Divine and Dateless (19 page)

I fumbled with my belt some more, pretty sure the ends would be frayed by the time I clocked out. “Uh… I guess.”

“What did you do?” Vickie asked before she spit her gum in her palm and crunched on some more ice cubes. “Volunteer at an orphanage?”

“Um….” I shrugged, averting my gaze. “Not really.”

“I know!” Nikki held up a finger and then pointed at me. “She died saving someone else.”

“Yes, that’s it. She electrocuted herself to save an orphan.” Vickie tossed the rest of the ice down the back of her throat.

“No orphans involved. Really.”

They both tilted their heads, these confounded looks in their youthful gazes as if I’d just asked them to name the state capitol. They seriously had to be natural blondes because they made me feel about smart as a rocket scientist. If I was going to spend the rest of my sentence in Purgatory working next to Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Dumber, I’d never get anything done. I sure hoped we weren’t paid on commission.

“I volunteered at a retirement home,” I finally answered through a sigh. I sure as heck hoped the Big Guy couldn’t strike me down for lying. Besides, I was sort of telling the truth. Driving three hours to Portland and spraying disinfectant in a rest home bathroom with sticky poop splatter all over the floor had to count for something.

Vickie swatted the air with her hand. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

“She was being modest.” Nikki leaned over and elbowed her sister. “I told you she was a good person.”

“Well,” I interrupted, “I should probably learn how to do my job.”

“It’s really easy,” Vickie said as her head disappeared from view. In the next moment, she was sharing my cramped cell. We waited for at least ten minutes while my computer warmed up. It made all kinds of grinding and groaning sounds when she turned it on. I wasn’t sure if I was worried or hopeful it wouldn’t work.

I couldn’t believe my eyes when she clicked on the homepage to POL, Purgatory Online. Today’s news story was about a man on level eleven who’d given away half of his credits to his long-lost girlfriend on level four, so they could live together on level eight. The positive part of me, those few shriveled up and starving little cells in my brain that still believed in a happily-ever-after, wanted to believe they’d spend their afterlife moving up the floors together until they reached Heaven. The bitch in me, that 99.9 percent of my brain that believed Happily-Ever-After only existed at the bottom of a Ben and Jerry’s tub of Cherry Garcia, wondered if he’d regret his decision in a year or so, after she complained too many times about the coffee grounds he left on the counter and ran off with her personal trainer.

Vickie clicked on my email, and we waited another five minutes for the window to pop up. “I just love technology,” she said in a chipper tone while I picked peeling polish off my nails. “It makes our job so much easier.”

A blaring trumpet, followed by a chorus of angels belting “Ahhhh!” blasted from the computer speaker, followed by a voice deeper than James Earl Jones telling me I had mail.

Okay, that was weird, but I should have been used to weird by now, right?

“You’ve got five hundred messages in your inbox,” Vickie said as she clicked on the first one.

“They started her off with a light load,” Nikki said behind us.

“Listen to each voice mail and either delete or forward it to the next level.” Vickie picked up a set of headphones and placed them over my ears.

“How do I know which to delete and which to forward?”

“Trust me on this.” She giggled. “You’ll know.”

In the next moment, I was listening to what I thought was a low moaning sound. I shot Vickie a look, but she shrugged and averted her eyes, the slightest sign of a smirk tugging at her glossy lips.

When the moaning was replaced by shrill cries of “Oh God, please. Yes! Yes!” and the distinct sound of bouncing springs, I pulled my headphones off and gaped at the pixelated screen.

Oh, yeah, today was going to be a long day.

Imagine the Seahawks stadium was an office building. Now imagine that office building filled with an endless sea of four by four cubicles. Section 3-B, cubicle ninety-six, was supposed to be my workstation for the next ten to twenty years of my miserable existence. Our messaging center handled every prayer request for the entire Pacific Northwest.

And believe me, from the moment I clocked in to the moment I clocked out, my inbox was inundated with new messages. It was my job to listen to each plea to our Lord and Savior and decide to either delete the request or forward it up the chain of command. Honestly, most of the prayer requests were stupid. Hey, buddy, instead of praying to God for a new television, why don’t you quit calling in sick to work and earn the money to buy one yourself. Your mom’s not charging rent. It shouldn’t take long to save up.

Occasionally, I’d get a prayer that broke my heart, like little Jessica whose cat was poisoned, begging God to bring her pet back to life. Even though I suspected there was little God could do, I forwarded that prayer. Even if God couldn’t bring back her cat, maybe he could offer the kid something to brighten up her day, like another kitten.

Unfortunately, I rarely heard kids’ prayers. Most of the day the prayers went something like this, “Oh, God, please don’t stop! Oh, God, Yes! Yes! Yes!” So basically, I got to listen to people cry out in the throes of passion most of the day. I wondered if people realized how often they called out God’s name while having sex.

What’s the deal with that, anyway? Did you forget the name of the guy who’s banging your brains out? Is that why you have to keep calling to God instead?

Geez Louise. How was I supposed to handle listening to that, day in and day out, when I’d left the vibrator I’d affectionately named Bubba back on Earth? I loved Bubba, too. I’d gotten him at the Megaplex for half price, and no, Bubba wasn’t used, or so the clerk reassured me. He had gotten me through the last five lonely years of my life. A wild and crazy idea crossed my mind, but then I quickly dismissed it. I’d thought about asking Grim to retrieve Bubba for me. Not just because I really wanted him, but because my mom was going to freak when she found it. I could ask Grim. It wouldn’t be hard for him to find it, top drawer, right by the pack of expired, unopened condoms.

