Awake in Hell (5 page)

“Why
do you want to know about the years before I died?” I asked, once I recovered
from the whole 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.

So,
I told him about my mom and dad and Linda. I told him about Hank and how the
day before Linda’s wedding I had a huge bachelorette party and got totally
wasted and begged her not to marry him.  I told him about my cancer. How I
remember lying in bed with people around me, but I can’t imagine who all those
people would be. I told him about my Mom talking but I don’t remember what she
said. Then I told him about waking up under the overpass and realizing I was
damned for eternity and how that’s been working out for me. I rambled on and on
and
Deedy
actually listened to every single word. He
laughed when I tried to be funny, he cooed when I tried to be wistful, and when
I tried to invoke emotion by talking about my regrets and fears he looked at me
like I was full of shit.

“What?
I’m not allowed be contrite because I ended up in Hell?” I say after one of
those ‘oh please’ looks from
Deedy
.

“Of
course you can. But here’s what I wonder... ”

I
waited. For a while. Then I finally explode with exasperation. “Wonder
about???”

He
looked at me, looked into me. His eyes locked on mine and for a minute I
actually got goose bumps. There was a fire in his stare, like his eyes were
made of the same stuff as Hell itself. It was like he was a peeping Tom but
instead of looking at my body through a window, he was looking at my soul.
Which actually felt more intimate than if I were standing in front of him
naked. Then suddenly, it was over, and
Deedy
was back
to being the little boy stuck inside a grown man’s body. His face and eyes
filled with laughter and kindness, once again.

“I
wonder how you feel about garbage.” He said suddenly.

“Garbage?
I can honestly say that I’ve never spent a single moment of my life, or
afterlife, contemplating it in any way.” I say with a hint of disgust.

“Well,
my darling girl, that is about to change!” said
Deedy
,
with the enthusiasm of a game show host telling me I’d just won a million
dollars. But instead of a million dollars, he handed me a small yellow slip of
paper with an address on it.

“What
is this? A piece of trash I’m supposed to think about?” I said.

Deedy
laughed out loud. “Nope. This is
your first temp job. You, Louise May Patterson, are now in the waste management
industry!”

“A
Garbage Man?” I say weakly, my stomach already starting to turn.

Okay,
so I think that I accidentally lied to
Deedy
. I have
actually thought about garbage. Well, more specifically, I’ve thought about
garbage collection. There was a brief affair once with a guy who owned a trash
collection company — married of course. He found himself, out and about, each
Wednesday morning trucking around suburbia, a landscape consistently cluttered
by both trash cans and bored housewives. It didn’t take long to find his true
calling, which was collecting conquests as well as rubbish. The coffee klatches
in town were full of twittering, middle-aged women, who spoke in whispers of
Don “the trash man” and his sexual repertoire. Eventually, the rumors trickled
down into my crowd. So, as a public service, of course, I decided to find out
what could be proven or denied.

To
that purely altruistic end, I stood outside one Wednesday morning and watched
as his truck hopscotched its way down my street picking up cans from either
side with a lumbering zigzag that just screams GARBAGE TRUCK. Don, “the trash
man” was a very handsome, African-American man, (not Denzel good-looking, but
damn close for this town) with a body built by manual labor. In the morning sun
he looked like he had been chiseled out of ebony. What can I say? I was ready
to approach this pursuit of truth with gusto. Occasionally he’d stop and talk
to someone, usually female. She’d have a cold drink or a plate of some baked
good to offer him and they seemed to be having harmless conversation, about the
weather or a local sports event. When in reality, they were probably planning
an encounter for later in the day. That guy’s appointment book must have looked
like a doctor’s office diary. He must have ordered Viagra by the case. When he
finally got to my house, I was acting as disinterested in him and his truck as
I could muster. Instead, pretending to be studying something terribly important
in the yard, as if there was anything in my front yard to hold my interest at
that hour of the morning, aside from the prospect of getting laid by a
semi-pro.

