Purgatory

Gone left when you should've gone right.

         Up and up for a minute, an hour, maybe two, or less. On moving steel stairs all alone in the dark except for some small white lights on the handrails, he stood, patiently, waiting for the escalator to reach its destination. Why he wasn’t on an elevator he wasn’t sure. They were much faster. Unless there was a bunch of inconsiderate strangers jabbing all the buttons before his floor and slowing the process further to stop at each of these consecutive floors to pack in more strangers who jabbed more buttons and took more of his time as they jumped on and off. All the while one considerably inconsiderate stranger decides to pass gas in an already intolerably small space. Everyone pretends to not notice, but everyone’s really waiting for someone to yell out “Ok who’s the asshole?” which then all the others would either intently watch a roasting of a shameless scoundrel or join in and rake the coals. Maybe the escalator was quicker? Maybe? Definitely more pleasant to smell.


         The escalating stopped. The moving didn’t nor the waiting. Now he was on a conveyor belt similar to one found at an airport, but there was no walkway to the side he could jump on to and just walk. He wished there was. This conveyor belt was slower than his own bipedal ability. Whoever came up with the moving conveyor belt was lazy, he thought, and patient, incredibly patient or stupid. The conveyor conveyed him on for another hour or two or less maybe. He wasn’t sure. There wasn’t a clock, though he could really use one, and maybe a wall or two for it to go on with a cheap painting and a few inspirational sayings on a poster. The kind of empty black void around him was too open. He felt a little claustrophobic in it, and a change of scenery would be pleasant, or a television, or a magazine.


         Things began to get strangely brighter. A white light emanating from no discernable source, it was pleasant, very peaceful, but it lasted only a minute or two. He cursed his lack of a watch silently to himself. Suddenly his stomach dropped as the conveyor belt descended now back into an escalator but of course this time deescalating, so a deescalator or an unescalator?, he wondered. He wasn’t sure because he was neither a grammarian nor a Nazi so he drove it from his conscious mind and thought of something else like the sweat developing on his lower back and armpits. He had been sufficiently comfortable before, wearing his brown sport coat, but now it was too much, strangely hot now, even though he had worn it for a cool night out. He felt the uncomfortable feel as drops of sweat trickled down his sides and formed dark circles on his white button up shirt underneath. He took it off and held it in his arms as he deescalated, a little less patiently now.


         He didn’t notice it at first or for quite a while, it was so gradual a change, until it was impossible to deny. It was red. An obnoxious, mind numbing red and everything was bathed in it. Like the white light it emanated from seemingly nowhere but unlike the white light it was irritating and in his face like pop up ads. And it wouldn’t go away. It stayed like those annoying pop up ads that lack a close button and the only way to get rid of them is to completely close out of whatever he was viewing, porn usually. A real buzz kill.


         The darkness around him did not clear away as the red rays took over the blackness, instead a thick opaque fog shrouded him. Something he hadn’t noticed before do to the blanketing of black around and his inability at careful observation.


         What he was able to observe though was the almost sudden appearance of a windowless three story brick building. He straightened himself up as the deescalator ended at a set of wide doors. They flew open on their own, magical, as a puff of smoke came flowing out through the cracks as it opened.


         A figure appeared in the mist. A mystical presence shrouded in a haze.


         "What the hell you doing here?" It said, in a high pitched voice.


         "What?"


         The mystical figure was a short black man wearing a gray jumpsuit and a ball cap. He was blowing out the smoke of a lit cigarette. He cleared his throat. "What the hell you doing here?"


         "I thought you might know?"


         The cigarette wielding figure squinted his eyes for a second then took another drag and blew the smoke out quickly. "You must be new.”


         “Yeah,” he agreed.


         “Well come in.” The figure waved him in. “How did you end up here? Strange, this path’s been shut down for years.” He stepped onto a carpeted floor with little cigarette burns dotting it.


         “Really?” The man threw his sport coat back on.


         “Yeah. Now don’t you go tell‘in anyone I been sneakin in my smoke breaks back here,” he said taking one last hit then causally putting another little black hole in the carpet. They formed a minuscule portrait of a clear sky at night except it was inversed with the stars being black dots of differing sizes and the empty space in between a grungy berber carpet.


