Just Another Day

A clock is ticking, somewhere. It’s one of those sounds that drills itself into your ears and makes you want to rip your fingernails off, one by one, just to have something to distract yourself from the agonizing pain of it.

I hate this place. It’s the hideous tan-and-orange speckled walls, the depressingly cheerful framed quotes scattered around, the beige carpet with what appear to be blood stains hastily cleaned with bleach, the understuffed ‘sofa’ that’s harder than cement, and the far-off sound of a snotty little brat crying. The colour scheme is horrid; I consider blinding myself roughly two times a day. And I’m condemned to this for all eternity. Today is just another day on the job for unlucky me.

The quite frankly useless doorman, Cerberus, opens one of the minimally impressive mahogany doors (one of the only nice things to look at in this horrific room) and mutters something to himself. Nobody can tell if he’s dying or merely incompetant; he slouches, shoulders hunched up over his head, with a layer of grime coating his shaggy, mottled beard and bald head. I’m not sure if he even gets paid anymore. All he ever does is stand there, rustling his tattered jacket and muttering to himself, the poor beast.

I sigh as a customer bustles towards my desk. I’m resting my chin on my hand, and I give her a once-over with hooded eyes. She’s probably 55 years old, with a forehead so tight, it might split open like a cockroach molting; lips painted a neon fuchsia and tightly pursed; and clothes in a wide range of garish hues that are, if possible, more of an eyesore than the waiting room. You know the type. She’s the face of all evil in this world. You might as well point a blinking neon sign proclaiming ENTITLED BRAT at her.

I don’t get paid enough for this. I don’t think you could pay anyone enough for this.

“Welcome to Underworld Corporation. My name is Charon, how may I help you?” It’s the same speech every time, and my dull voice leaves no doubt that I don’t care about her at all.

“Yes, my name is Pamela Smith, here for Elysium.” Her voice is shrill and raspy, and she’s not even yelling at me yet. Did I mention that she looks like a whale with legs and a fried platinum blonde wig perched on top? 

I probably shouldn't say that, though. I might offend a whale. (I’m sorry.)

I pretend to scan the list for Elysium for her name, but I know there’s no point. She’ll never qualify for Elysium, no matter if she lives a thousand lives. “I don’t see a Pamela Smith on here. Date of death?”

She squints at me, her pinched face reddening slightly. “I don’t need to tell you that! Now, let me in.”

I shake my head. “I can’t do that, Pam. Date of death, please?”

“June 29, 2019. I’ve been waiting in that line forever, but I’m finally going to Elysium.” She says it like she’s expecting me to applaud her- the only reason she probably hasn’t had to wait for much longer is because she whined at the processing people controlling the hordes of people that I see every day.

“Nope, you’re not on the list, Pam.” I shrug and press the button to summon a guard to escort her to Asphodel Meadows- that’s where I send annoying customers if I’m feeling charitable. “Enjoy your stay!”

She slams a sweaty ham-sized fist on the desk angrily. “No! I know the manager, Charon. You have to let me in or I’ll have you fired!” Spittle flies from her pruny mouth and drips onto her flapping jowls.

A large, looming shape appears behind her; the guard has arrived. He’s holding a sharp spear- rather old-fashioned, but it does the trick for unruly and uncooperative customers. Pamela, oblivious to the danger behind her, continues to rant at me.

I snort derisively, the muscle under my right eye twitching. “My manager? Hades doesn’t care in the slightest what I do. Now, Pamela, go with the guard or you’ll be sent straight to Tartarus.”

Pamela, following her deeply ingrained entitled nature, gets up in my face until I can see every single foundation-caked pore. “I said, I’ll have you fired! Now let me in! Do you know who I am? I’m very important, and that means I deserve to be in Elysium-”

Rolling my eyes, I press the button that opens the ornate gold gates to the left of my desk. “In you go, Spam.” 

She ignores the insult, trotting smugly through the gates. I swear the entire room reverberates with every step she takes. “See, that wasn't so hard, now was it?” she asks as she enters, failing to read the sign above the gate.

I hide the smirk blossoming on my face by yawning. The clock stops ticking for one second as a horrified wail comes from the gates, then it continues its perpetual forward march. With smug satisfaction, I cross Pamela Smith off the list of names labeled TARTARUS. 

“If only you had listened.” I tut, shaking my head in faux sympathy. “Such a shame, Pam. Now you’re going to suffer for all eternity.”

It feels good to have this kind of power, small though it may be. Maybe that’s the reason I’m stuck here- because I enjoy making other people miserable. Or maybe it’s because I’m a fundamentally bad person. Either way, the best part of my day is always sending annoying people like Pamela to Tartarus. The least I can do for my fellow minimum wage workers is to rid the world of one more entitled blown-up suburban mother.

The content feeling is fading already. I glance around the hideous waiting room, my fingers idly drumming a tattoo onto the desk. 

Cerberus slouches and grumbles. I sigh in boredom. The clock ticks, mocking me. I decide that I’m going to find it and turn the bastard off. That should be fun.

But not now. I’ve got another customer to decide the fate of. 

It’s just another uneventful day on the job.