Remembering Hell (8 page)

“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. And 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. And 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.”

Fresh, new tears are now flowing.
“There was nothing true about anything I said that day.”

“Except that happiness is fleeting.
Maybe not for all the reasons you listed in your rant, but even that is sort of
true. Happiness doesn’t last because if you are happy every single day, it
starts to feel normal. Then you take it for granted. And I can now tell you
that if love is taken for granted long enough, it becomes something else.”

“All right, I know this sounds
bizarre. But I don’t think Linda stopped loving you.”

“I will concede that she probably
didn’t realize it. We had been together so long, we learned every pet peeve, so
we could avoid annoying one another. We learned each other’s favorite things,
so we always knew what to do or get for each other. After years and years of
that we had nothing to fight about, but we also had nothing new to offer one
another. To be honest, by the end we were barely seeing each other.” Now Hank
is crying too.

“Hank, I love Linda, you know I do.
But you can’t take any responsibility for what she did.”

Hank looks at me and gives me a
weak smile. “Lou, you have been dead for a long time, a lot longer than I have
to be certain. But I have the advantage. I have lived a lot longer than you.
Take it from an old man, Linda made that choice all on her own. But the
darkness that allowed her to make it so blindly? I have to be able to admit
that I created it. Inadvertently, with neglect not malice, but it was me.”

I just look at him. “Oh, Hank,” is
all I can say, once again. I get up and wrap my arms around his neck. “I am so
sorry. Sorry this happened to you and to Linda.”

“Don’t be sorry for me. Look where
I am. But Linda. Poor Linda.” He embraces me back.

“You don’t know, do you?” I look at
him curiously. “No one has told you?”

“Told me what?”

I sit back down. “I apologize in
advance. This is not going to be short.” And I begin to tell my story. The tale
of my afterlife. About how after I died there was no party or welcoming, just
waking up in excruciating heat and orange light. How I got a job at IP&FW
and worked there for dozens of years until the day I found Deedy’s temp agency.
Well, until Deedy found me, to be more precise.

Hank was suitably enthralled. He
found my misadventures from being a short lived garbage collector, taxi driver,
and beautician hilarious. He took comfort from the fact that in Hell you can’t
remember a lot about your life, and each of those jobs were designed to force
me to remember the good in mine, and the good in me. When I tell him about my
final job, at a day care center, about children in Hell and what they really
are, he looks concerned. His concern turns to fear as I relay my experience there.

“Those little bastards tore me to
pieces. But that was what it took to make me remember Dinny. That was pretty
much my ticket to Heaven.”

“So what you are saying is Linda
has a chance at this?”

“Of course she does. It may take
some time, but remember what I was trying to say about time earlier? At some
point Linda will be joining you here.” I decide to leave it at that for now. I
choose not to tell him about my new assignment or why I asked for it. I get the
feeling that he may not be able to wrap his head around all that right now. So
I end the story with only half of it told.

His gratitude however, is complete.
He draws me into another bear hug, and we hold each other like dear old
friends.

“You know, I think we would have
been much closer in life if I had lived long enough,” I say.

“Well, now we have eternity, right?
Thank you for everything, Louise. From the time I got here until tonight.”

We say our goodbyes, and I am
actually looking forward to getting home. It has been a long, weird day. I open
up my door and walk into my apartment and realize that it’s not over yet. Seems
I need one more surprise.

My apartment is exactly like I left
it this morning. Except it is completely empty. No comfy couch, no soothing
fireplace, no huge bed with a mattress that I can sink into. I start looking
through closets and find a cot that I set up and fall into. I seriously
consider getting on my knees next to it, but I know I would be talking into a
void. Instead, I lie back and try to sleep. Just another wonderful day in Hell.
I think as I drift off to dreamless slumber.

