So there I was sitting with Patrick waiting for him to fill me in on the depths (or what HE believed to be lack of) of my very existence. And I was determined to prove him wrong.
He started at the first page. A couple minutes went by and all that was accomplished was page flipping and finger tapping on my part. He just read aloud to himself; loud enough to be irritating but not actually loud enough for me to hear what he was saying so that I could debate his criticisms. I sighed, I bit my nails, I tapped my fingers nervously on the table. None of my passive aggressive techniques seemed to be working on good old Patrick.
After about a half an hour or so of this a clock appeared on the wall. Instead of numbers it held symbols that I did not understand; and it ticked loudly.
"So,I'm not going fast enough for you?" Patrick stated in a mocking tone.
"And how on Earth did you figure that one out, Einstein?"
"First of All," he said waiving a finger at me, "You know good and well this is no Earth. Secondly that annoying clock appeared because you were being impatient. And thirdly Einstein is in his very own hell, not yours."
There went my curiosity again. "Einstein?" I asked, a shiver in my voice.
"Of course. You don't willingly invent the A Bomb and go to Heaven. Brilliant man. We've quite a few of those around here."
"Well," I said, "That Diamond... not so brilliant."
"Yes. They get quite a lot of those up there as well."
This made me smile. It was if I was smart enough to get into Hell.
"Don't go getting all arrogant on me little tart," he said, returning to his nasty tone. "You're above average intelligence but you were always too lazy to do anything with it. And you are certainly no Einstein."
My eyebrows peaked and my nostrils flared. I could feel my heart beating faster. Patrick was pissing me the fuck off.
"Well Pat," I said, tightening my grip around myself, "If you're so fucking smart then why did you end up in hell? And if this is my hell then why did you end up with the shittiest job in hell?"
He stopped and looked up at me. He scratched his head, trying hard to answer.
"First off that's none of your business. How I got here. But I'll tell you one thing... I won't be here for much longer. That's why I'm doing this, little lady. Getting out on good behavior."
My interests were peaked. "Good behavior?"
"Yes. Occasionally there are those of us who didn't sin too much, just enough to get us here. And we can get out. Be reborn. I'm sad to say, Miss Allen, you are one of those people."
"I'm one of what?"
"You can get out of hell. It says it here, top of the first page of your file. Let's review."
I got entirely too excited. I sat up straight, smiled, imagined me hanging out with Jesus. But the one thing I did learn on Earth is that you never get too excited about anything. You're just setting yourself up to get let down.
"I could review your entire life. But I really have no interest in you so let's skip to page 4,370,222 to your list of sins." As he spoke the words my file came to life, flipping it's self to the very page he had named.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
BOOTS
When I woke up from what is commonly referred to as "Fishing Out" from overdosing on an unwanted mixture of GHB and cheap vodka I found myself in a tiny concrete room with slate grey walls that lacked doors and windows. Above me a tiny, yellowish light flickered in and out of existence. I was seated in a metal chair in front of a grey table. It was freezing cold in that little room; cold enough for ice to be growing on the walls. Even though I was wearing a thick, tan trench over my black cocktail dress and a thick pair of nylons underneath I felt like I was sitting in the middle of Grant Park in December.
In walked the dorkiest, most awkward man I'd ever seen. He wore ill fitting khakis and a wrinkled, over sized plain button down white shirt that was wrinkled and stained at the armpits. His posture told me that he was an insecure man; his straw-orange hair and pale, freckled skin told me that he was Irish.
"So, Miss Allen," he said to me in a meaty, Irish drawl, "I'll take a seat and we'll get started." I wasn't sure where he was going to sit since there was only one chair in the room. I assumed he wanted mine. I stood up shivering, hugging myself, more concerned with the snag I had just detected in my nylons then the fact that I was dead.
"You can have it," I said, pissed off. "It's uncomfortable as hell anyway."
"I seriously doubt that Miss Allen. Kind of you, but that won't be necessary." He went to sit across from me and POOF! A chair appeared right under him. It was a leather, brown club chair. I desperately wanted to trade.
