Hell (36 page)

And his father is sitting there. The old man’s hands are clenching the steering wheel hard and he is dressed in a brown uniform with a hat on his head like a police patrolman’s hat and his face turns to Hatcher and the hat has
BREAD
written across it and Hatcher’s father says, “You crazy motherfucker what the fuck do you think you’re doing chasing me down and honking your fucking horn you motherfucker I have half a mind to jump out of this truck and kick your fucking ass.”

And Hatcher says, “It’s me, Dad. It’s just me.”

And the old man’s eyes narrow. He can’t quite focus his eyes. “Hatcher?” he says.

“Yes.”

“Where have you been?” his father says. “You’re all grown up.” But there are flames licking up from his father’s shirt collar now, and the face is dissolving, it’s vanishing in the flames, and it is gone, his father has gone back to Hell, and the bread man’s uniform crumples into the seat.

And Hatcher is filled with the smell of bread. And above him is a beautiful blue sky. And up the road is a perfect little village. And he wonders if perhaps there are even people there to give bread to. Hatcher reaches out and picks up the hat. He puts it on his head. He can drive away now in the bread truck. Drive away into eternity.

And on the outskirts of the Great and Placid Metropolis of Heaven, there is the sound of an engine. Not a bread truck. A Maserati. Wailing to the red line and racing like a sonofabitch into town, past the mansions, through the park, past the high-rises and the Great Skyscraper and past all the great shopping and great eating, and Hatcher McCord, along with the great automotive passion of his life, screams to a stop in front of Starbucks. And Hatcher jumps out of the car and he does not get his coffee, which is waiting for him, but instead he dashes up the block and he pushes through the doors of McDonald’s and he whisks past his Big Mac sitting in the center of the center table and past Ronald McDonald who says “Welcome” and Hatcher is around the order counter and one stride into the kitchen before he tosses a “Fuck you” over his shoulder to Ronald. And Hatcher races by the grills and the fryers and he is at the back door and wrenching its handle and it is heavy, this door, fucking heavy, but Hatcher finds the strength and he pulls and pulls and it’s getting easier and the door is open and he is beneath the glare and the buzz of the fluorescent light and dashing along the little back corridor as the door to Heaven thumps heavily and forever shut behind him, and he is opening one more door and he flings himself in, and he stops, panting, in the center of the floor of the only hamburger joint in Hell, and all along its baseboards, ten thousand cockroaches are cheering. Hatcher nods at them and they nod back.

He catches his breath. He is sweating, and his legs are cramping up. But it’s okay. Hatcher moves to the front door, and he opens it, and he steps out. Grand Peachtree Boulevard is jammed with the damned, and they are howling and they are cursing and they are flowing always onward toward something they want but can never name and can never have.

And Hatcher McCord, anchorman for the
Evening News from Hell,
opens his arms wide, and he cries out above the din, “I love you all.”