CHAPTER TEN

Joe gets up and walks to his closet
with the reckless abandon of a long-term resident of Hell. He puts on what
looks like pirates britches. He actually wishes he had a mirror so he could
check himself out. For the top it’s one of those turtleneck sweaters that spies
always wore in the movies in the 60s. Since Joe is pretty sure he remembers
when these were actually in style, it doesn’t seem that bad. Until he gets it
on. Then he gets the cosmic joke. When it’s blazing hot outside and you are
wearing a turtleneck, you might as well just walk around with a giant chain
around your neck slowly strangling you all day.

“What a perfect outfit to endure
overwhelming heat, standing over a grill filled with disgusting food, and of
course heavy grease seeping into the fabric to make it even more uncomfortable.
Not to mention smellier.” Yes, Joe has a tendency to talk to himself first
thing in the morning. He then starts to hum ‘Oh, What a Beautiful Morning’ with
as much sarcasm as

one can muster while humming.

Today is his fourth day as a short
order cook at the diner. He royally sucks at it, which seems to be exactly what
they are looking for in a cook. Stan, his boss—who prefers to be called Captain
for some probably documentably crazy reason—seems very pleased by his work.
This mildly disturbs Joe, since his record thus far is two out of five meals
coming back. And people in Hell aren’t polite in good conditions. When they
send food back at a restaurant that if it were in the land of the living Zagat
wouldn’t even allow their guide to be read within a mile of the property, they
tend to do it with a sort of profane flair that sticks with you long after it’s
been delivered. Kind of like the grease. The remaining three customers also
returned their meals, in a very different way. Yes, sixty percent of the people
who ate Joe’s food barfed. Not to mention he has set the kitchen on fire twice.
He has a theory that the only reason they still have customers is because
people get a sense of entertainment watching him make an ass of himself.

He walks out the door and is
pleased because he got out of the house a half hour early. He just sort of
wants to walk to work alone today. It is not like he doesn’t like Louise, or
that he isn’t very appreciative of her help since he started at the agency.
She’s just a little odd and incredibly talkative. And kind of stalkerish. Every
day she is waiting for him outside of his apartment and walks him to work. And
for some reason, she seems irritated that he has not gotten fired yet, which he
finds disconcerting. So, every morning he finds himself having to make
conversation with a woman who is a stranger, and seems irritated at him. Joe is
a reporter at his core, and he made a living observing people and situations.
And his gut tells him that this sudden friendship with Louise is not really
genuine. It has set-up written all over it. She works for Deedy, and for some
reason Deedy wants him watched. Louise pretends to like Joe so she can keep
tabs on him.

He really wants to confront Deedy,
but Deedy makes him nervous. Not nervous like “palm sweaty,” “heart beating”
nervous, but more like “really wants his approval” kind of nervous. Joe still
doesn’t understand why Deedy is so different than anyone else in Hell. The
clothes, the office, those incredible chairs. And Gabby with her root beer that
is ice cold like he used to drink when he was a kid. Why would a man like that
have someone spying on someone like Joe? And why does that bring Joe a sense of
comfort? But as nice as it seems, it is also nice just to have some time to
process his thoughts and to prepare for another shitty day without Louise
yammering at him.

When Joe enters the diner, Stan the
Captain glances at the clock and starts in on him. “What’s up with the early
bird routine? You trying for employee of the month?” He says in his usual gruff
way.

“Why would I possibly assume that
arriving early would earn me such a position of honor?”

“Like we even have an employee of the
month. Here’s your apron.” Stan tosses a once white apron across the room to
Joe. “Get to prepping for the breakfast crowd. I’ll be in the back.” Stan
starts back to the kitchen.

“My last name is spelled
W-A-T-K-I-N-S,” Joe yells after him. “You know, for the plaque.”

“I’ll write that down as soon as I
let go of my sides from laughing,” Stan yells back, with no laughter anywhere
in his tone.

Joe has tied on his apron and is
currently pouring himself a cup of the swill this place insists on calling
coffee, when he hears the first customer of the day come in. He turns around
and sees a girl. She looks young, mousy brown hair, a look of confusion and
terror in her eyes. She sits at the counter and looks at the menu in a stand-up
plastic holder that makes it handy to order from when you are sitting at the
counter. She seems to panic as she sets it back down and starts to weep.