"I'm Patrick," he said as he folded his legs in an overtly homosexual manner. "And I'm here to review you're file." I heard a deep rumble above us. The ceiling opened up and a thick Manila folder fell from the opening onto his lap causing an awkward, high pitched moan to pry itself from his thin, crusty lips. His face turned a bit red.
"So, Miss Allen." he said again. Death by overdose. You look much too conservative for GHB; I'd take you for more of a coke whore really. Thoughts?"
I was fucking shocked.
"You did NOT just call me a coke whore."
"No Miss Allen, I said that you look like one. Over the knee boots, ripped nylons, dress that's too short for a respectable woman... yup, coke whore."
"Listen to me you pasty fuck. Everyone wears over the knee boots. I can where thick knee socks under them and... why the hell am I even justifying my shoes to you for Christ sake? And why is so cold in here?"
"Because, Miss Allen," he said, leaning into me, looking deep into my eyes. "You're in hell and I'm allowed to say to you whatever I want. And because Hell is freezing over."
This jolted my attention from anger to curiosity.
"I'm in Hell? Why didn't I get into Heaven? I mean I figured out that I died and everything but I assumed this place was sort of an ... oh I don't know... in between?"
"Oh, it is. It's in between your personal death and your personal hell. See?" He said pointing behind me. On the wall where nothing hung before was a sign that said, "Next stop HELL".
I wanted to cry. I suddenly thought of all the things I'd never get to do. I'd never find the love of my life, never get married or have kids. Not that I was dating anyone while I was alive; I hadn't had sex in so long that my hymen had probably grown back. But still. Who knew? After all, the only reason I even went to that stupid party was because I was a little lonely. I wanted to meet someone.
My world felt heavy.
"Loneliness just leads to... death," I muttered to myself.
"Oh, boo hoo." he said, his Irish Catholic voice ringing in my ears. "Little miss hooker boots is getting all sentimental on me. Suck it up. It's not like you died of famine or disease. You died at a party."
"The worst party ever. You know the last people I had to make small talk with before I died? I mean small talk is bad enough. In ANY social situation. But these people..."
"Yes actually," he said licking a finger and flipping through my file." The last people you encountered before your spoiled little death were a drug dealer named Sam Higgens, a hustler named Billy McGee and a home appliance inventor named Diamond Sullivan."
"I'm sorry," I said, laughing, filled with disbelief. "Home appliance inventor?"
"Yes Ms. Allen. Diamond apparently invented a home appliance which is used to, and I quote, 'Fasten rhinestones, studs and patches to material, clothes and accessories.' That's according to Wikipedia."
"You mean to tell me that old bitch invented the bedazzler?"
"Yes I do. And according to our updated system she'll be going straight to Heaven for that one. Major contributions to culture which pushes society forward automatically warrants you a visit to Heaven. Not to mention the millions in donation she's made to various charities and causes in the past four years..."
"Does it also mention that SHE is in fact the coke whore in her file? Whatever. Fuck that little piece of paper."
"Actually Miss Allen this is not regular piece of paper. It looks like paper, feels like paper, even smells like paper in my hands," He paused, closed his eyes. Patrick raised the paper to his nose and took an obtrusive breath. He was sniffing the paper the way a creepy old man attempts to smell your hair without you noticing. But I noticed.
"But," he continues, "It's actually a touch screen computer system no different then your average iphone. Just quicker. It's linked to the Halo Network. Heaven sells us their technology for... well not so cheap. Let's just say they make a hefty profit."
"Did you just say that heaven sells stuff? For Profit?"
"Oh, yes Miss Allen," he said, smiling uncomfortably wide. "That's exactly why little tarts like Diamond get into Heaven and little tarts like you don't. She's useful."
"I'm useful!"
"Well, let's let the file determine that, shall we?"
In walked the dorkiest, most awkward man I'd ever seen. He wore ill fitting khakis and a wrinkled, over sized plain button down white shirt that was wrinkled and stained at the armpits. His posture told me that he was an insecure man; his straw-orange hair and pale, freckled skin told me that he was Irish.
