Awake in Hell (12 page)

“But
it just isn’t fair.” I say, with sincere emotion. “The fact that Tim is here,
or Mrs. Barnes, Buddy, or that poor little blond girl, all of these people
being down here with the scum of the former living, doesn’t make sense.”

Deedy
laughed a little. “You know,
Louise Patterson, for a woman who died at age 45 and found herself damned for
eternity, you have quite a misguided sense of justice.”

“And,
that’s bad, isn’t it?” I say, pouting just a bit.

“No,
in fact, it’s quite refreshing,” he answers. “Now, can we talk about you? So, I
assume you saw the little girl? Since you brought her up again.”   I
launch into telling him about my, yet another, strange day. I tell him about
the little girl and her new companion, the incredibly handsome man. And, the
fact that pretty boy seemed to know an awful lot about me, and used a very
unappealing nickname, yet it seemed somehow... intimate.

“Are
they real or are they figments of my imagination?” I ask.

“Why
ask me? If they are figments of your imagination then only you would know —
wouldn’t you?” he asked.

I
sigh, heavily. "You are determined to be as uncooperative as possible,
correct?”

Deedy
looks at me with unadulterated
pity. Then he smiles wide. "Have I ever told you that in Wales there is a
theatre that has these words inscribed on it:
Creu
Gwir
fel
gwydr
o
ffwrnais
awen
.
”

“Those
are not real words,” I say.

“Yes,
they are. They are Welsh words,” he replies.

“Then,
I’ll need you to translate, Mr. Welsh guy!” I say exasperated.

Deedy
, laughs again. “It translates as
‘Creating truth like glass from the furnace of inspiration’”

“How
does that apply? Or is it like the sheep thing and you are just homesick?”
(Yes, I am quite aware that I’m being a
shitbird
right now, but I’m still pouting, and
Deedy
is being
all life-
lessoney
.)

“What
that means darling girl, is that sometimes you have to walk through fire in
order to be prepared to face the truth, and other times you just have to have a
little inspiration. And, that applies to you in so many ways,” he chuckles once
more as he lets his sentence drop off.

“Wait
a minute. Did you just make a Hell joke?” I look at him like he is insane.

He
gives me a playful wink. Then he reaches into his desk and pulls out another
yellow sticky note.

“You’ve
got to be kidding! I’ve got another job! Already?” I exclaim not knowing
whether to be grateful or to start crying.

“Yes,
but you can’t have this precious sticky note until I’ve heard the whole story,”
Deedy
said. “What happened today, Louise?”

“Oh!”
I tell him. “Well, sit back and get ready to laugh your head off, because I
have the story of at least one lifetime!” I say excitedly.
Deedy
reacts equally and leans back in his chair to get more comfortable. I then
begin regaling him of the freak show that occurred in my cab, earlier.
Deedy
was practically hysterical when I recounted poor
Buddy and his rant about his mother. About Hazel’s penchant for married men and
how Buddy had just warmed her heart like the Grinch at Christmas. Then how they
ended up walking off together like the end of a romance movie.
Deedy
actually had to wipe away a tear from laughing so
hard.

“And
how do you feel about that, Ms. True-Love-Is-A-Myth?” he asks teasingly. I
can’t believe how quickly I became so comfortable with this stretched out,
beautifully dressed, cartoon man. I simply stick my tongue out at him as a
response.

Then
I told him about the walk home and the memories that were haunting me the whole
way here. I told him about my mother and father, their fights, how I used to
leave but how I always came back.

Deedy
got very serious once more, “and
why, Louise?”

“Why?”
I ask.

“Yes,
why do you think you remembered that at this moment?” he answers

“Because
seeing Buddy and Hazel made me think about how conditional love can be. Except
for those two people who always seemed to love me without regard to even
themselves.” I was surprised at just how profound my own answer sounded, even
to me.

“So,
today was a good day to be Louise, because today was the day that Louise
remembered, ‘agape,’”
Deedy
says matter-of-factly.
“What is with you today and making up words?” I sound exasperated.

Deedy
laughs one more time. “Agape? It’s
a lovely word, and a very old one. It means unconditional love— the rarest love
of all.”

“Nice
word.” I say wistfully.

