By Austin Grisham
Staring at the gray wall before him, Ben couldn’t quite remember how long he’d been sitting in the office. There were several chairs next to him, with the same cheap faux leather used at the DMV. There were no windows, and the only light came from old, pulsing fluorescent bulbs that filled the room with an insipid yellowish glow. On a wooden table before him were a couple old magazines and a plate of brown cookies. Picking up a cookie, he glanced at the magazines: Garden Tool Magazine and World of Glue.
Man, talk about boring. Ben bit down on the sweet. It tasted like sawdust in his mouth—dry and tasteless. There was something about the room, its gray contours—he felt so confined.
“Mr. Stevens.” A woman’s voice echoed from a metal speaker in the ceiling. “Mr. Stevens, please exit through the door on your right and go to room seven to meet your parole officer.”
Parole officer? Since when? His hands clenched the arms of the chair for a second. Nevertheless, Ben headed down the hall.
He knocked on the door and a muffled voice called, “Come in.”
When he opened the door, Ben saw a man sitting at a desk. He was a little overweight and wore the sort of office shirt sold at discount stores. The fluorescent light shined off his bald head.
“Ben, nice to meet you. I’m Rocko, your PO.” Standing up, Rocko shook his hand before each man sat.
“PO—my parole officer? I haven’t done anything, I don’t understand.”
Rocko didn’t say anything for a moment. Looking at Ben, he said, “Think back to right before you got here.”
The humid summer air pressed against his skin as he went through the traffic light, not noticing it was already red. The truck lights blinded him. He slammed on the brakes. Screech—
“I’m dead, aren’t I?” Ben’s voice was a soft whisper.
“Afraid so.”
“Am I in Hea—”
“No,” Rocko nodded slightly.
“Wait!” Ben’s eyes went wide, “He—”
“No, not that one either.” Rocko clasped his hands together on the desk. “You are in Purgatory.”
Ben’s index finger tapped nervously on his knee. “Purgatory? Is that why everything is so…”
“Bland? Yeah, it’s the most uninspiring place in the universe.”
“But why am I here?”
“Let’s go over your file.” Rocko opened a folder on his desk.
“Name, Ben Stevens. Born in Piscataway, New Jersey. Age, thirty-five.”
Ben nodded.
“And let’s see, occupation: Slumlord—”
“What?” Ben yelled. “I was a respected landlord.”
“Is there such a thing?” Rocko said with a wink. “But seriously, how about the old lady you moved into an apartment that had mold in the ceiling?”
“I didn’t know…”
“Sure you didn’t. Just like you didn’t know about the other fifty cases.”
Looking down for a moment, Ben considered the gray floor below him. Then, raising his head, he said, “What do I have to do now?”
“You gotta put more points on your scoreboard so you can go upstairs. There’s a kid at a convenience store, and he’s about to leave for his other job. He’s supposed to throw out the old food in the hot dog stand but isn’t going to because he’s too busy. An old man is going to stop and buy a hot dog from the new guy. He gets sick and dies. You got to get the kid to do his job.”
“Okay.” Rocko closed the file on his desk.
“Just so you know. You got to nail this one, or you might be going to the hotter place.”
Ben barely had a chance to gulp before he was staring at a row of candy bars. He saw the kid behind a counter. His name tag said “Jimmy” at a forty-five-degree angle. He glanced at his watch while he tugged on his coat. The earthy smell of fresh-made coffee caught his nose. I could go for a cup of joe.
“Oh hey,” Jimmy said as he noticed Ben. “Wally will be here in a few minutes; he can help you.”
“Hey, Jimmy,” Ben said, pointing in the direction of the hot dogs. “Don’t you have to dump those?”
Jimmy stopped for a second. “Who are you, the Board of Health?”
“Man, I’m just—”
“Look dude,” Jimmy said, putting on his cap, “I gotta get to my second job. I need the money. My sleazy landlord’s going to evict me if I don’t pay him this week!” Clang! Jimmy shoved the cash register drawer hard as he checked out of his station.
“Wait, why do you hate your landlord so much?”
“Who doesn’t hate their landlord?”
“Yeah kid, I know. Give me the specifics.”
“Well, my A/C’s been broken for the last three months, the garbage disposal never works, and the dryer takes three cycles to dry my clothes. But the only time I hear from him is when the rent is late.”
Ben pointed at Jimmy’s chest. “Look kid, you take the time to dump those hot dogs and I can help you stick it to that guy.”
Ben gave a quick explanation on how to report his landlord to the Housing Department.
“So, all I need to do is make a complaint and I get a few more weeks to pay my rent?” Jimmy dropped the last hot dog in the trash.
“Heck kid, they may even force your landlord to pay you back. The courts hate landlords.”
“Just like everybody else.” Jimmy smiled, his grin filling up the room.
“Yeah.”
Jimmy held out his hand. “Thanks, sir.”
Before he could respond, Ben was back in Rocko’s office.
“Good work. Get a few more of those right and you might be going upstairs.” Rocko offered Ben a mug. “Have a cup of joe. Fresh off the pot.”
Taking a sip, Ben grimaced at the pond-water taste. Looking forward to my next assignment. Maybe then I can savor a real cup of coffee.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
nice twist!
Thanks!
Great story! Hope we see more of Ben trying to right some wrongs!
Thanks Tracy…..He’s going to have to, the chances of them getting a Starbucks in Purgatory are pretty small.
Good thing Ben is only a landlord. If he were a lawyer, it’s straight down to the bottom!
Truth!
Great story!
I thought maybe Ben would end up reporting himself!
Neat story!