"So, Miss Allen," he said to me in a meaty, Irish drawl, "I'll take a seat and we'll get started." I wasn't sure where he was going to sit since there was only one chair in the room. I assumed he wanted mine. I stood up shivering, hugging myself, more concerned with the snag I had just detected in my nylons then the fact that I was dead.
"You can have it," I said, pissed off. "It's uncomfortable as hell anyway."
"I seriously doubt that Miss Allen. Kind of you, but that won't be necessary." He went to sit across from me and POOF! A chair appeared right under him. It was a leather, brown club chair. I desperately wanted to trade.
"I'm Patrick," he said as he folded his legs in an overtly homosexual manner. "And I'm here to review you're file." I heard a deep rumble above us. The ceiling opened up and a thick Manila folder fell from the opening onto his lap causing an awkward, high pitched moan to pry itself from his thin, crusty lips. His face turned a bit red.
"So, Miss Allen." he said again. Death by overdose. You look much too conservative for GHB; I'd take you for more of a coke whore really. Thoughts?"
I was fucking shocked.
"You did NOT just call me a coke whore."
"No Miss Allen, I said that you look like one. Over the knee boots, ripped nylons, dress that's too short for a respectable woman... yup, coke whore."
"Listen to me you pasty fuck. Everyone wears over the knee boots. I can where thick knee socks under them and... why the hell am I even justifying my shoes to you for Christ sake? And why is so cold in here?"
"Because, Miss Allen," he said, leaning into me, looking deep into my eyes. "You're in hell and I'm allowed to say to you whatever I want. And because Hell is freezing over."
This jolted my attention from anger to curiosity.
"I'm in Hell? Why didn't I get into Heaven? I mean I figured out that I died and everything but I assumed this place was sort of an ... oh I don't know... in between?"
"Oh, it is. It's in between your personal death and your personal hell. See?" He said pointing behind me. On the wall where nothing hung before was a sign that said, "Next stop HELL".
I wanted to cry. I suddenly thought of all the things I'd never get to do. I'd never find the love of my life, never get married or have kids. Not that I was dating anyone while I was alive; I hadn't had sex in so long that my hymen had probably grown back. But still. Who knew? After all, the only reason I even went to that stupid party was because I was a little lonely. I wanted to meet someone.
My world felt heavy.
"Loneliness just leads to... death," I muttered to myself.
"Oh, boo hoo." he said, his Irish Catholic voice ringing in my ears. "Little miss hooker boots is getting all sentimental on me. Suck it up. It's not like you died of famine or disease. You died at a party."
"The worst party ever. You know the last people I had to make small talk with before I died? I mean small talk is bad enough. In ANY social situation. But these people..."
"Yes actually," he said licking a finger and flipping through my file." The last people you encountered before your spoiled little death were a drug dealer named Sam Higgens, a hustler named Billy McGee and a home appliance inventor named Diamond Sullivan."
"I'm sorry," I said, laughing, filled with disbelief. "Home appliance inventor?"
"Yes Ms. Allen. Diamond apparently invented a home appliance which is used to, and I quote, 'Fasten rhinestones, studs and patches to material, clothes and accessories.' That's according to Wikipedia."
"You mean to tell me that old bitch invented the bedazzler?"
"Yes I do. And according to our updated system she'll be going straight to Heaven for that one. Major contributions to culture which pushes society forward automatically warrants you a visit to Heaven. Not to mention the millions in donation she's made to various charities and causes in the past four years..."
"Does it also mention that SHE is in fact the coke whore in her file? Whatever. Fuck that little piece of paper."
"Actually Miss Allen this is not regular piece of paper. It looks like paper, feels like paper, even smells like paper in my hands," He paused, closed his eyes. Patrick raised the paper to his nose and took an obtrusive breath. He was sniffing the paper the way a creepy old man attempts to smell your hair without you noticing. But I noticed.
