27.Z found himself in a familiar room.
Like most rooms he wound up in when he was in hell, Z had no idea how he had gotten in this room. It was one of Satan’s tricks. You would almost teleport from one room or space to the next without warning. People took for granted just how important entrances and exits were. Just appearing and having no idea where you came from was one of the most unsettling things that could happen to a person. And this had happened several times to Z since he had arrived in hell. And it didn’t matter how many times it had already happened, or how many times it would happen after this . . . Z knew he would never get used to it. But that made sense. If one got used to hell, then hell wouldn’t be hell now, would it?
The room resembled a dark dystopian government office. Small and closed in. There was a familiarity even though it didn’t look like a room that Z had ever been in before. It didn’t look familiar but it had a familiar feeling. An all-too-memorable sense of deep failure. A feeling of being completely stuck. Repetitive days. A staleness.
The room’s walls were lined with filing cabinets that busted at the seams. There were about ten clocks in the room. Only one of which worked, and it barely worked. The second hand barely moved, and when it did it was like it was coughing its final breaths. The last efforts of a dying organism. The room was cluttered with books and papers, but when Z looked at these closely, everything that was written on them was nonsensical. Jibber-jabber. Unrelated letters, numbers, and symbols.
Pity, thought Z. Would have been nice to read something for a change. Even if it was terrible.
But maybe it was Z’s eyes. His eyes were still unadjusted to the room. It took a minute after these spontaneous entrances. Z rubbed them, and the dim office lamp became more of a reliable light source for him, and as Z’s eyes adjusted he could make out a figure in the corner, which was accompanied by the sound of furious typing.
“Fucking shit,” muttered the shadowed figure as they lowered their head to the desk and started breathing deeply. Almost as if they were trying to force themself to sleep. Z didn’t know what to say. He felt awkward. It was clear this person was very much focused on what they were doing and was also deeply frustrated. Z didn’t know much about the artistic process but he knew enough to know that it wasn’t the best idea to interrupt someone as they were struggling to express themselves.
Well, they were most likely a writer. I mean, there was a chance they weren’t. They could be some sort of office specter typing up meaningless reports on meaningless things. But the way that this person was upset there was no way they were not fully invested in what they were doing. So if they weren’t engaged in some sort of artistic endeavor, they might as well be. Z didn’t want to interrupt, but he didn’t have to, for the “writer” raised their head and, without looking at Z, addressed him.
“Hi.”
Z was thrown. Z suddenly felt as if he was expected to be there.
“Hi there,” Z said, and then started to introduce himself. “I’m—”
With this, the writer raised his hand. “Yeah, save it. I know who you are.”
Z was intrigued. “You do?”
With this, the writer gave a laugh. “Yeah. I’d say I know you pretty well.”
Z cocked his head. “You do?”
The writer exhaled, like he had had this conversation with Z many times before. “Yeah.”
Z leaned in. “Have we met before?”
With this, the writer leaned back in his chair. “In a way, yes.”
Z leaned farther forward. “What do you mean, in a way?”
The writer diverted his eyes from Z in contemplation. There was a hesitancy in his face coupled with a great need to tell Z what was swimming around in his head. His hands rubbed his thighs and he closed his eyes to search for the decision he should make. Z could see the writer’s eyes frantically shifting underneath his lids. There was clearly an inner push and pull going on between at least two options of what the writer wanted to say next. His closed eyes twitched faster and faster and right at the point that it seemed like his eyes were going to bust out of their sockets, they opened and the writer smiled.
“Wanna smoke some weed? I need some weed.”
Z was taken aback. Did people smoke weed in hell? Was that a thing? Z hadn’t seen it, but if this writer was offering him some, it must be a thing. Z hadn’t smoked weed in a while. Besides how much time had passed in heaven and hell, the last time Z had had some weed was about twelve years before he died. He used to love it. But at one point it had taken a turn. What at one time had provided him with relaxed inspiration or a childlike disposition had devolved into the worst type of anxiety. Amplifying thoughts that had no business being given the importance and volume they were given. Those thoughts that were the heckling asshole in the back of the theatre, and weed gave them a microphone. But hey, why not. This would be a new experience, and maybe in hell it would have the opposite effect. Maybe it would make hell just a little bit better.
“Yeah, thanks, I’d love some,” replied Z. With this, the writer picked up the phone on his desk—a landline, no less—and made a call.
