Stop 8

Virgil was very, very tired. Each morning, he rolled over, groped for the button on the alarm clock, sat up in bed, stretched his arms toward the sky, and let out a yawn that did not sound like a lion's roar. The sounds that came from his mouth while he yawned were a moan. This moan was a lifetime's worth of dissatisfaction jettisoned each morning into the ether, and no one beyond Virgil would ever hear his unhappy braying. No one would ever rush to his side to offer to make things better, to make him better, to make his existence on this plane better.

Virgil followed a staid routine. He enjoyed the super jolt of caffeine from Turkish coffee, meant to be served in a demitasse cup, which Virgil poured into a cappuccino mug. Each morning he smiled when he took the mug out of the cabinet. It featured a kitten hanging by its paws from the bough of a tree, and the caption beneath said, "Hang in there." Virgil, day in and day out, hung in there.

While allowing time for the caffeine to hit his bloodstream, Virgil took a short but hot shower. He remembered a show from the early 1990's where one of the characters said he gave himself a present each day. In the show, the gift was a piece of cherry pie with a strong cup of coffee. Virgil's gift to himself was a hot shower. On the weekends, Virgil would steam in the shower for around thirty minutes, singing "Nessun Dorma," (his favorite Puccini piece) at the top of his lungs. He loved Chet Baker's music, but knowing the depressive mundanity of Monday through Friday, he couldn't bring himself to sing Chet's melancholic classics for fear of descending into an even darker emotional state.

Some of Virgil's neighbors knew he was a tour guide, but he was a quiet and solitary man who kept to himself, and he seemed to be comfortable keeping his own counsel. He was a good neighbor – didn't throw parties or play loud music; didn't cook food that would stink up the floor of his apartment building; didn't have strange guests coming and going at all hours. He wasn't an unattractive man. He was in his mid-forties with clean cut dark brown hair, warm brown eyes, and physically fit from walking everywhere every day while he gave tours. He was a loner who had never set out to be alone, and by the very nature of his job, he was never by himself, yet he was always alone.

Virgil suffered daily, both physically and mentally, and there was no respite any time in the near future. His job drained him. The clients were getting more demanding (and a few had been physical), and it seemed that more and more of his tours were lasting longer. He hated most of the clients, and his hatred only grew in proportion with the amount of time he had to spend with them.

There were clients who had shorter tours, and Virgil didn't mind those people too much and actually liked some of them. Once he ended a tour, it was rare to see any of the clients again. On occasion he'd see someone when he was covering a repeat route, but they either didn't recognize Virgil, or they were in the middle of something and couldn't break away to greet him.

He asked his boss almost weekly if they were getting closer to hiring a few people to help him. The longest tours were agonizingly long and with every tour being private…it made for a kind of torture for him, and he had really never done anything in life to deserve having to deal with this ongoing daily misery. He wrote a few 'strongly worded' memos to his boss with some regularity. The topics ranged from:

Hiring more tour guides. He could not continue being the only person doing this.

Providing more variety in the tour lengths. It would be nice if they could space out the longer tours on the calendar and sprinkle more of the shorter tours.

Allowing for group tours, especially the shorter tours. Every client would still have a tailored experience.

Providing more PTO or comp time (especially when the long tours went more than 12 hours).

Virgil's boss said, "I hear you, Virgil. I really do, but you're the only one the the guys upstairs and the HR guys downstairs say can do the job. You're the yardstick we use for measuring all of the candidates who come here looking for tour guide jobs. You're just so damned virtuous, and we trust you. Everyone trusts you."

Virgil rested his elbows and assumed a posture of defeat. He ran his fingers through his hair then held his face in his hands. "I'm going to crack one of these days, or take someone on the wrong tour. I don't think I care anymore because I'm so burned out."

"Why don't you get through this next one? I know it's probably one of the longer tours, but this next client is entertaining at least. And, before you make any rash decisions, everyone upstairs and downstairs knows how hard you work. They've agreed to give you a fortnight's vacation. I know it's not a ton of time based on the hours you put in, but they want you to know they appreciate you. Heck, they decided to pay for everything."

Virgil went home filled with dread, ennui, disgust, and fatigue.

The next morning arrived just as any other, and Virgil made his way to the World Trade Center subway stop in Manhattan. The stop was marked by the space-age-esque Oculus which featured retail space. Every tour began in front of the Apple Store. One of his clients, a small ginger-haired man headed for Stop 6 said, "The Apple Store. Hell on Earth."

Virgil considered the man and his words and always thought the guy wasn't wrong. Not by a longshot.

Some of the clients knew the general direction of their tours, but they didn't know the ultimate destinations. Virgil looked at the reservation confirmation. Stop 8. He made the sign of the Cross. Praise the Lord. No Stop 9.

