A First Day in Hell

A man unknowingly lives his first day in purgatory.

As soon as I open my eyes and feel the soreness in my throat and the pain from the headache, I start cursing myself for drinking the previous the night knowing I had work the following the morning. On my way to the kitchen to pour myself a glass of water before starting my daily routine, I wonder silently as to why I actually did decide to drink on a Sunday but oddly, can’t seem to remember at all in what context and for what reason I did decide that drinking would be a good idea, knowing full well that as soon as the first sip of alcohol touches my lips, that I will not stop drinking until I am holding my head back, eyes closed, with a glass of wine half-empty in my hand which lets me know that I should be heading to bed and it being my cue to not even have another sip.

The glass of water does nothing so I pour myself another one, with no success at easing the soreness in my throat as well as the exuberating headache I’m dealing with in this cold, lonely and s****y morning. Coming to terms with the fact that this day will not be a pleasant one, I pour myself some cereals, which sucks, because the only ones left are honey flavoured which I despise. I would have eaten something else, but having no children and a lazy but lovely wife, the fridge tends to be empty for a couple of days until one of us, usually me, decide to get up its a*s and go grocery shopping. I open the fridge and grab the carton of milk, only to pour it in my cereal and smell this terrible odour letting me know that the milk cannot be consumed safely. Not feeling too hungry, I decide to forego breakfast and head to the bathroom to shower and brush my teeth. Brushing my teeth and taking a shower, with cold water, does absolutely nothing to make me feel better so I dry myself off and get dressed and leave the house.

As soon as I step out of the door, I notice that the car isn’t there. I call Irene to ask her why she took the car and she tells me she’s sorry but that she had an urgent meeting this morning and in a hurry, forgot to let me know about the car. Pissed off that she didn’t even bother to let me know and suspicious of the fact that she actually didn’t forget but just didn’t care, I start walking to the bus stop knowing I’ll get shitted on by the boss for coming in late, looking like s**t and not being productive at making money for some men I’ve never met. The bus arrives and I get in, absolutely disgusted at being in a jam-packed bus with people having just as a s****y morning as I am. I get stuck between this fat woman and this old man with a horrible smell which takes me back to when I still had to use the bus, in my early twenties, making me want to put a bullet in the head of everyone riding in this f*****g thing before putting one in mine. I would do it out of pity too, just to spare them all the s****y mornings they’re bound to live due to being born in the wrong circumstances like everyone else.

I arrive at work, thirty minutes later than usual and try to make myself seem as small as possible to hopefully not have to deal with the boss for being late. I just want to make my way to my desk to get to work and try not to think about the screams in my head coming from the headache and this feeling of dehydration that just won’t go away. But as bad mornings usually go, no such luck is accorded to me in a day, in which I’m starting to feel will end up with everything that can go wrong, going wrong.

- John! In my office!

I step in and wait patiently for the s**t I’m about to eat while he’s finishing up with his phone call.

- Good morning, sir.

- Why are you late?

- My wife took the car without telling me this morning. I had to take the bus.

He stares at me intensely, thinking of what to say next, knowing that it isn’t my fault.

- You should keep her in check. You shouldn’t even allow her to dream of doing some s**t like that, what are you, a man or a chump?

He already knows the answer to that question.

- It won’t happen again.

- It better not. There are a million hungry f*****g snakes out there that want and will have your f*****g job for half the pay and twice the hours if you don’t get your s**t together… Look at you! You even look like s**t, what’s wrong with you this morning?

- Just tired and feeling a bit sick, I’m sorry.

- You better be. Don’t ever come here tired or sick again, you understand?

- Yes.

- Now get to work and bring in some solid numbers for this company today.

- I will, sir.

I wish I could curb-stomp and make him choke on his pay check but I know I’m thinking out of my a*s so I just put my head down and head to my office where I lay my head down for ten minutes before starting to get to work.

Dealing with dehydration, which for some reason, no matter how much water I drink, will not go away and neither will this headache, I make absolutely no effort at getting any work done during the entire day. I simply wait for the pain to go away and five o’clock to come so I can head home, try to forget about everything, spend some time with my wife and watch game 7 of the Stanley Cup finals, where finally, after waiting thirty-seven years, the Toronto Maple Leafs are close to becoming champions while having all the momentum after fighting back from a 3-1 deficit to tie the series at three games apiece.

About fifteen minutes before the end of the day, the boss calls me into his office. He looks unsure of himself.

- Hum, have a seat John, please.