Newbie, Joe thinks instantly.

“Can I get you something?” Joe
asks, not trying to sound too friendly.

“No, I’m fine.” The girl looks around
as if she is still trying to determine whether this is a nightmare or not.

Joe sighs. “How long have you been
here?”

“I don’t know. An hour? A day? A
week?” The desperation in her voice is thicker than pancake syrup. Pancake
syrup anywhere but here, where it’s the consistency of play-doh and smells of
feet.

Joe is struck by this poor girl. He
stops to wonder what someone who looks so innocent could possibly have done to
end up here. Of course, after all this time he knows better than to be swayed
by helplessness or beauty. But she is beautiful. Her eyes so big and blue, and
her hair falls across her shoulders in soft curls. Joe wants to help her, but
how do you help someone who suddenly finds themselves in eternal despair? He
turns around and grabs a mug. Suddenly, he is filled with inspiration. He takes
the mug back to the kitchen and grabs a saucepan. He goes to the stove and is
surprised to find that all the ingredients he wants are right there. He starts
making his concoction like he was channeling Julia Childs. He is suddenly
possessed with the idea of making the most delicious cup of hot cocoa ever made
in Hell. He puts in cream, cocoa powder, and sugar. At the end he grabs some
chili powder from the spice rack and puts that in too along with a pinch of
salt. He tastes it and is actually surprised with his own talent. He cannot
recall ever making anything, let alone homemade hot chocolate with chili. The
taste explodes in his mouth, but slides smoothly down his throat. He pours it
in the mug and takes it to the girl.

“Oh, I can’t,” she says, dismissing
it immediately.

“My treat,” he says, pushing the
steaming mug toward her.

She picks up the mug and breaths in
the steam before she takes a sip. Then her eyes register real surprise as she
looks up at him.

“You put chili in here!” she
exclaims. “How did you know?”

“Know what?” Joe is bewildered but
pleased as he watches her take another long draw from her mug.

When she is done, she wipes her
mouth with the back of her hand in a gesture that makes her appear both
childlike and seductive. “My grandmother used to make me hot chocolate with
chili every time I would get upset. It would always make me feel better.”

“Seriously? I was just kind of
improvising. I have never even heard of chili pepper in hot chocolate before.”
Joe smiles widely. “Did it work today? Do you feel any better?”

“You know what, I think it did. All
things considered.” She stops and looks around. “At least it may help me get
through today.”

“That is the best way to handle
this place. If you start thinking about forever you will go mad. Just
concentrate on today.”

“Thank you,” the pretty girl says
as she stands and goes to the door. “Concentrate on today.” She tells herself
as she opens it and walks out into the orange haze.

Joe smiles to himself, feeling
pretty darn good for a change. He turns and finds himself face to face with
Captain Stan. Stan raises one stubby finger to motion to Joe back in the
kitchen.

“Am I in trouble?” Joe asks with
some concern.

Captain looks at him sadly.
“Trouble, no. But gone? Yeah.” He hands over a pink slip.

Joe looks at it with shock. On the
bottom of the pink slip it says:

Terminated for Providing Comfort.

Joe is absolutely livid. Yes, he’s
pissed that Stan could not see past one itty bitty kind act, but he’s angrier
at himself. Am I going crazy? He wonders as he walks briskly toward the agency.
This is the second job I have lost in as many weeks. First there was Joe’s
debacle at the superstore that got him fired from the Gazette, and now a pretty
girl sheds a few tears and he’s jumping around a kitchen like Wolfgang Puck.

Now he’s got the distinct pleasure
of telling Deedy that he’s lost the very first temp job the agency secured for
him. For a brief moment he is kind of bummed that Louise is not around. She
might be able to tell him the best way to couch the information.

When Joe walks into the office
there is Gabby standing there talking to Louise. Be careful what you wish for.
Thinks Joe. Damn it. Louise is probably reporting to Gabby that he had ditched
her this morning. In fact, they do seem to be talking when he approaches and
when he gets close they clam up.

