Not In Limbo

Not in Limbo

The line went on as far as I could see in both directions. Christ. How had I gotten here again? Who the hell were all these people anyway? It was like all the characters from the Small World ride at Disneyland had walked over to the Matterhorn and gotten in line, except for the overwhelming feeling of orange all over the place. Actually, now that I thought of it, where the hell was all this orange coming from? There were no lights that I could see, but an orange glow seemed to radiate from everything.
The line moved slowly, but I had no real sense of time. I never had to go to the bathroom, never got hungry or thirsty, never even really got tired of standing there. There was that same vague irritation I had felt at first finding myself in line, but nothing else really.
After what should have felt like hours, but could have been only minutes, I saw the front of the line. It went up to a tall desk with someone standing behind it, although I was still too far away to see. Behind the desk everything got kind of…cloudy. I had always prided myself on my excellent vision, but squint as I might, the cloudiness remained.
Before I realized it, I was second in line. Now I could see that the cloudiness was caused by a tall, misty wall that stood a few feet behind the desk and stretched as far as I could see in both directions.
Behind the desk stood a huge man, taller than any human could possibly have been. He was sparkling white, big white wings, the whole nine yards. In short, he was an angel.
Inside, I rejoiced. All Right! Heaven! I knew I could do it! Still probably shouldn’t have hit-and-run that schoolbus full of nuns, but I must have squeaked through on some sort of technicality. Still, Heaven. That’s right. OK, so the line thing was a little annoying, but maybe paradise doesn’t begin until you actually get inside. Or maybe that was purgatory. Somehow I had always thought that purgatory would be a little worse than that.
“Next!”
I stepped up in front of the desk.
“Name?” The angel had a voice like a tractor. He didn’t raise it, but I was sure the two hundredth person in line could clearly hear him ask me my name. He sounded like a garbage truck driver who had spent the better part of his life shouting to be heard over the clangings of machinery.
“Quincey Hatchet.”
The angel picked up a pen from his desk and made an elaborate check mark on a long list laying in front of him.
“Yeah, Mr. Hatchet. I see you did not manage to call and make a reservation.” The angel let out a large sigh. “You know, it really would have been more considerate of you to call ahead. And easier on yourself too. If you had called, we could have gotten you a great room, but as it stands now I am not sure what you are going to get. We’ll try, you understand, but I just can’t make any promises.”
Quincey scratched his head.
“A better room? You mean there are bad rooms in Heaven?”
“A little full of yourself, are you? Especially for a guy who—“ He opened a drawer and appeared to consult some other list. “—who did a hit and run on a schoolbus full of nuns? Sorry Jack, this ain’t Heaven.”
“Not Heaven? But you’re an angel? If this isn’t heaven what are you doing here?”
“You would think a guy who believed I was an angel might take my word as an authority on whether this place was actually Heaven, wouldn’t you? But if you require an explanation?”
“Please.”
“Well, what happened was that when God created humans, he didn’t really get it, if you know what I mean.”
Quincey did his best, sarcastic deadpan voice. “God didn’t get something? Like, the real God? The omniscient God?”
“There ain’t no other God I know of. But knowing everything isn’t the same as understanding everything, ain’t that so?”
“Apparently not. So what didn’t he understand?”
“Well, the thing about God and the angels is that we are, for the most part, very decisive beings. When we do something, we do it the whole way, capiche?”
“So?”
“So when Lucifer and his crew decided they were done with the whole ‘be good and serve God’ thing, they were DONE. That was it, end of discussion. So, they were sent to hell.”
“OK, I get that.”
“But you humans just can’t seem to make up your minds about whether you are good or evil. I mean, you switch back and forth all the time, even a bunch of times in the same day. Get it?”