I’m getting sacked. As if this day couldn’t get any worse. I sit, and despite knowing what’s coming to me, I’m nervous, shaking, and hoping for a miracle, knowing full well that one isn’t coming. I don’t have to hear it, I could just walk out now without saying a word and never return, but for some reason, I stay glued to the seat and wait for the bad news, feeling this unmovable weight on my shoulders keeping me seated.

- The board’s been reviewing performances for the past month, and unfortunately, yours has been well below what is expected out of an employee of your standing and qualifications.

I panic and try to explain myself.

- Yes sir, I can understand bu…

My former boss cuts me off.

- Listen, I’m sure you’re smart enough to already conceive and handle what I’m about to announce to you, but let me just tell you that this isn’t my call, it isn’t my decision, I’m just the bearer of the bad news.

I give up.

- I understand, sir.

He nods his head in a thankful manner.

- You’ll have the next week to come in and clean out your office and we’ll talk about all the paperwork we’ll have to fill out and the financial compensation that will be given to you due to your termination.

- Okay.

I get up and shake his hand. I know I can’t fight against it so I just resort to my fate. He looks at me and starts speaking again but I cut him off this time, since I’m finally allowed too.

- Don’t.  It’s fine.

I walk out. Outside, I start thinking about Irene right away. How am I supposed to announce to her that I just got fired for being an incompetent b*****d? I know we’ll get through it but damn. This day just can’t get any worse. I still have a sore throat, a headache, stuck taking the bus during rush hours and just got fired from my job. I get on the bus and keep thinking about Irene, about how to announce this to her, how it always is with bad news, how the worst part is not actually living the worst news, because you always get used to it, always, because you don’t have a choice, you’re living it, you can’t wish it away, you can only try to better your situation, but even that usually doesn’t happen so you get accustomed to your free-falling situation. The worst part is that feeling of nervousness, shame and distress in your stomach and in your mind that lingers in you until the news is told. It’s this feeling that I’m living right now, on the bus, of all places.

Getting off the bus, I decide I’ll feel better if I have a drink before confronting Irene with the bad news so I call her and I tell her I’ll be home right before the game because I have some work to catch up on at the office. She asks me if I want her to come pick me up when I’m done but I tell her not to bother and that I’ll call her when I’m leaving the office. I make my way down a couple of blocks and step in Chester’s. The bartender, Harry, hollers at me as soon as I walk in.

- Goddamn, Doe, you look like s**t!

- Jesus, I know. I don’t need to hear it again.

He laughs and serves me my regular lager. I sit on the stool and contemplate my drink. Hoping it’ll bring numbness which will replace the soreness and make the headache go away.

I keep drinking and talking s**t with Harry, who tells me about his own set of problems and we both down drinks while trying to encourage each other even though neither one of us really cares about the other’s problems. We both need to feel somewhat important and think that telling another pair of ears about our life will do the trick but it doesn’t. We’ll still feel as bad about ourselves after the conversation, but we keep doing it, I don’t know why, maybe because talking about it distracts us from actually living it for the little time we’re talking about it.

The drinks make me feel no better but actually accentuate the headache and the soreness so after a couple drinks and having no more problems to tell Henry and no more problems to hear from Henry, I pay my bill and make my way back home. I’m tired, stressing and in pain. I contemplate not telling Irene about getting fired yet but then decide I better get it over with now, try to enjoy the game, and not let it linger for days and have an anxiety attack over it.

I head in and hear Irene, mumbling the word f**k, so I make my way to the bedroom and expect the worse and I see her standing in the kitchen, in her bathrobe with her hair dishevelled making herself some coffee.

- Hey baby.

She turns around, surprised.

- John!

I can’t even begin to explain to you how relieved I am to see she’s alone, man, with how this day’s gone, I was, in all honesty, expecting to find another man in the house. Thank God I’ve still got Irene.

- Why didn’t you call before coming home?

- I forgot, I got done a bit earlier then I thought I would and went to Chester’s to hang out a bit with Harry.

- How is he?

- Bad, like always.

- Poor guy, it must be hard to raise a couple of kids on a bartender’s salary.

- Especially Chester’s, I’ve never seen that place full, not even on weekends.

- Why are you in your bathrobe anyhow?

- I just got out the shower and it’s already 7PM so I’m not going to put on clothes, I’ll get dressed in my pyjamas right after my coffee.

I sit at the table and prepare myself mentally to announce Irene the bad news. I decide to be straightforward and quick about it, not wanting to deal with the stress.

- I got fired today.