“Quite.”
says
Deedy
with sincere affection. We look at each
other and smile. And my heart, however artificial or imagined it may be, also
gets a little warmer today.

Chapter
Twelve

   
 Okay, so now I’m heading back to my
apartment floating on
super heated
air. Before I
left,
Deedy
handed me the yellow sticky note. And
it’s unbelievable! Tomorrow, I start work as a hairdresser. Yes, I’m well aware
that I have no qualifications whatsoever to be such a crazy thing, but
nevertheless, tomorrow that is exactly what I will be. In the spirit of full
disclosure, I did tell
Deedy
that I have never cut
hair, not even on a dog or a kid, let alone an actual grown-up who cares about
how they look.
Deedy’s
response was, “All the
better!” It actually served to remind me exactly where I am and how my
non-qualifications could be an asset.

I
know what you’re thinking right now. Why would anyone go to a beauty parlor in
Hell? And, what is being cut? Since hair (like every other body part) is just a
fabrication created by the dead. I would remind anyone who questions
this, that
Hell is supposed to imitate an earthly city, just
shittier. And people crave things that make them feel more like they used to,
especially women. So, surprisingly, the hair salon down here is pretty busy.

I
am, all of the sudden, very excited about the prospect. It sounds like a pretty
easy gig! I mean, I have no problem making people look worse than they did when
they came in. And who’s ever fallen in love or planted a garden, or did
anything that wasn’t just narcissistic or vain in a salon. I mean, getting a
haircut is not necessarily sinful, but once you’re in the salon chair, thinking
about how you are going to look when a professional hair person is done with
you? That, in a strictly old testament way, probably falls under vanity,
otherwise we would all just be taking kitchen knives to our hair or just
letting it grow out until we look like Rapunzel. So, the idea of getting a temp
job that sort of punishes people for something that is sort of, kind of wrong —
sounds like a winner!

As
I arrive home to my apartment, peel off the wretched leather, throw it into the
paranormal closet followed by a nice view of my middle finger, and settle into
bed, my mind is filled with all kinds of possibilities.

Tonight
my dreams feel familiar, like an old favorite movie that you stumble upon on a
rainy Sunday. I find myself stopping in the dream just to soak up and enjoy the
sense of homecoming and to relish not being chased by invisible monsters.

When
I was growing up in Small Town, USA it was very rare that anything out of the
ordinary happened. Occasionally, some poor, unaware stranger would accidentally
stumble into our little hamlet. Right before he, or she, contemplated suicide
or ran out of town screaming, they might stick around long enough to create a
buzz. But that didn’t happen nearly often enough. Every once in a while a local
kid would get a wild hair up his ass and decide to rob a liquor store or the
convenience mart. That would be amusing, watching our finest in blue chase down
some
wanna
-be thug. And of course, there was the one
time when we made national news, after an octogenarian who lived on the
outskirts of town (in a shack by the way — a fucking shack!) died. Her house
was condemned and the construction workers found $1.7 million dollars in cash
under the floorboards. That one kept tongues wagging for quite some time.

Anyway,
those kinds of instances are few and far between. But every single year,
without fail, come mid-June, the main road into town becomes bumper-to-bumper
color and light and promises of great things to come — because every year,
Mid-June meant fair week.

The
county fair was advertised as an exhibition of business, agriculture, the arts
and sport. Businesses from all over town would literally shut down their
storefronts and relocate to the fair grounds for the week at the fair. Local
farmers would haul out their home grown produce and livestock to show, auction,
or sell. Their wives would sharpen their claws in order to tear each other
apart in various baking, canning or jellied competitions. They even had a table
setting competition.

The
“arts” always made me giggle when I saw it on a billboard or a brochure since
it basically entailed a cutest baby photo exhibit, a birdhouse making workshop,
a taxidermy competition, and a few local bands screeching out their versions of
Mustang Sally or Brown-Eyed Girl for a half-dozen drunks.

But
the sport? Holy shit… the sport! The sport was always the very best part of the
fair, because “the sport” meant the Rodeo. Sure, they also had a demolition
derby and a bunch of fat, middle-aged guys dressed in old-time, uniforms
playing baseball, but no one really cared about all that. The rodeo is what put
butts in the seats at the county fair. Bulls and clowns and barrels brought out
the families and the old folks. The cowboys brought out me and my pals and
every other red-blooded female in a 150-mile radius.