Virgil didn't have to wait long for his client—a tiny brunette woman, her face etched with decades of living and pitted with years of waiting to die. She carried a carpet bag not unlike what Mary Poppins had carried. His client was prepared for a trip, but he keenly doubted her ability to carry the bag to Stop 8.

"Are you Virgil?" she asked with a heavy Eastern-European accent and extended her hand, rings adorning every finger.

Virgil grasped her hand and answered, "I am. And you are…"

Before he could state her name, she froze, her hand holding fast to Virgil's. "Oh!" she exclaimed. "Your soul. It is so worn, so beaten down. You are like the sad dog who has seen too much of life. Oh, my poor Virgil."

He knew his job wasn't for the faint-hearted, especially if he had to take clients to Stop 9. He hated going to Stop 9 probably more than he hated the Apple Store.

"Would you like a bagel, madam?" Virgil asked, changing tacks. Virgil always picked up bagels, and his clients were always all too happy to have something to fill their stomachs during their tours.

"Ahh. I would love a bagel. You have cream cheese, too?" she asked.

Virgil nodded.

"Madame Karlotta, our first stop today is to the children's hospital. We always begin by looking in on the infants. We don't stop long. After we see the infants, we'll head to Hell's Kitchen. There are a few stops there."

"Very good," she said. "Very good. Lead on."

The subway wasn't full, but it wasn't empty either. The quiet was punctuated by tourists looking at their cell phones and discussing points of interest that needed to be included in their days.

Madame Karlotta said, "You see that man over there? His wife is at home while he's on Spring Break with the kids. She's cheating on him."

"How do you know that?" Virgil asked, just to make conversation. Of course he knew. It was the whole reason she was heading to Stop 8.

"I see it," Madame Karlotta said plainly. "I see all."

At the children's hospital, Virgil and Karlotta stood in front of the nursery. "Look how innocent they are, those tiny babies. Their souls are yet untainted by the world and mankind," she whispered.

"And yet, they are unbaptised," Virgil whispered.

They left the hospital and walked to Hell's Kitchen. "Did you know," Virgil stated, "there's a brothel in this building?" He pointed up to the second floor of the building, Stop 2. "Would you like to go in? I've made arrangements to have coffee there."

"That sounds very interesting," Madame Karlotta exclaimed, smiling. "What a fascinating tour, Virgil!"

They reached the second floor, and Virgil gave two quick knocks followed by two knocks spaced two seconds apart. "Virgil, welcome. And you must be Madame Karlotta. I'm Charlene, and I welcome you to my place of business. If you'll just follow me to the lounge," she said in a Southern lilt. The three of them spent an hour together, enjoying the coffee she poured from a French press, the Italian cookies that came from a specialty bakery she frequented prior to entertaining higher end guests and clients. Charlene shared some of her life story and how she came to find herself in New York.

When it was time to leave, Madame Karlotta hugged Charlene, then pushed away to hold her at arm's length. "You have a gentleman client every Tuesday at 4 pm. He is very much in love with you, and he will never marry as long as he thinks spending his life with you is an option."

Charlene gasped. Of course she had a standing client every Tuesday, but how did this shriveled little woman know?

Virgil and Madame Karlotta left the brothel, stopping for lunch in a very famous deli with sandwiches stacked so high with meat, they had to be eaten with a fork. They went for authentic New York cheesecake and had to split a piece because it was more than mortal man could eat in one sitting. Madame Karlotta predicted someone's death while they ate.

A visit to the New York Stock Exchange came next. They were allowed on the trading floor, and Madame Karlotta pulled one of the traders to her side and said, "Do NOT buy that house in the Hamptons. There is a big mold problem. Get the inspection, but you'll see what I'm saying is true." The trader stared at Madame Karlotta and backed away quickly, definitely creeped out that Madame Karlotta knew his business.

After leaving Wall Street, Virgil took Madame Karlotta to a gym where boxers sparred. Most of the boxers were there for fitness, but there was a very angry young man. The other men in the gym avoided him, and it appeared only one person would partner with him. The angry man was a smaller, wiry guy. He moved fast, throwing fists with precision and force. What he lacked in size, he made up for in rage, soundly knocking his opponent around in the ring. Even when his sparring partner raised his gloves for a water break, the angry man kept punching and jabbing. Madame Kalotta pulled on Virgil's sleeve and whispered to him, "He's going to kill someone. I don't like his energy. I'd like to leave." Virgil and Madame Karlotta quietly exited the gym.

They walked in silence for a bit. Madame Karlotta had not enjoyed Stop 5 and was clearly bothered by it. "I know you didn't enjoy that stop on our tour," Virgil said, "but maybe the next stop will be better. How would you like to have an aperol spritz in Little Italy?" Virgil, as a rule, didn't drink alcohol, but he thought today would be a bit different, since he'd be starting an all expenses paid vacation the next day.