- WHAT?!

Worst part over. Phew.

- I got fired today.

- Don’t f**k with me John.

- Baby, I’m not, I got fired, and they’ve been reviewing performances for the past month and mine weren’t up to par and…

- Why the f**k weren’t they up to par? What were you doing at the office? Jerking off!?

- I don’t know, Irene! I don’t f*****g know! I just wasn’t doing good enough. There’s no reason for it, there’s no remedy, I simply was not good enough. It has nothing to do with what I was doing at the office.

- How the f**k are we going to get by John! We have a house to pay for as well as a car, we need money! My salary alone isn’t enough.

- Look, I’ll find another job, and besides, I’ll get compensated for the firing, it’s not like I’m at zero money.

- How much?
- How much what?

- How much money are they going to give you for the firing?

- I don’t know, I have to go back to the office to talk to them about it this week.

She sits down and she’s shaking, and I still feel just as bad as I’ve been feeling throughout the day, I look at her and see her, broken down, and I want to tell her everything will be okay, but I don’t know, so I don’t want to lie to her.  I just get up and go to our bedroom and put on my pyjamas. I then head to the living room for the start of the game and sit quietly on the couch.

Irene comes and sits next to me which makes me feel better. Calvin Peterson, Toronto’s goalie, steps out on the ice and trips over, looking clumsy and sluggish. Irene put her head down on my shoulder, which makes me feel even better, and despite the continuing soreness and headache, the day starts to feel a little bit better.

The game starts and the Maple Leafs look horrible, the worst they’ve looked all year. I start holding Irene’s hand, as she knows how much this game means to me, and I hope that the Leafs will wake up before Chicago scores a goal or even worse, puts this game out of hand quickly. No a single player looks good, and worst of them all, is our superstar, Peterson. He’s fighting the puck, looking more hung-over on the ice then I am in the living room. Not surprisingly, the Blackhawks score end up putting one past him. No biggie, hopefully it’ll wake the team up, it probably won’t be a great game, but I’m hoping they can get through it and win it. I keep watching and the game gets no better, they look even worse and the Hawks even better, they keep attacking the net and Peterson looks even more sluggish and after another eight minutes, the Hawks score a second goal. This one feels like I, and the whole team, just got hit over the head with a shovel. The look on the players’ faces says it all, they know they’re in trouble already, its bad news. Distress, shame and nervousness is taking over. The coach calls a time-out to holler at his players and try to get them to regroup, they all take big gulps out of their bottles and try to get back to it. The time-out seems to give them a little bit of energy, like it’s been enough to make them feel a little bit better about this game, they’re playing with more energy and I start to get back into it as well, feeling like this could be it, they can come back, they’re pressuring the Hawks and seem close to cut down the lead. After a few more minutes, towards the end of the period, Irene grabs my hand and begins talking, which bothers me because all my attention is towards the game.

- John…

I don’t even look at her, I keep staring at the TV.

- Yeah?

- Please, can you look at me for a moment?

I do.

- Yeah?

- I met someone else.

As soon as she says that, I hear the announcer screaming: “GOAL! AND THE HAWKS TAKE A 3-0 LEAD! OH, THIS IS A HORRIBLE SCENARIO FOR TORONTO, THIS COULD BE IT FOLKS! “

- F**k. Really?

- Yes, I’m so sorry, he was even here earlier, while you were at work, I don’t want to hide it from you anymore, and I figure telling you now is better than telling you when things get better for you, I’d rather you live all your bad news at once, in a single day, that way, well, as s****y as it sounds, everything can only go up. Y’know?

I’m physically hurt. And I start laughing uncontrollably. Irene looks at me, scared.

- John?  Talk to me, please.

- What do you want me to say? I wake up with the worst hangover, that won’t go away at all, for god knows what reason, I get fired from my job when I thought I was doing fine, so of course, of course, you were going to leave me for another man today. That’s the way the day was supposed to go, there were no other possibilities. No parallel universe exists where you would have stayed by my side. It’s not how it works down here.

I point down while saying this. I don’t cry, I don’t scream, I don’t beg, I don’t ask, I don’t explain, I don’t wonder, I accept.

Irene looks at me and gets up and leaves for the bedroom where I’m guessing she’ll lock herself in for the night. I don’t think she wants to tell me anything else, and I don’t need to hear anything else. The first period of the game is over, and knowing that the Maple Leafs will not come back to win this game, I shut down the TV, shut down the lights and lay down on the coach, knowing that my first day in purgatory went as expected.