The Job Sounded Fun on Paper

By Laura J. Mayo

“I understand your frustration, and can offer you a ten percent off coupon for any inconvenience this situation has caused.” I hold the glossy paper out in front of me like a shield. Judging by her pursed lips and battle stance—the kind honed in combat during multiple tours of 4 a.m. Black Friday shopping—she doesn’t care for my attempt at a compromise. The other people in the Visitor Center lobby are giving us a wide berth, like they know where this is headed and should leave before they get sucked into her raging vortex of entitlement.

I grit my teeth and do my best not to sigh. She should be a smidge more grateful. I didn’t give the old guy from this morning a coupon. Granted, he wasn’t a paying visitor. “I’ve been living here my whole life,” he’d shouted at me. “You can’t just put a barrier around the town and charge people to enter!” Clearly he wasn’t an astute businessman. They can and did, sir, but sure, keep shouting at the underpaid employee like it was me, personally, who installed the fence around the mining town turned burning hellscape.

This lady is monologuing at me like she practiced in the mirror beforehand. I’m half-heartedly trying to come up with an exit strategy when I notice the box of brochures from the chamber of commerce still sitting by the door. I’ll get to them tomorrow, though I’m not sure where I should hang the chamber’s matching advertisement: “Bus tours through Centralia, PA. Gas masks included.” Some people still want to believe that Centralia’s decades-long underground fire and the chasm that opened up in this particular mine are linked, despite the likelihood of it just being a geographic coincidence. But those kinds of trivial, unresolved questions haven’t stopped the tour companies from cashing in.

With the breath control of a leading soprano opera star, the lady is still going strong. She keeps tossing around the word traumatized, which is a bit hyperbolic. It’s not like her kids even got hurt, and they’ve already stopped crying.

The beeping of the gift shop register is a percussion to her rant. Hopefully it’s from people who saw the fifty percent off sign and are buying the mugs. Super sale. I should tell her coupons can be applied and see if that placates her. Those “I Survived the Centralia Horror” mugs have been sitting on the shelf for so long we had to dust them. I think it’s because t-shirts are easier to pack in suitcases and bumper stickers are only a dollar.

When she finally takes a moment to inhale, I spot her husband standing off to the side staring into space. Actually, he might just be a mannequin dressed as a dad on vacation. I’ve met bean salads with more going on than what’s behind his eyes. No wonder. Only twenty minutes with her and my soul has started shriveling. His wife murders joy and zest for life like she’s auditioning for a true crime podcast.

Dan, one of the part-time Visitor Experience Representatives, strides past us with the broom and an armful of paper towels to clean up the milk, blood, viscera, and shards of porcelain on and around the altar before anyone gets cut. Closed-toed shoes are already recommended for entry, but I’ll have to move the sign to a more prominent location.

It’s getting harder to keep my face neutral as I watch this irate woman. I’m not really sure why she’s acting like she didn’t know what to expect. It’s not like the Centralia Black Abyss is billed as a “fun for the whole family” kind of attraction. But she’s gesturing at me like she’s interpretive dancing the phrase I’m going to leave a one-star review on TripAdvisor.

Dan is next to the altar doing his best to mop up the mess. Milk isn’t typically a problematic offering—they take anything. Fortunately or unfortunately, if it’s on the altar, they’re eating it. I think that having nothing but milk in a saucer was the real issue. That poor stray cat was just a textbook example of “wrong place, wrong time.” I’m not even sure how it got down here. Still, maybe I should change the sign that says “No Glass” to “Nothing Breakable” instead.

She lets me know that she has five—that’s right, five!—lawyers in her family and I’m going to hear from each and every one of them. Okay. My shift is over in four minutes and my ability to care is about as robust as her ability to show kindness and respect to a certain visitor center employee.

I adjust my Manager-on-Duty badge and cross my arms. “Look, Ma’am. I do not have any control over when the Eldritch Horrors and Hell Beasts crawl out of the chasm from the Black Abyss to accept offerings. Therefore, I can’t always predict when something else might mistakenly jump up on the altar at an inopportune moment. I am very sorry about the cat and that your children saw it happen, but the sign on the way in is very clear: No refunds.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Laura J. Mayo lives in New Hampshire with her family. When not writing fantasy, she’s writing horror. When not writing at all she’s usually reading, sewing, cooking, drinking black tea, or walking in the woods. The Job Sounded Fun on Paper is her first published work.

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