“Not really. Why is that a problem?”
“What the hell is the holdup here?” The voice came from a woman several places back in line. She stepped out of line and raised her arms in the air. “I mean honestly, either he was good or bad, but just hurry the fuck up? Do you know how long I’ve been waiting here?”
The angel didn’t even blink.
“Not as long as you are gonna be waiting now, you dumb bitch!”
He pressed a button on his desk, and the woman disappeared. There was no poof, no lights and smoke, she was just gone. Quincey turned and gaped at the angel again.
“Now where the hell was I? Oh yeah. So, God, not really getting that people would turn out to be such indecisive pussies, only created Heaven and Hell, for people who were all good or all bad. Eventually, enough time passed without any souls entering Heaven or Hell that God decided it was time to investigate. He found that souls were just piling up outside the gates, but Pete couldn’t find justification for letting any of them in.”
“Sorry, Pete?”
“St. Peter. Hell of a guy. Hell of a kickball player too, back when I was working in Heaven. We would have some raucous games out behind the throne room when God went down for his nap. Anyway, that’s why this place was created.”
“God created this place instead of just changing the rules?”
“Who said anything about God? I never said God created this place.”
“So Satan created it?”
“Man, you sure do think big, my friend. No, nothing so grand. This place was created by the executive counsel of ALLEA, to handle all the overflow.”
“And what is that?”
“What, ALLEA? The AfterLife Lodging and Entertainment Association. Their supreme counsel is made up of all the big earthly muckety-mucks who have been here long enough to gather some investment capital. You know, Adam, Eve, Moses, Noah, Jesus.”
“Jesus? Are you kidding me? Jesus didn’t make it to Heaven?”
“The God Jesus ascended into Heaven, of course, but the man Jesus was shit outta luck. God-Jesus left his ass down on earth, and after that he got into some shit that wasn’t so hot in God’s eyes.”
“What did he do? Who did he hurt?”
“Aw, nobody, really. He was just a degenerate fucking gambler, and after the God-Jesus left, his luck took a pretty sharp turn for the worse. He got into debt up to his eyeballs to some Jewish money-lenders, and this was back when Jews were hard as nails, not all artsy like they are now.”
“So the Jews really did kill Jesus?”
“Yep. Both times. Now, I can get you a room fairly high up in the tower. You got lucky, see someone who had a good room won reincarnation in the Casino while we’ve been talking, so not calling ahead actually worked out in your favor. So—“
“Wait, how did you get here then? Did you fall with Lucifer, then come to work here later?”
“Naw, of course not. I never stopped loving God, and that Lucifer was one smelly-ass angel anyway. We never could have hung out unless he started bathing more regularly. I left because of the unions.”
“The Unions?”
“Yeah, the Local Angels 209. It was getting started just as this place was opening. Good intentions, but I’ve never really been a union guy, so I decided to seek employment elsewhere. I was one of the first, you know, so I got the front desk job. Which is nice, I think. I could have gotten Gabriel’s job. Someone told the council that he had experience as the voice of God, so now he’s the casino barker. Just stands out on the street trying to get people’s attention all day. Fucking embarrassing, if you ask me.”
“Ah ha. I see. Well, I guess if you’ll just give me my room assignment, then, I’ll be on my way.”
“Sure thing, pal.” The angel scribbled on a piece of paper, then handed it to him. It said “Tower of Babel, room 2,433,719.”
“That’s a lot of rooms, isn’t it?”
“Well, I wouldn’t say that exactly. Changing between number systems has been a little difficult, so the first couple of hundred floors of rooms were numbered while the builders were counting by 10,000. Confusing, I know, but you’ll get used to it. I’ll tell you what, talk to Metatron at the desk, tell him I said to take care of you, and he’ll get you sorted out. Now move it along, you’re holding up my line.”
Quincey stepped away from the desk, and walked towards the opaque wall. Just as he reached it, a section of the wall slid away, and he stepped inside.

