Hell and Back

Well, it’s official. I went to Hell. We all saw this coming, of course, but maybe not so soon. And it’s nothing like the land of fire and brimstone depicted in the Bible (that’s a blatant assumption, of course. I’ve yet to read it). No, Hell is the collections department of the Cleveland Public Utilities building.

Hell tricks you into thinking “hey, this might not be Hell” with its soothing blue and gray color scheme, spacious black leather benches and the clean, white light emanating from the wall sconces. But no one is fooled for long.

First, you’re forced to take a number like you’re at some sort of futuristic deli. Judging from my companions in the waiting area, this deli only serves Spam and canned cheese product. Digital screens along the top of the wall tell you that you only have, oh, 32 Spam-eaters to go before it’s your turn to speak to the people behind the glass.

You take a seat among your fellow sinners. Keep in mind most people are here because their water got shut off. Lost in a sea of unwashed skin tags and swampy asscracks, you look to the clock for solace. Of course, the clock doesn’t work. Also, the 12, 3, 6 and 9 positions of the clock are all marked with a single teardrop. This is because every fifteen minutes or so, you want to burst into tears.

Also, I think this lobby is where people bring their babies to cry. It seems statistically impossible that there wasn’t a crying baby in Cleveland that wasn’t occupying this very room. Many of them were strewn about the floor and forgotten like they were those annoying flyers the Jesus people hand out downtown. Every few minutes, a janitor would come and sweep up the babies into a giant dustpan (well, that’s what I was fantasizing would happen. They actually just laid there and cried and filled their unwashed onesies with caca-doodie).

So you continue to wait and listen to every transaction up at the window. The conversation is always the same, and it always sounds like a mugging.

Bitchy Teller: Give me $325 dollars.
Filthy Sinner: But I don’t have $325 dollars.
Bitchy Teller: Well, then give me whatever you’ve got.
Filthy Sinner: I…I don’t have any money on me.
Bitchy Teller: You holding out on me, bitch? Let’s see that ATM card, then. You got an ATM card? Alright, let’s go to the ATM, you and me.
Filthy Sinner: Oh-oh-okay, just please don’t hurt me. I have kids…they’re somewhere on the floor around here.

Over and over again, until it’s finally your turn to face the window. After six months of trying to fight this injustice—after two inspections, one letter, dozens of phone calls and about 14 hours of that GODDAMN HOLD MUSIC, you are giving up. The teller sizes you up momentarily and then goes to work figuring how much of the $727.00 water bill they’re going to mug from you today, and how much you will get to pay each month for the rest of your time on earth. During her calculations, you make the mistake of pleasantly pointing out that your last name is misspelled in the system. She briefly raises an eyebrow at you and then quickly returns to crunching numbers, BECAUSE YOUR VERY EXISTENCE DOESN’T MATTER.

Without a word, you are given a piece of paper with a dollar amount on it and then corralled into another waiting area. Everyone stands in line like cattle before the slaughter—pathetic, defeated, staring bleary-eyed at the number on the piece of paper. You hear a woman behind you muttering the same mantra over and over again. “Se-ven-ty dollars a month—I don’t believe this shit. Se-ven-ty dollars a month—that is some shit. Se-ven-ty dollars a month.” A crying baby rolls by like a tumbleweed.

The cashier offers you the first smile of the day as she stamps the check and deftly erases $250 from your possession. It’s the kind of smile that knowingly asks “hey there, how’d you like that raping?” Soon after, she dismisses you with a “you’re all done”, like she’s just delivered the last of a painful series of rabies injections.

And then you shuffle out, flat broke, but at least able to shower for another three months. You pass a whole throng of new sinners as you leave, who collectively smell like a thousand broccoli farts trapped in an armpit.

That’s…pretty much it. Not much more to tell you. Hell is just as scary and awful of a place as you’d imagine—but instead of flames and pitchforks, you’re tormented by thieves and unwashed baby factories.

In other news: YAY 4,000 HITS! Thanks to all of my friends and family who still check out this silly little blog. I’d just like you to know that you’re all getting an expensive jar of Cleveland city water for Christmas. Because I love you all that much.

Hugs,
Steph