         “Real inconspicuous,” he commented.


         “No one gives a shit about the carpet. It was ugly when they put it in. It’ll be ugly when they take it out,” the man in the jumpsuit said as he turned and walked up a long corridor. The back of his jumpsuit read ‘maintenance’. “Follow me. I’ll show you where you need to go.”


         He followed this stranger. He had nowhere else to go and this had been the only person had seen it what seemed like hours but because of his consistent lack of a clock he couldn’t be certain. Mismanaged clocks were a the source of his trust issues. One clock read twelve o’ two while the other read twelve o’ three. He questioned, which is right? 


         The hallway was the same annoying red as the floor. Fluorescent lights above projected red rays. The man in the jumpsuit opened a door at the end and waved him through. He stepped into a waiting room crowded with sweaty people sitting in chairs or standing on the same grungy carpet though without cigarette burns.


         “What do I do here?”


         “Ask the people at the desk.” The maintenance man pointed at a window with a grumpy looking man sitting behind it. 


         The sport coat man turned to thank the maintenance man but he closed the door that read ‘Employees Only’ before he could. He turned back to the room a little perturbed he couldn’t thank him or know his name.


         The window on the far end of the room housed an older man with bifocals who stared at a stack of papers. He would pick up a paper analyze, write something on it in blue ball point pen that looked purple in the light, then put it into a similar looking pile next to it. It was constant trade of papers as a man would occasionally come from somewhere behind the older man and place a handful of papers on to one stack and take a handful from the other to the back.


         “Excuse me? Can you tell me where I am?” he asked the gray haired man.


         The man looked up from the paper he was scrutinizing, “Can’t you read?” He pointed to a sign next to the window that read ‘Take a number’. “Now take a number and wait your turn. Will be with you soon.”


         He reached over and took a number, a rather long piece of paper for a number then searched for a seat. The room was lined with chairs connected to one another in fours or threes with little tables dispersed in between a group of chairs. In the center of the room was an island of chairs back to back. He spied an open chair among this island and decided to join it. He sat down in between a fat woman flipping viciously through a magazine and an executive looking man in a three piece suit who was nodding off with arms folded and his head bobbing up and down. Not the best island companions to have but he was only expecting a short stay.


         The long strip of paper in his hand read 9482936940. “Jesus Christ!” He said a little too loudly. He was rewarded for his outburst by the fat lady to his right “watch your mouth,” She scolded then began violently flipping the pages of another magazine.


         “Sorry” He shut up not wanting to feel the same treatment as the magazine pages did. The sight of those plump sausages caressing individual pages then slamming them to the previous made him cry a little bit on the inside for them. They were maltreated so savagely. They would certainly tear. They weren't meant for the torments of vicious sausage fingers, nor was anything for that matter. Damn sausage fingers.


         He picked up a newspaper off the table across from the chair island.  He unfolded it. It was titled L.A. Times. L.A.? He thought, Los Angeles L.A.? He was confused because he was in Ohio the last he could remember and it was cool.


         A little drop of sweat from his brow dampened the newspaper smearing the black print of a story about a man who convinced a number of people into funding a flight to heaven. He held meetings and gave out pamphlets encouraging people to come and if they invested, a guaranteed spot on the first flight up. It was all a scam of course. There is no heaven and if there was, you can't just fly to it, he thought, how can people be so stupid? He wiped his brow with the back of his sleeve. He walked to the grumpy man at the counter whose stack of papers seemed to be growing and not diminishing in any manner. “Hey would you mind turning the AC on?”


         “It is on. Turned all the way up,” He growled.


         “Really?”


         “Yes, now sit down and wait your turn.”


         “Wait my turn for what? Where am I?”


         “Wait your turn,” the grumpy man obstinately replied and pointed to the little island in the center of the room.


         He surrendered and returned to the terribly hot, breezeless island paradise he called home away from home. The man in the suit lulled his head from left to right now, subconsciously unable to decide which was more comfortable.


