Fiction

Like a Gangster Through a Vacuum Cleaner

An Everyday Hell story

“Hell: this ain’t for me.

“I’m a good person. It might not look that way on the outside, but I’m good inside. Where it counts doc.”

I can assure you: the outside counts.

“I tried to be decent, but God threw me in a nest of wood rats. Even my papa was a sonofabitch. What chance did I have?

“Only way to survive in a city of scoundrels is to be a scoundrel. But I was an honest scoundrel doc. Never gave nobody nothing that wasn’t coming to them. I ain’t snatching some geriatric’s purse on the way to the BINGO, you understand me? I stole from scumbags and gave to sweethearts. Like Robin Hood. Youse don’t have Robin Hood locked up in there, am I right?

“So why you picking on me? Look inside your heart! Please!”

Everyone begs once they start to feel the heat. This one isn’t even through Admissions and his pit sweat is dripping to his tits. Poor bastard. Better get used to that shiny forehead: the forecast is hot for his next little eternity.

“Last year I gave five figures to St. Jude’s Children’s Hospital. Twenty grand cash to those nauseous little pricks, you know? There’s probably some bald leukemia kid whose got hair back on his balls because of me. Every December I brought them a Christmas tree. Spent half the afternoon lifting those feeble bambinos so they could dangle their big red balls right next to the angle. That’s more than God ever done for . . .”

There’s a yellow stain that looks exactly like Florida on his dress shirt. I always wonder about stains. Did he tip over the French’s as he was dying, or did this guy spend his last day on earth walking around with mustard between his buttons?

Mustard . . . I miss mustard . . . I haven’t had mustard, or anything else, in a long time. I’d wager this oaf can still taste his last meal. I know I could when I was sitting where he’s sitting. I was still trying to suck a string of beef tenderloin out of my teeth when a demon behind a desk told me where I was headed for the foreseeable forever.

“I’m telling youse, it’s all a big misunderstanding. Please. Could you check your records again? Ain’t that what you guys are all about? Making a list, checking it twice? I’m not out there drone bombing weddings in Afghanistan. I’m no Ted Bundy, doc. I’m Uncle Al. Eh?”

Why does he keep calling me doc? I’m not a doctor. Never was. I suppose that’s what he calls anyone with a serious face and a file cabinet.

I can always tell who didn’t know they were going to die. It’s a sea of hospital gowns in this office, and then one lady in a red dress who got T-boned by a transport truck driving home drunk from the company Christmas party.

Uncle Al died in a suit.

“Alright, I admit it. I offed a guy. One guy. But that chump was no good for the neighborhood. I know he was a cop, but cops ain’t angels doc. I bet you’ve got a million cops in there, and all of them deserve it.

“This cop was a real prick. Won’t take a bribe, won’t listen to reason — walking around all holier-than-thou. Then he goes and arrests my cousin for selling a gram of smack to some kids. I’m not talking toddlers, these were teenagers. They knew what they’s was buying.

“My cousin was saving up for school. He could been a lawyer, or a . . . you know . . . one of those punch-clock, spreadsheet, forty-five minutes for lunch guys. Instead, they thrown him in jail, and he comes back a junky loser sonofabitch. So I ask you: who’s really ruining lives out there doc? I did what had to be done.”

It says in the file that Uncle Al was shot in chest. Three times. He was on a business trip to Chicago, eating a Double Dog at The Wiener’s Circle when some of his business associates abruptly reevaluated their relationship. His cousin pulled the trigger. Same cousin that sold heroin to a pair of eighth-graders.

“So how about it doc? Where do I stand?”

Here goes.

“I’ve got good news and I’ve got bad news. The bad news is, you’re going to hell.”

Uncle Al starts crying. He’s making a noise like a lonely water buffalo. All the recently dead waiting outside my office saw this cocky mobster stroll in, and now they can hear him wailing. Satan’s going to love this.

There’s no rush. I let Uncle Al whimper. It takes him ten minutes to ask me another question.

“What’s the good news?”

“I’m sorry?”

“You said you had good news and bad news, so what’s the good news?”

“Oh yes. The good news is that Mr. Jenkins is going to be relegated to purgatory. We’re giving his case a second look over. He might even get a chance to plea. That’s very rare.”

“Who the hell is Mr. Jenkins?”

“He’s next in line.”

“What’s that got to do with me?”

“Absolutely nothing. The good news is only for Mr. Jenkins. Welcome to hell, Mr. Bianci.”

“You motha!” Uncle Al reaches for my throat, but I’ve already processed his file. Before he can get his hands on me, Aflonso Simone Bianci has melted through the floor of my office.

The trip to hell is like being sucked through a vacuum cleaner. Not that you can relate to being sucked through a vacuum cleaner, but it’s quick, unpleasant, overpowering, and completely out of your control. It’s the little touches — like giving Uncle Al a pint of hope before sucking him down to hell — that get you noticed by the Beelzebubs.

If I keep this up, maybe Satan will let me eat lunch again.

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