Hotline

Here is a story I wrote called "Hotline". It is not very good, but it is the only one I have available right now on this computer. More/better ones to follow.

Hotline

By Owen Wiseman

He could barely dial the phone. He pressed the numbers slowly, sitting in his dimly lit basement apartment with air so thick and musty he could hardly see through it. He had written down the number from a commercial, then set the pad on his bed next to the gun he had bought that day. The gun that had been in his mouth when the commercial had come on, not fifteen minutes before.
He misdialed twice, the booze making his hand heavy and awkward. He wanted to pass out, but knew even in his stupor that this night had to end with a decision, with his life either ending or moving forward. Finally, he was able to focus for enough consecutive seconds to dial the number, and he flopped back onto the bed, listening to it ring.
“Suicide Hotline. What is your name, please?”
“Jack.”
“Are you drunk, Jack?”
“Aren’t most of the people who call you drunk?”
“Yes, they are. You know Jack, its usually best not to make any major decisions while you are drunk. Sometimes we do things drunk that we regret later.”
Jack chuckled quietly to himself. It was barely audible through the phone.
“You don’t have to be drunk to do that. Believe me. Soon, though, I won’t regret anything ever again.”
“You should think twice, Jack, before you say that. Those kinds of decisions are very final, you can never take them back. I think you—“
“This is a waste of my fucking time.”
Jack hung up and threw the phone against the cracked, yellow-stained plaster of his wall. It was a concrete wall, and the phone shattered on impact. Jack sat still, staring at the television. He though he was silly to have thought that a commercial could save him. He was not sure how long he sat there, for he had ceased to mark time’s passage.
“Do you want to live?”
Jack was lying down again, not sure how he had gotten there. He was not sure who was speaking, but it seemed a monumental effort to raise his head and look.
Warm. Wet. Sticky. Something was splashing down on his face, going in his nose. He sputtered and sat up, reaching for the gun he thought was next to him, only to find that it was gone. He looked around. Standing behind him, next to the bed, a figure in all black was zipping up his pants. A hood shrouded the face, but the voice had been a man’s, and the part of Jack’s brain that was still functioning thought that there was something familiar about that voice, but could not place the familiarity.
“I said, do you want to live?” The man raised a gun of his own and pointed it at Jack.
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
The man’s head tilted slightly to one side.
“You don’t even know if you want to live? You must the dumbest fuck ever to walk the earth. Everyone knows if they want to live.”
“Well, I don’t. What’s your name?”
“My name is not terribly important. What is important is for you to figure out real quick whether you want to live or die. My time here is not unlimited.”
“Well that’s just too bad, because I don’t know. Let’s say I did want to live, what would I have to do?”
“Is that really how you are going to make a decision? Based on what you would have to do to live?”
“It seems as good a way as any.”
“Ha. I guess you are the expert. But you misunderstood me. I am only here to help you decide to live or die, nothing else. So all you have to do to live is say that you want to, and all you have to do to die is not say that you want to live. So, that decision method is a dead end for you. Back to square one.”
The gun had not wavered once from Jack’s body, and the tone of the man’s voice told Jack that he was serious.
“How did you know I was even here?”
“Because you called me.”
Jack suddenly realized why the man’s voice sounded so familiar. It was the last one that he had heard.
“The hotline! Of course. Wait, how did you get here so fast?”
“I didn’t. You called over an hour ago. I guess you must have passed out.”
“But how did you find me?”
“I have a friend at the phone company. Look, I think you are kind of missing the point here. You need to find an answer to the question I asked you.” He looked at his watch. “You now have two minutes to muster up the guts to face another day, or I will kill you. The choice is yours.”
“Two minutes, huh. Can I use part of my two minutes to ask you a question?”
“You can use your two minutes to do whatever you want.”
“A dream-like lassitude settled over Jack at that moment. The booze was still running strong through him, but this new feeling was something more. Some recognition, at a deep level, that soon the weight of decision would be taken from him.
“Why are you doing this?”
The man sat down on the floor, his back against the wall, the gun still pointed at Jack.
“You know, all you suicides are basically the same. Everyone asks me that. And I always answer the same thing. The reason I do this work is very simple; it needs to be done.”
“Why?”
“Because suicides come in two categories; those who don’t really want to die, and those who really want to die and don’t have the guts to pull the trigger.”
“What about the ones with guts?”
“I never talk to them. They don’t generally call the hotline. Anyway, what both those kinds need is someone like me, someone to force the issue with them, and so I do it because it needs to be done.”
“But you are killing people?”
“Yes. You see, I am a Christian. We believe that people who kill themselves go to Hell, because they are beyond redemption. But if I kill them, then they can go to Heaven. So all I am really doing is helping people get to Heaven instead of Hell.”
“But won’t you go to Hell for killing people?”
“Probably, but what a noble sacrifice to make, isn’t it? Trading my own soul for the souls of all those I can save from Hell? It is a trade that I am happy to make.”
They sat in silence for several moments. Then the man stood, and walked over towards Jack. He grabbed Jack by the hair and pulled him to a sitting position.
“OK Jack, your two minutes are up. It’s time to live, or its time to die. Which will it be?”
Jack waited as long as he dared. He hoped that he would be allowed a second chance, for he could only accept it in the exact way that he wanted it. He turned to look at the man, and for the first time could see within the confines of his hood. The man was hardly that, not more than twenty-five years old. His hair was red, his eyes green, and hooded.
“I want to help you,” said Jack.