“You
up early or just going to bed?” he said to me that first morning — just kind of
jumped right in, so to speak.

I
answered him with the same flirty tone of voice. “Figured I’d come see what all
the fuss is about. You know, the whole ‘early bird’ propaganda that you hear
all the time.”

“So,
you’re bird watching?” he said with a sly smile.

“No,
I’m out here hunting for a worm.” I returned. (Yes, the double-
entrendres
were flying like bullets in a Dirty Harry
movie.)

He
finished with the can in front of my house and had just set it down, empty. So,
I fired off a question. “What happens if you have to pee while you are on your
route? Are you allowed to knock on someone’s door and ask to use their powder
room?”

Now,
believe it or not, I have used the “what if you have to pee” question as a
pick-up line on many occasions. All with great success. Whether it’s a
paraplegic, or the guy standing in front of the seafood restaurant in a lobster
suit, or the garbage man... the response is always the same.

“Wow,”
said Don, laughing. “You are the first person to ever ask me that question!”
Then he looked at me with new eyes, as if to say ‘this one’s got
moxy
!’

It
was as if I’d written the script and he was right on cue.

Then
he started to tell me about various public restrooms or porta potties on his
route and how one learns how to time where and when they stop for coffee in
coordination with how far one is from the nearest public facility. Then, he
said the most horrifying thing I’ve ever heard in my life. “But I always keep a
mayonnaise jar under the front seat in case my calculations are off.”

Now,
I know you want to hear how I lured him into my house. Which was consequently,
empty due to the fact that my mother had gone to the nearest city with my aunt
on a shopping trip and my dad was, of course, at work. You’ll also be wanting
to hear about all the nasty things he did to me on my mom’s kitchen counters.
And how she never knew it because if she had, she would have set fire to them
or possibly ripped them up with her bare hands before ever preparing food on
them again. When you mix someone as practiced and proficient as Don, ‘the trash
man’, with someone as committed to the craft of
freakdom
as myself, raise the mere sport of fucking to a fiery level of passion that can
only be described as an art form.

But
unfortunately, I cannot tell you about that. Because now, all I can think about
is that mayonnaise jar.

As
I’m walking back from the interview (I had foregone the idea of finding the
special tagged cabbie to take me home), that is the one distracting thought
that keeps ricocheting around inside my brain. I’m in Hell, and I’ve just
secured a job that requires a mayonnaise jar under the best of circumstances...
which would be in the land of the living... and I’m stuck in
‘the-worst-case-scenario’ world.

As
I reach my apartment I’m totally spent. What a crazy day. I am emotionally,
mentally, and physically exhausted. Today I discovered a phone where before
there was none. I met a telepath. Pretty sure the first one ever in my
experience. I went higher into the abyss we call a sky down here, than ever
before. I had the best cup of coffee in Hell, I’m almost certain. I sat in pure
comfort for a little while, and talked to another person about something more
substantial than how hot it is, or what I wanted to eat or just to say “Fuck
you!” for the first time since arriving here. And that other person happened to
be
Deedy
, the most remarkable being I’ve ever met in
life, or the afterlife. I survived my first ever job interview, and even came
out employed. Something I probably could be quite proud of, if I had the
energy.

Yet,
as I stumble up to my tiny apartment and collapse on the bed, I kick off my
Mary Jane’s and allow myself to drift off with one singular thought...

You
just know I’m going to have to pee in a jar tomorrow.

Chapter
Seven

 Epic
dreaming. When I was alive, I used to love those few and far-between nights
when my brain would decide that it was going to entertain me. Creating in my
subconscious this delicious story, that played out like a film with grand
cinematography and everything. Epic dreams are always fictional, but with great
metaphorical value. They usually star me and my friends doing amazing things,
like flying through jungles (sans aircraft since we can actually fly!!),
swashbuckling on a pirate ship, or hanging out at some fancy nightclub with our
favorite pop stars. And the next day, while it was still fresh in my memory,
I’d call up Linda or some other friend who had made an appearance in the show
from the night before, and tell them every detail of the dream. And then, we
would start analyzing what the dream meant.