Every
year, we would all show up in droves, dressed to the nines in our tightest
jeans and tallest boots.  We would spend the day at the rodeo ogling the
cowboys as they smacked dust out of their jeans with their great big cowboy
hats.

Then,
when the sun went down it would be time to hit the midway. The midway was truly
a magical place, transforming a giant empty field into a paradise, filled with
carnival rides and barkers claiming their game would ensure you the very
biggest stuffed animal at the fair. Not to mention, funnel cakes, popcorn,
candy apples and anything you could possibly want (and a few things you have
never thought of), deep fried and served on a stick. Some of the best times of
my life were at the county fair.

And
tonight, I’m back there. Enveloped by the lights, sounds and smells that make
me feel instantly at home and happy. I’m walking with other people, I think
Linda is there and a few others who could have been strangers or friends
forgotten. It’s dusk. I can almost feel the breeze coming in with the darkness,
as it tends to do in the world of the living. I can hear laughter ringing in my
ears from every direction, and some of it belongs to me. I feel content.

Next
thing I know, I’m all alone. I have a faint memory of being here, in this
situation, once before. This actually happened to me.  I was about 33 or
34 years old at the time. Linda had already met Hank and left earlier to spend
some alone time with him. My friends, Tammy,
Syndie
and I were walking the midway when two yahoos from a bordering town came up and
started telling them all about the sheep they were showing at the grandstand
the next day. Next thing I know, they are walking off, arm, in arm with those
two rednecks and I am left standing alone. Even though I realize this is a
faraway memory, I can’t help but feel fresh pain, as I realize I’m alone in the
one place that you never want to be all by yourself...the county fair.

I
make my way to a bench that is not occupied by a pregnant women or harried moms
trying to wipe off a sticky face before they attract the dirt right out of the
air. Once I locate an empty bench, I do what any grown ass woman, whose best
friends just abandoned her next to the kiddie rides at a carnival, is supposed
to do. I sat down and started to cry. Not sobbing, snotty crying, but weeping
quietly to myself. “Fuck them.” I say to myself, “if they’d rather hang out in
a stinky barn filled with livestock over me.” I’m just beginning my little
self-pep-talk when I realize that I’m no longer alone on the bench. I look over
to see a pretty young girl sitting next to me. She appears to be about 20 or
so, with incredibly long blond hair that shines under the lights of the carnival.
She’s wearing old dirty jeans, worn out sneakers and a tee shirt, and when she
speaks she has a pronounced southern accent.

“Hey.
You Ok?” she says in my dream, and I realize she said it to me in life, as
well.

“Yes,
I’ll be fine. Just being silly.” I say, quickly wiping away my tears.

“My
name’s Sue-Ann,” she sticks out her hand and I take it. “I’m Louise,” I
respond.

“Nice
to meet
ya
, Louise,” she says. Then, suddenly much
shier than she was when she sat down, she begins her tale. “See Louise, I work
for the Harris Shows, the rides that are here? And I have a friend who works in
our office?” she formed it as a question and nods her head to a trailer that
says ‘Corporate Office - Harris Shows’ that is sitting right across from our
bench. Isn’t it funny that the trailer has probably been there every year and
I’d never noticed
it.

“So,
anyway,” she continues, “my friend, well, he
kinda
noticed you and he wanted to come over and say ‘hi,’ but he didn’t want to
upset you even more... so he figured if I came over and met you first, maybe
it’d be okay if I introduced you to him?” The whole
Jeopardy-answers-in-the-form-of-a-question thing is annoying, but other than
that, she seems very sweet. So, even though my brain is screaming, ‘these
people are carnies and probably trying to figure out a way to rob you blind!’ I
still find myself looking at her and nodding my head in consent.

She
smiles, a wide smile, and motions over to someone behind me. “Bobby, come on
over!” and she stands to make room for the stranger.

He
sits down next to me and I look up and gasp. I can’t tell you if my reaction in
real life was the same when this event actually happened to me, but “dream me”
has forgotten how to breathe. I’m looking into the lovely face of the man with
the little girl. “Bobby?” I say. “Nice to meet you,” and I stick my hand, that
I’m sure is trembling, out toward him.