He closed his eyes and tried to ignore the coughs and sneezes, the uncomfortable shifting’s in seats, and the methodic reading of absurdly long numbers over the loudspeakers, "9482936001...9482936002." He began the game. The puzzle piecing game that always followed an arduous night of drinking. He squeezed his eyes tighter and tried to remember. To remember how he got there. Out with friends for the night. That was easy to remember. Getting dressed and putting on a new sport coat he bought a few days earlier on sale, though he wouldn’t say he did since it looked like a top dollar jacket but never in his worst nightmares would he spend top dollar. He thought he would keep warm but stay cool in his new jacket. It was going good until the number of drinks got out of hand. Then an argument. A lot of yelling and shouting, but over what? He couldn't remember regardless of how hard he thought. Then Jenny got involved and the argument shifted between him and her. All the others stood at the wayside open mouthed and astounded at what they unleashed. He remembered being so aggravated that he had to go for a drive to cool down.


         He needed to call Jenny. He needed to apologize, reaching into his pocket he found vacancy where a phone should have been. The scramble began as he patted down every pocket, turning some out. He reached in his front pants pocket, then his back, then his jacket, then his pant pockets again until he completed one complete circuit of his pockets. Onlookers might think he was doing some new hit dance move that is vaguely explained through the lyrics of a song.


         After one more circuit he gave up and accepted it. He could safely assume he would never see it again being there were three thousand miles between Ohio and Los Angeles with which to lose such a small device and having not one iota of where it might be. 


          A vending machine sat in a corner where the pattern of seats and tables would suggest a table should be. He eyed down the myriad of delectables behind a clear glass wall. Walking to the machine he reached in his back pocket for his wallet. He pulled out a little bit of lint then repeated the same ‘where is it?’ pat down shuffle. He followed the DJ's instructions going front back side to side, but couldn't find it. Though he did find a single crumpled up dollar in the inner most pocket of his coat. He unwrinkled it garnering some stares as the paper unfolded. He didn’t mind them not at this moment. No he was transfixed on one thing and one thing only, a Twix bar amazingly priced only 95 cents.


         He put the dollar in and the machine spat it out. He stretched the dollar along his knee trying to smooth out the wrinkles and repeated it twice more as the machine spat his dollar back out each time. This machine was against him, he thought. How could such a vessel of wonder and joy be so devilish and prohibitive of someone’s pursuit of happiness? Was his key not correct? Or did it need further polishing to reason with the lock that barred his passage from indulgence. He smoothed the dollar further and with fingers crossed slipped it in and watched. There was a mechanical whine as the machine decided. His teeth gritted as he clenched his jaw, the drops of sweat fell from his brow while he waited. Dear God, he pretend prayed in his head, hoping that maybe this one time his prayer would be answered, please let this fucking machine accept this dollar.


         The machine made a whine of satisfaction and the little black screen read in red letters $1.00 credit. He threw his hands up and cheered to the disapproval and scowls of people seated nearby. He cheered again but much quieter this time and to himself. He punched in the numbers f4 careful not miss and hit a 3 or 5. The coils slowly turned and the Twix bar marched forth proudly carrying on to complete its destiny. It would be a grand champion of its cause to satisfy hunger. A decadent masterpiece to be remembered by those who enjoyed its embrace. He and only he. 


         He grinned cheerfully like an idiot but a happy idiot all the same as it came closer and closer to the edge. The coils winding in circles, closer and closer they pushed forth the vending machine chosen until, suddenly, they stopped, right at the edge. His cheerful grin changed to one of disdain and terror as his solace hung on the very edge of existence. He tapped the glass gently then a little bit more fiercely hoping the concussive blows would knock his treat off the edge freeing it from the clutches of the sinister coils that once were his allies. Now an enemy.          This betrayal hit him deeply, so deeply in fact he grabbed the machine with both hands and began to shake it. He shook and shook with his might cursing the machine and all the false hope it had given, the struggle of the dollar, the pursuit of happiness, the prayers, all had been in vain.


         "HEY! Stop that!" The grumpy old fart at the counter yelled. The madman shaking and cursing at an inanimate machine. The madman stopped realizing what he has done and returned to his island a little bit more hungry and a little more disappointed. His Twix bar hung precariously in the balance, not too far but not close enough.


         "This must be hell," he said quietly to himself. The clock read twelve, but was it right?


         "9482936082, 948296083...and so on the numbers were called out by a monotonic voice. Terribly boring and dully exacting they were rambled out eloquently until he found himself nestled up to the sausage finger woman. Her tearing up another magazine. Him periodically losing at a round of bobbing for apples.