“Maybe
flying means letting go of something, or someone...or maybe it just means
getting high!”

“I
read in a book once that swords and knives in dreams mean penises.”

“But
I got to slow dance with Liam while you were singing the Titanic theme on
stage!”

“Wait,
so if I stabbed you with a sword, does that mean that I wish I had a penis??”

It
would go on and on and by the time it was all said and done, the dream was
worth a few laughs, an argument or two, and the occasional “Do you think I’m
actually gay?” heart-to-heart conversation.

Epic
dreams stay with you, sometimes for days, always replaying in the back of your
mind. That’s what makes epic dreaming so wonderful.   Unless of
course, you are in Hell, which, as I’ve made it abundantly clear, I am.

Down
here, epic dreams are never fictional, but they are crystal clear and stick
with you like glue. They are vivid memories, but not ones that I yearn to see
again. They are the acts and deeds that brought me here in the first place. You
know how people say, when you die your life “flashes before your eyes?”  I
wish that were true. Because a flash of what I’ve done would be hard to
witness, to be sure, but it would be over quickly, then I could move onto the
next adventure. But to have to relive those moments, in great detail, over and
over for eternity — that is the greatest punishment the devil, or whoever is
responsible for this wretched place, could inflict upon me or any of us. When
we first met I said, “
dreams
are the one thing Hell
can’t take away, but that is not the whole story. Hell can also give
nightmares.  The worst part about it, is these nightmares have already
come true.”  My nightmares are my past, and the burden I carry with me
down here is getting heavier with them every day, week, month and year that I’m
forced to confront them.

So
when I sat up in bed this morning I knew why my face was drenched with tears. I
didn’t even hit the snooze button.  Today, I’d rather be anywhere than in
bed, where I’d just relived one of the darkest days of my life - The day before
Linda got married.

Now,
let me explain. It’s not like I just decided to pop a nutty at Linda’s big
night out with no warning or provocation. There was a significant pattern that
led up to my behavior, long before the fateful bachelorette party. I had
witnessed the proverbial writing on the wall well in advance of that night.
From the first moment that she burst into my room at Mom and Dad’s and showed
me the ring and asked me to be her maid of honor (and yes, I know how
ridiculous that sounds, but who else would she ask?) I was in full-blown panic
at the prospect of what was about to happen.

In
Hank’s defense, it wasn’t just the fact that she was marrying him, or the fact
that she was marrying at all. It was all about to change. Linda was leaving me
behind so that she could go play grown-up with a job and a car and a
husband.  “And then, she’d eventually have babies, carpools and
parent-teacher conferences.”  Linda was meant for so much more than bake
sales and soccer practice. She was supposed to transcend with me to a higher
purpose. To be forever young.  A child of the universe who floats and
coaxes whatever she needs and leaves it all to luck and chance and chaos, if
for no other reason than just to see what would happen. This is what true
intelligence, beauty and loving life is about. It’s about not falling into any
of the traps that society sets for us, to try and make us be what they are.
It’s about seeking adventure and wringing every bit of fun you can get out of
living. Leave the breeding for the mainstream. We are better than those folks,
and why couldn’t Linda see that?

That
was the exact bullshit I said to my best friend on the eve of her wedding. Only
I was so drunk it came out as one giant, slurry, run-on sentence with the
occasional “fuck me, I lost my train of thought” or “hey cutie, what are you
doing later?” or “Who do you have to blow to get a shot of tequila around
here?” thrown in for good measure.

Oh,
and did I mention that I said all of that in the form of a toast, in front of
all her friends — and family?

And
that includes her mom and 83 year-old grandmother.

