Free Awake in Hell by Helen Downing

have been put there by a designer but looks more like
baby diarrhea. I stop for a moment to wonder if every day she has a
particularly odor-absorbent outfit waiting for her or if she’s being
particularly punished today. I wonder if I asked, if she would answer. Then, by
looking again at the scowl with which she greeted me, and still holds on me
like a gun during a mugging, I quickly figure that the answer would be ‘no.’
She’s probably not exactly the forthcoming type. Speaking of, I also stop to
notice that in front of her is an old-fashioned switchboard with lights and
small buzzers going off, apparently to deaf ears. She’s not even looked at it,
let alone answer a single call.
    There
were a couple of folks at IP&FW who used to just put people on hold and
never go back to them. They were usually picked to be employees of the month.
If I were feeling more gracious, I’d tell her to go down there and put in an
application. But well...no, this is not a place where I want to make new
friends, and it’s not exactly like she’s been the most gracious hostess as of
yet. So instead, I clear my throat as best as I can and croak out, “Hello. My
name is...”
    “Louise
Patterson!” a booming male voice from behind me finishes my sentence. I turn
around and find a huge man dressed in a very similar jumpsuit to mine (except
that his is filthy) and the grubbiest beard I’ve ever laid eyes on. Why would
he, if it’s true that we’re all just figments of our own imagination, bring
that fetid beard to Hell with him? And, when I say he’s huge I don’t mean tall
and lean like Deedy , or muscular like Don, “the trash
man” — I mean fat —terribly fat. His enormous belly, although confined by the
jumpsuit, is still able to hang over to touch his knees. That, and the beard,
makes him look like a demented Santa Claus. Suddenly, I’m scared to respond to
my own name.
    “Okay?”
I finally say, strangely posing it as a question.
    “You’re
back here in the truck bay.” he motions for me to follow him.
    Damn.
For a minute I was thinking, ‘Yeah, they have office workers at trash companies
too! Maybe I’ll be sitting behind a desk filing my nails all day.” But no, not
me.  I’m on a truck.  Do you think they have partners? Will I have to
hang with someone else all day? Oh shit! Please don’t let it be scary Santa!
And what if there’s not a partner? Do I even know how to drive a truck? I’m
pretty sure I never drove anything bigger than a Camry in real life. Crap.
Where did he go?
    I
was so lost in that little thought bubble that I forgot to pay attention to the
behemoth of a man in front of me and he somehow got away. Fuck me. Now what do
I do? I’m standing at a hallway and looking down both corridors for the man.
Apparently he’s more spry than his formidable frame
would allow you to think he was, because he’s gone. A younger man with a
clipboard walks by. I stop him to ask him where the truck bay is when I
realize, I know that face… I recognize the smirk it’s wearing!
    “Will?”
I ask incredulously. “What are you doing here?” It took a minute because he
wasn’t wearing the organ-grinder suit that he had on the agency, but it was
Will all right!
    “ Hmmmmm ....” he says, as if giving himself time to think of
an excuse. “Working?”
    “Were
you sent to spy on me?” I don’t know whether to be pissed off or flattered. Why
would Deedy , or the agency, send someone out to watch
me? Do they think I’m a huge fucktard or are they
making sure I’m okay? Will seems taken aback by my question, like he wasn’t
expecting me to come right out and ask.
    “Not
exactly spying,” he offered. ”Just here to make sure all is well.”
    He
said it in such a reassuring tone.  It made me feel like I was in
kindergarten again and had spotted my Mom hiding behind a tree on the
playground at recess, watching over me, making sure I was okay.
    “All
right then. Can you get me to the truck bay?” I