Five minutes later a young man, roughly fifteen years old, walked in. He was wearing baggy patchwork corduroy pants and an extra-large green hoodie with a picture of Bob Marley’s face on it. The teen seemed not affected at all with the fact that he was in hell. Z was amazed by this. Even if people weren’t screaming, everyone you came across down here had some sort of energy to them that reflected the utter hugeness of the situation they were in. But this boy, he could have been anywhere. This was all old hat to him. He sat down next to Z and opened his backpack.
“This is Mendel,” said the writer.
Z looked at Mendel. “Nice to meet you.”
Mendel shook Z’s hand. “Yeah, you, too.” Mendel then looked back at the writer. “What is it this time?”
The writer leaned back in his chair. “What have you got?”
With this Mendel’s face grew red. “You know what I’ve got.”
The writer laughed uncomfortably. “Okay, okay, point taken. How about give me a half ounce of Satan’s pubes.” The writer looked at Z and smiled. “It’s the name of the strain. Pretty great, right?”
Z did not think it was great. Not just because it was the lamest name for a marijuana strain he had ever heard, but it also made him think of Satan. And Z still could not think of Satan without deeply longing for him.
Mendel shook his head. “It’s always Satan’s pubes.”
The writer laughed, more comfortably this time. “Why would it be anything else?”
Mendel gave Z a look. “Hope this dick doesn’t want to smoke with you. Take it from me. Big mistake.”
The writer snapped his fingers. “All right, Mr. I Know So Much, just give me the fucking weed.”
Mendel whipped out a glass jar that held neon-green marijuana. He handed it to the writer, who then opened the jar and smelled it. The jar might as well have been opened right under Z’s nose, because the skunk-like scent was so strong he felt the odor sting the inside of the back of his skull. The writer then handed Mendel a small roll of cash. But as soon as Mendel touched the money it turned into dust. Mendel shook his head. This whole sequence had obviously occurred many times before. Mendel then zipped up his backpack, stood up, and made for the door.
“I’ll see you later,” he said to the writer without looking at him. He did look at Z, though. Right before he walked through the door that Z may or may not have used, Mendel turned toward Z. “Nice meeting you, man.” With that he walked out. His departure was immediately followed by the sounds of bloodcurdling screams. Z couldn’t tell if those were Mendel’s or somebody else’s.
The writer then promptly rolled a joint quickly and lit it up.
“This is the best shit you’ll ever smoke. Here, let me show you.” The writer put the joint to his lips and when he exhaled, the cloud of smoke formed a realistic depiction of a baby’s head. Before the smoke separated the baby head gave a horrifying wail. The writer laughed heartily.
“How about that, huh? I told you this is some good shit.” The crying baby’s head was not an incentive as far as Z was concerned, and he declined the offer. The writer shrugged as he took another hit.
“Suit yourself. But for me, this is the only thing that gets me by down here.”
Z leaned back. “What did you mean before?”
“What do you mean what did I mean?” asked the writer as he coughed.
“You said that you knew me . . . in a way,” Z replied.
“Oh, that. Yeah. Well, you see . . . I’m a writer,” said the writer
“I figured,” said Z.
“I know you figured.” The writer grinned. “I know everything you figure. I know everything about you.”
Z readied himself to run. He could feel there was something bad brewing.
“What are you talking about?” asked Z.
The writer then learned forward. “I created you.”
Z had no patience for this. Absolutely no bandwidth for anyone’s psychotic delusional ego-tripping. Z got up and made his way to the door.
“Hey, where you going?” the writer exclaimed, shooting out of his chair.
Z turned toward him. “It’s just . . . Come on, man. I know where this is going. It’s all a little obvious. You’re a writer. You created me. I get it. I don’t really exist. I’m just a figment of your imagination. You’ve written every experience I’ve ever had, including this one. You’ve written my whole experience including now. Huh. It’s just some real low-budget lying, bro. What do you think, I just got to hell? I’m just going to believe what some random writer is telling me? Ooooooh, what’s that on your laptop, huh? I bet it’s everything we’re saying to each other right now, right? Gimme a break.”
“No, what’s happening now I actually wrote last Thursday. Took me a hot minute, actually. I’m really stuck on you. To be honest I don’t find you incredibly interesting. For a second I thought I might scrap you altogether.”
Z nodded. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. I get it. This is all you. Me, that weed-dealing teenager. God, the devil, heaven, hell.”
