Awake in Hell Read Online Free PDF Page A

grateful for the no make-up thing, since I would have been tempted to
put little circles of blush on my cheeks with little eyeliner freckles on top.
That is how horrid this outfit is. I’m trying to decide if I should be quoting
Bette Davis from Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? Or Do-Se-Doing with a guy in a
10-gallon hat and sparkly cowboy boots, when my cab pulls up. The driver hangs
out the window and says “Lou- weeze Patterson?” Then
he responds to my nod with a jerk of his head and barks, “get in, I got 13
minutes to get you downtown.”
    Now,
normally I never, EVER, take cabs in Hell. Why, you ask? Well, you would ask
that if you were born and raised in the middle of America where livestock
outnumbers people 5 to 1 and everyone is nice. However, anyone who lived in an
inner-city-type environment? Yeah, you get the idea, just take the worst cab
driver ever and multiply those skills by a factor of a hundred and twenty seven
— squared. The only time you ever hear anyone praying in Hell is when they’re
locked in the back of a cab, racing down the wrong street, headed in the
opposite direction of their destination. All while a cabbie who’s steering with
one finger, looking directly BEHIND him hawking Beenie Babies, super vitamins, and pirated DVDs to his fares. That is why I don’t just
jump right into the backseat the minute the driver comes to a — thankfully—full
stop.
    “I
was actually thinking of walking. Can you give me the address for the temp
agency?” I say, trying to sound casual, like ‘Hey, it’s a lovely day down here
in Hell, perfect for a nine mile walk in a dress that makes me look like
Shirley Temple on crack!’
    But
the cabbie just chuckles and says “Not today Ms. Patterson. I have a special
tag. I’m cleared to take you straight to the agency.”
    I
have no idea what that means, but for some reason I trust that it must mean
that he’s okay. So, I hop in the backseat, sort of wrap the frayed seat belt
around me for a false sense of safety, and say, “Let’s go, then!”
    It
takes 11 minutes before he pulls up to the biggest, shiniest building I’ve seen
yet. I’m ashamed to say that I’m actually feeling nervous. Okay, maybe a little
scared. All right, close to booting all over the sidewalk kind of terrified.
Why? Then it hit me. I’m 43 years old, and I might have been 43 for a few years
now. And, fuck me running, but this would constitute my first ever job interview.
I not only have no skills, but I have no experience in bullshitting people to
make them think that I might have some skills. I’m screwed!  I try to turn
around and jump back into the cab, but the driver just laughs and guns it. I
get a lung full of burned rubber as he drives away. So, I take a deep breath,
smooth out my ruffles once more, and head inside. How hard can it be to do a
temp job, anyway? Right?

 
    Chapter Five
     
     
     
     
    At
IP&FW everyone worked on the first three floors. The building was obviously
a high-rise, and so there had to be many stories above us, but no one ever went
up there. In fact, the elevators only went up to number 3. Not that you could
take the elevator, since it was always out of order, but we all had our turn of
trying to duck under the caution tape and giving it a try. I once walked up the
additional flight of stairs to the fourth floor, but the doors were all bolted,
so, no entry that way either. I remember thinking that this was the one thing
that didn’t make sense, since it would have been much more tortuous for us if
we’d had to walk up 17 or 18 flights of stairs, instead of just 2 or 3. I guess
part of being sent to Hell is that nothing is supposed to make sense to you
ever again.
    And
that’s the other thing. Everything down here is dirty, and with the orangey
light it looks even dingier, except for the giant buildings which are always
gleaming. The outside of this building is so sparkly that I can barely look at
it. How do they keep it that clean? Someone