They seated themselves at a sidewalk table, ordered their drinks, and watched the box trucks making deliveries to all the restaurants up and down the street. "You probably can't see what's going on behind the facades of these buildings, but there are deals being made. Trusts broken. Loans made with usurious interest rates. As beautiful and quaint as this part of the city is…" Virgil trailed off. "You know, Little Italy is probably one of my favorite parts of the city." He took a sip of his cocktail and grimaced at the bitter flavor of grapefruit.

Finishing off her drink, Madame Karlotta asked, "Why are you alone, Virgil? You're good looking and kind."

"My job. I can't turn it off, even when I'm at home. I don't have enough time to meet someone when I'm bone weary at the end of the day," he admitted. "There was a time when my hope could spring eternal, but, I think, that time is long gone for me. I can't even have a fish because I don't have enough energy or anything extra to give."

Madame Karlotta reached across the table, taking Virgil's hand in hers. "Don't give up, Virgil. There's a happy ending for you yet."

After a beat, Virgil asked, "How do you feel about Atlantic City? It's our next stop. I hired a limo for the ride. We'll have dinner, go to a show, and if you want, we can hit a casino or two."

The old woman clapped her hands together in delight. "I have never been to Atlantic City, but it sounds very exciting. I've been in New York City for over half my life, and this tour has been so unusual, and you've been a surprise of a tour guide, Virgil. A true surprise—in the best way."

After dinner in a casino restaurant, Virgil noticed Madame Karlotta had become visibly tired from the long day. "Would you like to skip the show?" he asked. "We could take a peek in on the casino, and then go on to our final stop of the evening."

Madame Karlotta, daintily covered her yawn with her palm. "If that's all right with you. I'm an old woman, Virgil. I didn't know our tour would last quite so long." She gave an embarrassed laugh.

Virgil's boss had been right. This client was entertaining, and sweet, and he wished he could have left her at Stop 1.

They went to the poker table. Again, Madame Karlotta tugged on Virgil's sleeve. "Virgil. Oh, my god. That man is counting cards. I can see it. Do you think the pit bosses know?"

Of course they knew. Virgil and Madame Karlotta watched vigilantly, rapt attention on the chips the man kept shoveling into a pile. His wife or girlfriend sat on the stool next to him and arranged the chips into neat stacks. In between all the sorting and stacking, she draped herself on him, sometimes sticking her tongue in his ear. No matter what she did to entice him, his attention never strayed from the table. The pit boss came to the man's opposite side, speaking to him in a low tone. The man shook his head in the negative. The pit boss stood directly behind the man, crowding him toward the table, and gave a smirk toward the ceiling-mounted cameras. Several beefy men in dark suits arrived. Once again, the pit boss spoke in a low tone to the man, who then pushed his stool away from the table. He left his date behind. She scooped his chips into a Duane Reade bag, left the table, and made a bee-line to the cashier.

"Ready to go?" Virgil asked Karlotta.

She nodded.

"Great," he said. "Our car is pulled up behind the casino."

Madame Karlotta raised a brow. "Stop 7?" she asked.

Virgil nodded. The limo was parked behind the casino, and as the pair exited the building, they saw Mr. Card Counter. The beefy security gentlemen were giving him a beating he wouldn't soon forget. His clothes were rumpled and torn, his face bloodied, and he spat what appeared to be fragments of his teeth onto the pavement. He tried to get to his feet, but the pit boss got in one last kick to the man's abdomen. The man, the gambler, had bet wrong.

The door to the limousine closed, separating Virgil and Madame Karlotta from the violence inflicted on the card counting man, Virgil said, "Our next stop is the last of the evening. Coney Island."

"Won't it be dark? Will anyone be there?" Madame Karlotta asked sleepily.

Virgil turned to look at her. Her feet faced straight ahead, and her carpet bag lay on the floor of the car evenly spaced between them. Her hands were neatly and primly clasped on her lap. But Virgil couldn't see her face. It was turned to look out the back window and would continue to look behind her, at his past, her past, everyone's past for eternity. Stop 8 was the fortune teller machine at Coney Island.

Virgil heard the low snores coming from Madame Karlotta. She would know soon enough. Her head was on backwards—couldn't miss that one.

When they reached the amusement park, Virgil helped Madame Karlotta exit the limo. She knew then she would never again see the future. The diviner's punishment was forever seeing the past. Virgil purchased a ticket for the fortune teller, and a door opened behind just behind the machine. Karlotta's feet carried her forward, but Virgil remained behind her, in her direct line of sight. "I don't blame you, Virgil. It's just your job. But I want you to know that I've had the best time today on my trip to Hell."