I really could ask him, but I knew I never would have the guts. What exactly would I say? “Hey, I’m horny. Could you go get my vibrator?” What if he offered me his services instead? Even though I’d promised myself to never have sex with him, my resolve was about as tenuous as a fresh box of bon bons at a PMS Anonymous meeting.

Speaking of PMS, I had no idea if women got their periods in Heaven, but I’d been feeling bloated and crampy all day. I sure hoped I wasn’t about to start because I’d left my birth control pills back on Earth, and the last time I let my girly hormones get out of whack, I practically ate my way through every chocolate bar west of Mt. Rainier.

Hmmm. Maybe it would be a good thing if I got my period, then I would be too sick to be horny. Truthfully, I didn’t want to have sex with a vibrator. I wanted Grim. The real Grim. His real hard abs and thick thighs. His real penis. I wanted to straddle him and fuck him until we were both screaming prayers of our own.

Damn, this sucked. Listening to people screw all day and then going home each night to a vibrator-less apartment was going to drive me crazy. At this rate, I had no idea if I was going to be able to resist Grim, or anything with a penis for much longer, but of one thing I was certain: I had to find a new job.

Dear Purgatory, how do I loathe thee? Let me count the ways…. My tits are torpedoes, my job consists of listening to people get their brains fucked out, and my only potential dating prospect knows I shit my pants. Oh, and this afternoon I received a special visit from a not-so-friendly relative, Dear Aunt Flo.

That’s right. I’m on my period in Purgatory. Note to self. Dying sucks. Dying sucks big fat donkey balls.

I really didn’t think there was enough chocolate in all of Purgatory to drown my misery, but I was sure as heck going to give it a try.

What do I have to lose?

Nothing, but I might have a lot to gain, like five or maybe ten extra pounds? Oh, well, what’s a few added pounds on my thighs? Grandma’s poofy dresses were bound to cover the added weight. Besides, it wasn’t like I was going to worry about getting naked for someone anytime soon. Only ten to twenty years, I reminded myself. Ten to twenty, and then I could be skinny and happy and thoroughly fucked for all of eternity. I could get through this. All I needed was a bit more chocolate. I sank into the sofa cushions and sucked down a spoonful of ice cream. Thank God my uncle had taken me grocery shopping yesterday. I guessed in the face of all this misery, I should have counted my blessings, however small they might have been.

I scanned through all of my television channels again. Purgatory television stations sure were boring, but at least I’d learned a bit about my new home. Unlike The History Channel back on level one, Purgatory’s history channel gave us a rundown of the afterlife, which was pretty confusing. My hormonally charged brain could only absorb about ten percent of what the narrator was saying, but apparently, I lived in section 13 I-C, which was basically parallel to Seattle. People usually ascended to the sections parallel to where they died, unless they died in a catastrophe alongside hundreds of other people, and their assigned sections became overcrowded. I briefly wondered if Grim had been killed in a disaster, because he sure as heck had come a long way from Seattle.

Here’s the really crazy part. Those elevators I’d taken to get from Earth to Heaven and back to Purgatory hadn’t really taken me up and down levels. No, I was crossing dimensions. As in, we’re all still on the same planet, during the same time, taking up the exact same space. We’re just living in different dimensions so we can’t see each other. It had something to do with our auras. The people on Earth couldn’t see my aura, anymore, just like I couldn’t see theirs. Weird, right? The same thing went for each floor in Purgatory, and even the basement floors! I still couldn’t wrap my head around it.

The main focus of the nightly news seemed to be credits, the afterlife’s form of currency. Apparently, credits were really important to folks in Purgatory, since they couldn’t buy groceries or move up levels without them. Because people were so busy trying to cut corners and save credits, luxuries like modern computers and cell phones were virtually nonexistent. Now I understood why Grim had bragged about his flat screen and why my television cost me half a heavenly cheesecake.

I flipped through the channels for almost an hour until my tiny pint of ice cream was an empty carton, but I couldn’t figure out how the blondie twins were able to see their funeral on TV. Damn. I’d been hoping I could see if they’d found my body, and if so, how my mom was handling the news.

I sat up at the sound of a gentle knock on my door, my shoulders falling ever so slightly when I realized the polite visitor couldn’t possibly be Grim. It was almost eight o’clock, and he still hadn’t shown. Despite the fact I felt like total shit, I was still wearing my dress from today because Grim had said he was going to call on me. And the stupid, pathetic PMSing puppy I was had been waiting around all evening for him. I’d even recorded a karate movie for us to watch, since Aunt Flo would make certain he couldn’t get past second base tonight.

A cramp hit me square in my gut when I stood. I clutched my midsection and hobbled toward the door, not surprised to see Inés waiting in the hall.

“Hey,” I said. Feeling like a sack of old, moldy potatoes, I leaned against the doorframe for support.

Inés arched a sculpted brow. “You okay,
chica
?”

“PMS,” I groaned as she pushed past me and handed me a bar of dark chocolate.

“This is from loverboy,” she said with a wink. “He said sorry, he had to work a double shift.”

Though I should have been over the moon that Grim had smuggled me another dark chocolate bar, I was disappointed he hadn’t given it to me himself. I couldn’t quite place my finger on the reason why it bothered me so much, but my gut was telling me he was avoiding me and using the chocolate as a diversion. But why?