Awake in Hell (6 page)

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 what 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.