         Numbers rambled out as he snoozed. 9482936940…9482936940. 9482936940! The sausage fingered lady nudged him off herself. Lunging up from last unsuccessful apple bob, he came to his senses and yelled, “That’s me! That’s me!”


         The man at the counter gave an angry scowl. “What are you deaf too?” he said. “Follow the orderly to the examination room.”


He pointed to the open door. A very large, barrel chested man in a white uniform with a statue like expression stood at the opening.


         “Orderly? Examination room?” he protested. The orderly began to walk without a word. He ran to catch up with the barrel chested man.          He was glad for a vacation from his home, but he ran with concern and began to ask pointless questions like “Where am I? What is this Place? What did he mean by examination room?” None of which were answered because they fell on truly deaf ears.


         The orderly walked quickly through a maze of hallways making quick turns that the man in the sport coat found perplexingly agile for a man so big. Twice he went through the wrong doorway as the man turned too sharply at a crossroads. His reactions too slow to act. Eventually the orderly opened a door and gestured for him to go through.


         The room was a simple doctors office with a sink, counter, cheap wood cabinets and an examination table with the paper roll that wrinkled up and made a horribly unsettling noise when you sat on it. Unnecessary posters and anonymous art littered the walls along with dispensers for paper towels and wooden tongue depressors.  The stereotypical room used by doctors to give checkups and tell you what the nurse already had. He wondered what this man would tell him. It couldn’t be much he didn’t already know. He hoped.


         The clock above the door read Eleven- forty five. But how? He wondered. He was sure the clock said twelve when he last saw it.


The doctor and the deaf orderly entered. The doctor asked him to strip. He unwillingly stripped. The orderly proved convincing standing there reading his lips. The doctor produced a gloved hand and gave one thorough check-up done openly in plain view of the orderly. The orderly was unyieldingly convincing until the end. The Doctor told him to put his pants up and said, “You’re ready. Go get out of here. Follow the orderly to the waiting room.”


         The orderly with an emotionless expression marched out the door. He followed the orderly down more corridors to an intersecting corridor with a nurse station. Nurses and doctors poured in and out of the station grabbing a file then taking off while another rushes in to drop a file off and grab another. More stoic orderlies lead other confused individuals through a traffic jam at the station. A nurse had dropped a file. She and two others were picking up as fast as they could trying not to be trampled by unnoticing doctors and orderlies stomping past with little regard. The duo weaved through the crowd stepping over scattered pieces of paper and hunched over nurses. The hallways of appointment rooms, nurse stations, and scrubs ended and ties, typewriters, and telephones began. He a followed the Orderly into long confusing maze of cubicles. Men and women in simple office attire. Some with loosened ties and unkempt hair. The orderly deposited him into another waiting room, similar, though this one was more spaciously articulated then the previous. He found a gap in seating and sat in between two people with a seat in between each person. 


         He sat quietly in this waiting room listening as people’s names were called off by men or women in office attire. Each one of these name callers held a clipboard and greeted each consecutive person with a smile pained from forcing it all day.


He heard his name. A raspy, nasally voice called it once then twice.


         “That’s me,” He said to an aging woman in what he assumed to be her fifties.


         “Hello, my names Matilda and I’ll be your purgiatic advisor. Please follow me.”


         “Your names () your aged 27, never married, Height 5’10”, weight 160, looks like your more 5, 9 but who doesn’t added an inch or two?


         “I didn’t lie. I am…Wait. You said purgiatic advisor? Right?”


         “Yeah, that’s the job title. Not my first career choice but it beats school teacher.”


         “What do you mean by purgiatic?”


         “Of purgatory?”


         “What?”


         With a huff, “The job description states to advise the recently and longstanding deceased through the processes of purgatory onto the point at which they ascend to heaven or descend to hell. Whichever comes first, you know?”


         “Heaven? Hell? Deceased? You mean I’m dead?”


         Looking at the clipboard. “As of 2:19 October 2, 2014 you are. Cause of death car accident.”


         “I’m dead!” he exclaimed with the surprise of anyone who has just recently found out they died. 


         “Yeah, you fell asleep at the wheel and took a left when you should've gone right."