onto her head. She was tall for a woman, about 5’8” and statuesque, which is a fancy word for thin but with nice tits and good hips. She was probably quite stunning when she was alive. With her beauty and fit body she appeared ageless, like she could pass for 30 or 60 and get away with either one. My face started to burn as I realized that she may have well heard all those thoughts as she glided to my side and gave me a slight, secretive smile, as if we were old girlfriends sharing an inside joke. “I’ll tell you what Louise, I won’t tell the boss if you don’t.” Then she reached over, took my hand, turned it over, and placed the small patch over my forearm.