“Am I interrupting something?” he
says.

“No not at all, I was just
leaving,” Louise says quickly. “Missed you this morning,” she starts, then
pauses to look at him closer. “Did you have an okay day?”

“Not really,” Joe answers sorely.

“Yeah, well. What do you expect?
Remember where we are!” she says with a smile. Then just as she is walking away
toward the elevator, Deedy’s voice comes booming from down the hall.

“Mr. Watkins, I presume?”

Gabby looks at him and with her
head motions him back to the office.

When Joe walks into Deedy’s office,
he seems almost jovial. “Joe, my boy! Have a seat!”

Joe sits down and rubs his palms on
his pirate britches to try to make them dry. “I have something I need to tell
you,” he says nervously. “I was…fired.”

“Finally,” Deedy responds. “Tell me
what happened.” Deedy sits behind his desk and folds his hands. “Tell me about
it.”

Joe relays the story about the hot
chocolate. And about the subsequent pink slip.

“Why do you think you felt the need
to help that poor girl?” Deedy says, opening up a file and grabbing a pen.

Joe’s mind opens and is flooded
with memories. He begins, “It was not my life’s dream to be a paparazzi. I used
to have real dreams of writing real books. I was going to write the great
American Novel. I used to imagine myself becoming the new Twain. Or at the very
least, a halfway decent facsimile of the new King.”

“Oh, Stephen King? Did you write
scary stories? I’ve always loved scary stories!” Deedy is excited now.

“No, it wasn’t the genre, it was
the notability. Writers that just seem to be able to come up with the perfect
stories that will ensure their immortality, not to mention the ability to sell
a gazillion books.”

“Right. Gotcha. Perhaps those
writers were able to refrain from diversions?” Deedy says playfully. Then he
makes his signature move. At least Joe has seen him do it several times since
meeting him. He sits back and props his feet up on his desk.

“Sorry. Anyway, when I was trying
to write I would go to this diner near my apartment. I was so young and so full
of affectation that I actually thought writing in a diner made me seem more
talented.”

“And it didn’t?” Deedy asks
innocently.

Joe decides to let that go. “One
day I was sitting there just staring at a blank piece of paper, amazed at how
empty my brain had become. This woman came in and sat directly across from me.
I didn’t even look up at her. She just started talking to me like we were old
friends. When I finally did look up at her, only to confirm that I had never
laid eyes on her before, she had already told me that her parents preferred her
younger sister, she had recently dropped out of college, the fact that she had
loved and lost three dogs in her lifetime, and I was pretty sure she was about
to tell me exactly when her menstrual cycle started when I finally interrupted
her. I thought I was going to tell her to shut the fuck up and leave me alone,
but when I opened my mouth it was to ask her name.” Joe stops to revel in this
newfound memory, and to put a quarter in Deedy’s curse jar.

“And that was terrible?” Deedy
asks.

“No, it was incredible,” Joe
responds. “Tara was her name. She became my girlfriend. We were together for
six years. To this day, those were the best six years of my life.”

“What happened?” Deedy is
continuing to make notes in his file.

“Well, I stopped writing. I became
complacent. Then the job at the paper came, and I was getting a paycheck. Of
course, all confidence and sense of self-worth bottomed out. I started to grow
distant, more sullen with each passing day. Until…”

“Until?” Deedy sits up and leans
forward.

“Until her father died. It was
sudden, unexpected. Tara was devastated. But of course the funeral was uncomfortable.
She and her sister getting competitive. Her mom, grief-stricken lashing out at
her daughters. At one point, I took Tara’s hand and started to walk. I really
didn’t have any idea where we were going until I looked up and realized we had
arrived. At the diner. At our diner. We went inside and sat in our booth, we
ordered hot chocolates, and we talked. We told stories about her dad, laughing
and crying for hours.” Joe now wipes a slight wetness out of the corner of his
eye.

“You provided comfort. With hot
chocolate,” Deedy says.

“I guess I did. Of course, it still
didn’t last. We broke up within the year.”