The writer held up his hand. “No, you got that wrong. Yes, I created you, and the teenager, and pretty much everyone else you’ve met, but not God or the Devil. And not heaven or hell. That’s all real. I just wrote us meeting because, well, to be frank, I needed the company.
“Here.” The writer handed Z his laptop. “You know what, you had a good idea. You should read my laptop. Here, check it out. Let’s nip your disbelief in the bud. I can’t tell you how tired I am of doing dances for people, let alone people I created. Just read and you’ll see and then maybe we can have a real discussion.”
Z reluctantly took the writer’s laptop and started to read. Sure enough, everything that had happened in his life and since his death was written down, to the word. He jumped and shoved the laptop back into the writer’s hands.
“So I’m your creation?” Z asked, wiping a mess of new sweat from his brow.
“Yeah, yeah, you are. I’ve been writing you for God knows how long. Well, God does know, and so does Satan, but I sure don’t. I have no fucking idea how long I’ve been sitting here writing this fucking thing.”
Z didn’t know what to do. He still wasn’t completely convinced. It could all be a trick. Hell didn’t adhere to the rules of logic. The “story” he just read could have magically appeared right after it happened. What if this writer was a demon, because if he was, he could have just cast a spell on the computer to make it type everything they did as they did it. But deep down Z believed what the writer was saying. And every torturing entity he had come across in hell did not have the same constitution as this writer. They did not have the type of stress that this writer did. They did not themselves seem to be tortured. This writer seemed like one of the most stressed-out people he had ever met. Z could tell that the writer not only easily gave in to anxiety and depression, but very likely thrived on it. Really, the only thing he could really do at this point was play along and see what was what.
“Well, if you’re my creator, but you’re not God or Satan, who are you? How does this work? Why are you here? Why are you creating me?”
“Don’t you see? You’re my punishment. This fucking book that you’re a character in is my hell. You see, just like you, I was all geared up to go to heaven, but, just like you, God didn’t like me.”
“Did you tell God they were insecure, too?”
The writer laughed. “No, I’m being punished for a different kind of arrogance. There’s a lot of artistic types down here, actually, and we’re all being punished for thinking that all of . . . this . . .”—as he said “this,” he lifted up his laptop and shook it—“. . . this . . . all of this . . . for stupidly thinking that this can do anything. I thought that what I do might make the world a better place, but God wasn’t cool with that. In God’s mind only they can do that, and apparently, and I wish I knew this sooner, but apparently that’s a true fuck-you to all that is holy. So I’m here, and I gotta write this book for the rest of eternity.”
“What’s the book about, then?” asked Z.
“You know, if anyone else asked me that, I’d be so annoyed, but I wrote you asking me this, so obviously I’m not annoyed. So what’s the book about? Essentially it’s about you and four other characters and you’re all fucking nuts. I describe the book as a comet of deep Jewish anxiety. You’re the soul. Then there’s a child, a teenager—that’s Mendel, who you just met—a guy in his forties who’s a famous comedian, and an incredibly lonely older woman. And the stories themselves basically are all these random slices of your lives. With some of the stories they’re not even necessarily stories. Really, all of the characters are different extreme versions of me. There’s a little autobiography in there, but it’s not really about that. You’re really all just different takes on the darkest parts of my personality. And a lot of it is funny. At least I hope it is.”
Z had had enough. Whether this was real or not, the book sounded terrible. He also had no interest in spending any more time with this writer. Liar or not, he was clearly a narcissist. If it was true, Z was glad. Glad God would punish someone so arrogant. And in this gladness he started to understand his own punishment. He had had a real lack of understanding of things. A real know-it-all attitude about something he didn’t know anything about, and instead of just taking cues and allowing himself to be the new guy in heaven, he’d exerted his false sense of superiority. Maybe what God was teaching him was that humans were just supposed to be humans. Not question so much. Be animals with just a little more know-how, and stay in your lane and not ever think you can contend with things you don’t understand. Maybe art was a test. Maybe ego was a test. Maybe most humans failed, and most belonged in hell.
Who knows, thought Z. All I know is I’ve had enough. I’m tired of it all. And with that, Z disappeared. No exit, just as there was no entrance, and . . .
I sat alone. Alone with my laptop in hell. Kicking myself. Knowing the only thing interesting about me was the fact that I was in hell. Everything else was just paper thin. My hell is my only interesting quality. So, I guess, thank God for that.