“Hello.
And you are?” he says in the same voice I heard earlier today, in Hell.

“Louise.”
I answer

“Well
Louise, do you not like my carnival?” he asks teasingly.

“I
love the carnival. Is it really yours?” I ask.

“Well,
kind of. I’m the manager of Harris Shows, so for now it is my carnival. And I
hate to see pretty girls cry at my carnival.” He looks at me and smiles and I
feel the warm glow that his smile brought to my nightmare the night before.

“I’m
just being a huge baby because my friends ditched me for farm animals.” I say
laughing. “Don’t take it personally.”

We
look at each other and grin. I see the night ahead of me, in this lucid dream that
has become a memory. A memory locked away inside of a broken, dead brain that
has been less and less reliable as my expiration date got closer and closer.

I
suddenly remember that we spent all night that night together at the carnival.
Like two teenagers on a first date, we walked hand in hand, got cotton candy
and rode every ride. We joked like old friends. When we stopped in front of a
milk bottle game and I talked the barker into giving me an extra ball to win a
big stuffed tiger. Bobby looked down at me, through those lenses, with those
deep blue eyes and said, “I think I might have to start calling you ‘Weasel’
instead of Louise.” I mockingly punch him in the arm and say, “That does not
make me sound very attractive at all.” He stops and takes off those glasses and
looks deep into my eyes. Before I know it, he is kissing me. Not a lecherous,
cop-a-feel kind of kiss. A real kiss, a first kiss, a kiss that says ‘Get used
to this, because I’m planning to do it a whole lot more.’ And then he wraps his
arms around me and I start to cry again, only this time not because I’ve been
forgotten. This time, because I’ve been found. I am home here, in these arms —
protected, soothed and loved.

I
wake up and it takes a minute to remember that I am dead. I am dead, Bobby is
alive and we were a couple once. I know this to be true deep inside my damned
soul, even though past that night I still can’t remember. But, I know that I
loved him and he loved me. How did I forget that? How did I forget that I had
not just a lover, or even a boyfriend, but a real grown-up, loving
relationship? I have to talk to
Deedy
. I must tell
him that I identified the man from the street and from my previous dream —
Bobby, otherwise known as Robert James Callow, in management for one of the
largest amusement companies in the world. He traveled five months out of every
year, yet the rest of the time he was mine. MINE! I spring out of bed with a
sense of both panic and renewed excitement. So, Bobby is not a figment of my
imagination but a ghost of a memory that has manifested down here. That has got
to mean something, right? All these memories, bizarre dreams, everything that
is happening to me since the moment I found that notice tacked on the bulletin
board at the coffee shop means something. I am changing. Maybe my future is
changing too.

And
the little girl — must be Linda! I was closer to her than anyone else, other
than Bobby. It’s all so clear now! She’s manifesting as a child to remind me
that we were the queens of embracing our inner children! The eternal bratty
kids who downright refused to grow up, never took anything or anyone seriously.
Now, even though I’m stuck down here, I have to find a way to make this work. I
can hardly wait for today to end so that I can go see
Deedy
and tell him all about this new revelation. I can almost see his face. Big,
huge, grin just for me!

But
first, I have to pretend to know what I’m doing as a hairdresser. This should
be fun, and this may be the job that I get to keep longer than a day. I feel it
in my construct of a skeletal system.  When I take a peek in the closet I
am both surprised and more than a little pleased with what I see. Granted, I’m
not going to be walking any runways at fashion week in Paris anytime soon with
this outfit, but it’s really not hideous, either. A pair of old lady style
shorts, the kind with an elastic waist band (for extra comfort!) and that fall
just above the knees. The top is of course some unnatural fabric that promises
to fit terribly and is the color of cat puke, but still, over all, not bad!
Once I pull on the shorts I realize they are at least 2 sizes too big. The
elastic holds them up but creates a balloon effect so that I look like a giant
pear shaped pile of cat puke. So, why am I grinning from ear to ear? Because
other than the orange jumpsuit, this is the best outfit I’ve ever gotten from
that “loves-to-fuck-you-up-the-ass-every-single-day” closet. That, along with
my brand,
spankin
’ new memory of Beautiful Bobby and
Me, just goes to confirm it.