I
finished my diatribe with this pearl of wisdom:

“Would
you like to know the secret of the universe, kids?
Cuz
I’ve got it right here. Men always want what they can’t have, and never want
what they’ve got.  Women always want what they used to have and they will
settle for anything or anyone that gives them the illusion that they can have
it back.  There will be moments, and this might actually be one for our
Linda, when you can actually sit back and say that you are content, almost
happy with your life, with yourself and the one standing next to you... and you
should embrace those moments, because they will all go away— quickly.”

And
in my nightmare, as in life, I sat down to an awkward silence that would have
been quite embarrassing if I weren’t so clueless or wasted. Everyone was
squirming in their seats or looking at me like I’d just reached up into my own
nose and pulled out a giant slug and set it free on their fucking table.
Finally, after what seemed like hours, Linda got up and raised her glass and
said:

“Lou,
you aren’t exactly being fair. Maybe I’ve hijacked a seat on this ride long
enough. Because after all, let’s face it, I’ve never really been as intelligent
or beautiful or charming as you... have I?”

Everyone
in the room burst out laughing. They all walked up to Linda and pat her on the
back, telling her what a great a retort that was and how she was showed so much
class.  They thought she should consider her friendship with me like
having a Barbie or Mr. Potato Head.  Something you leave behind with
nostalgia and good memories, but you can’t muster up the patience to play with
anymore.

But
here’s the part that makes me feel like I deserve Hell more than you know.
Amidst the laughter and congratulatory “zinger” comments, and the alcohol fog
that I was in, Linda and I locked gazes.  At that moment, I knew she meant
what she said, and it broke my heart.   It broke my heart that she,
the most wonderful thing that had come into my life, could still think I was
smart and funny and beautiful even as I was humiliating her, and myself, at a
party where she was supposed to be the center of attention. I was always a
spotlight whore, and considered bad attention better than no attention.
However, tonight was supposed to be Linda’s and I had pissed all over her
parade. Here we were, on the night before the most important day of her life,
and her best friend/maid of honor (stop rolling your eyes every time I say
that) is not being supportive or excited for her or making sure she’s creating
memories to enjoy in her old age. No.  Instead, I acted like an ass, and
in the process somehow reminded her that I could have actually been right.
Perhaps, Linda was choosing to settle, and most probably she was happy, a lot
of the time, being trapped for a change. It had to be refreshing to not have to
be “on” all the time, and to not have to be second fiddle to her psychotic best
friend. However, her friend’s and family’s reaction to my inspired (yet,
granted, grossly inappropriate) toast was just a reminder that she was once a
person who could say and do anything she wanted or thought without remorse or
fear.

Still,
all those revelations aside, she was really pissed at me. Later, after everyone
had begged off and gone home, she and I sat at the bar drinking after hours
with the bartender who threw caution and possibly his ABC license to the wind
and kept on serving us.

“You
know, I understand why you are such a huge bitch. I just don’t understand why
you pick these times to display it,” she said with a twinge of resignation in
her voice.

“Sorry,
babe.” I said, and I meant it. “I just panicked. I’m feeling abandoned so I lashed
out. What’s that saying about you only hurt the ones you love?”

“I
think it’s a song, actually.  But, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that
we are always going to be friends. You are always going to need me, to call at
2 a.m. for a ride, or to pick apart a dream or a new guy. And I am still going
to sit by the phone and wait for that call, and be just a little jealous of you
as I’ve always been. But my life is going to look different now. People grow
up, Lou. Even you may have to face it one day. Just because we allow ourselves
to change, doesn’t mean that we failed at what we were doing before.  It
just means that we’re allowing it to turn into something else.”

“Letting
the past become the future.” I say, trying to sound profound.

“THERE’S
the secret to the universe, kid!” Linda said laughing.

“Yeah,
well let’s not forget that Ms. Margarita has some serious culpability for that
little speech!” I responded, as I waved to the bartender for another round.

“Maybe
she can talk my Mother off the ledge so that she won’t tackle you, to keep you
out of the church tomorrow,” said Linda.

“So,
you are really going through with it?” I said, with a just a bit of sadness.

“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.