"But," he continues, "It's actually a touch screen computer system no different then your average iphone. Just quicker. It's linked to the Halo Network. Heaven sells us their technology for... well not so cheap. Let's just say they make a hefty profit."
"Did you just say that heaven sells stuff? For Profit?"
"Oh, yes Miss Allen," he said, smiling uncomfortably wide. "That's exactly why little tarts like Diamond get into Heaven and little tarts like you don't. She's useful."
"I'm useful!"
"Well, let's let the file determine that, shall we?"
PARTY
I'd been trying to get out of hell for quite sometime; well ever since they put me there. Death found me at some stupid party via overdose. Mind you I hardly drink or do drugs; maybe once or twice a year max (that's drugs. I drink... a lot). Also please note that I wasn't a WILLING PARTICIPANT; I got dragged to a party by my roommate where apparently it's socially acceptable to pour GHB into vodka bottles and leave those particular vodka bottles sitting in one's kitchen. I was just trying to get a second to myself; away from the tall, scraggly host who asked me if I'd like to either A. Make out with him because he'd "Never been with a black girl before"or B. Do a rail of blow off the floor.
"Don't worry guuuuurl," he said putting a slimy arm across my shoulder. "My baby momma knew I was havin people over so she done scrubbed that floor super clean before she left town. She know how we like to do. You won't catch nothin from that there floor. Here," he said coily. "Just use this dollar".
The host wasn't the only patron at the party who rubbed me the wrong way; There was also the very tall, very round, very red young man with a thick South Bend accent who walked in wearing a shirt that said "Impeach Obama". His name was Billy and his girlfriends name was Diamond (though I'm pretty sure that was her stage name, not the one her momma gave her). Diamond had long, frizzy blonde hair and deep Brown roots and eyes that said "I am ten years too old to be working that pole." She looked like she had been attacked by a bedazzler from head to toe; even her thick plastic stripper shoes had been sparkling at me ever since she walked in the door.
Billy asked me if I wanted to buy a flat screen "right off the truck girl, right off the truck." I told him politely that I was not interested. So, he proceeded to try to sell me a cell phone plan. I'm guessing this made Diamond a little bit jealous because in the middle of his intricate sales pitch she came over, stood right between us and just started making out with him. I mean she was straight up tongue raping his face RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME! He grabbed onto her bleach blond hair, slammed her against the wall and kissed her harder. And then one of her extensions fell on the floor.
Diamond picked up the hair and ran to the bathroom. I couldn't help but laugh. I saw the host heading my way so I jetted to the kitchen.
And that's the last time I ever drank anything straight from the bottle.
"Don't worry guuuuurl," he said putting a slimy arm across my shoulder. "My baby momma knew I was havin people over so she done scrubbed that floor super clean before she left town. She know how we like to do. You won't catch nothin from that there floor. Here," he said coily. "Just use this dollar".
The host wasn't the only patron at the party who rubbed me the wrong way; There was also the very tall, very round, very red young man with a thick South Bend accent who walked in wearing a shirt that said "Impeach Obama". His name was Billy and his girlfriends name was Diamond (though I'm pretty sure that was her stage name, not the one her momma gave her). Diamond had long, frizzy blonde hair and deep Brown roots and eyes that said "I am ten years too old to be working that pole." She looked like she had been attacked by a bedazzler from head to toe; even her thick plastic stripper shoes had been sparkling at me ever since she walked in the door.
Billy asked me if I wanted to buy a flat screen "right off the truck girl, right off the truck." I told him politely that I was not interested. So, he proceeded to try to sell me a cell phone plan. I'm guessing this made Diamond a little bit jealous because in the middle of his intricate sales pitch she came over, stood right between us and just started making out with him. I mean she was straight up tongue raping his face RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME! He grabbed onto her bleach blond hair, slammed her against the wall and kissed her harder. And then one of her extensions fell on the floor.
Diamond picked up the hair and ran to the bathroom. I couldn't help but laugh. I saw the host heading my way so I jetted to the kitchen.
And that's the last time I ever drank anything straight from the bottle.
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