Awake in Hell (3 page)

I
reach over to hit the snooze button, my daily dose of futility. But the alarm
is not going off. Yet still, there’s that noise, that fucking RINGING!

I
sit up and start to look around. It doesn’t take long to take in the entire
apartment. It’s what the living would call, ‘an efficiency.’ It’s basically the
size of a cubicle in an airport restroom. It’s got a sink with a shelf over it
for the single dish, single bowl, and single glass I own. I’m not planning on
hosting a dinner party any time soon so why bother with more? There’s an oven
that I’ve never turned on, and if you have to ask why you’ve obviously not been
paying attention. It also boasts a miserably small bathroom with room for a
toilet and a standing-room-only shower that sprays no hot water, yet no cold
water. All you get is sort of tepid. And don’t even get me started on the water
pressure.

And
then, there’s the closet — room for one outfit that will appear each day. After
all those luxuries, there’s enough room left for a small desk (for the computer
and the alarm clock), a broken chair, and my bed. I’ve never had a phone here.
First of all, who would call me? I’m dead. Not to mention that I’ve worked in a
call center since I got to this shithole so, why would I want a phone anywhere
near me when I’m not at work? And third,

Wait...

I
stand up and walk to the far wall of my apartment with my mouth hanging open
like a goldfish. “Agape” is the word I think for this expression. 

There’s
a mother fuckin’ PHONE on the wall.

Why
is this a surprise to me? After all this time (however long it’s been) I should
know that this kind of bullshit supernatural magic crap happens. I should be
nonchalant about the fact that all of the sudden there’s a telephone, a really
old telephone, with the horn receiver hanging off the side kind of telephone,
ringing it’s ass off in the middle of my apartment. But what can I say? I’m
stunned. I just keep staring at it, like it’s going to jump off the wall and
bite me. It doesn’t.

It
just keeps ringing.

And
ringing.

Finally
my left temporal lobe decides to join the party. Motor skills? Present. Clarity
of thought? Accounted for. One of you guys want to reach up and grab the
DAMNABLE PHONE? Thank you.

“Hello?”
I say, cautiously.

“Hello.
This is Second Chance Temp Agency!” says an incredibly cheerful female
operator. “Calling to remind Louise Patterson that her appointment with us
starts in exactly 22 minutes.” Her voice is so perfect it almost sounds
recorded.

“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 head
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.

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?”