Please Help Support CTTA By
Checking Out Our Sponsers Products
See now this is what happens when you
don’t take care of your employees! Replacing Charon By Gustavo Bondoni It
was always ridiculously easy to tell which divisions had good news to share
even before the annual board meeting began.
Marketing, for example had obviously had a tremendous year. Goebbels had chosen a seat right next to the
head of the table. He was sitting
straight on the edge of his chair and looked so eager for the meeting to start
that is was almost painful, in a pathetic sort of way. Others, on the other hand, slouched back from
the table in the smoky recesses of the boardroom, lighting one cigarette after
another. Engineering, in particular,
must have been very nervous after the cave-in, as Leonardo had even shaved his
beard before attending. I could barely
see him in off in the shadows. And
I wasn’t seated particularly close to the Boss anyway. My superior had chosen a point towards the
center of the table, trying to avoid attention one way or another. He was nobody’s fool, this Smith. He had come from a large oil company, and had
only been here thirty years before managing to claw his way to the top through
a combination of ruthless competence and calculated backstabbing. People had made director faster, but
it was unusual. When
the Boss finally did arrive, he did so in the usual fashion, with a cloud of
sulfurous smoke and a loud bang. Showy,
but what was the Company without a bit of pizzazz? It was only my second year as Smith’s
Assistant Director, and had been warned, unnecessary as it was. Last year’s virgin sacrifice on the table
right in front of me had sort of prepared me for just about anything. Blood all over my best suit. Well, it was an accepted fact of life that
the new guy had to pay his dues, so I hadn’t complained. Much.
This year, I was an accepted part of the board, and it was likely that
the brand-new, wet-behind-the-ears, AD for Environmental Control would bear the
brunt of any razzing. The
only thing that still puzzled me is where in Hell they had found the virgin. I had been too afraid to ask at the time, and
was embarrassed to do so now, lest I be ostracized as an innocent. The
Boss called the meeting to order in that inimitable rumbling earthquake of a
voice we had all grown to hate over the decades. Being addressed by the Boss was almost never
good news, and I felt a Pavlovian reaction coming on, my whole body wanted to
dive under the table and be done with it.
Only the fact that past observation had shown this to be a spectacularly
painful course of action kept me from doing so. He
looked us over. His complexion seemed
even deeper red than usual, if that were possible. He was not in a good mood. Off in the distance, I saw Leonardo sink even
lower into his chair. From where I was
seated I could only see the top of his head.
Those cost overruns must have been even worse than I thought. “Would
anyone like to begin?” Asked the Boss.
He said it much too softly.
Despite my short experience in board meetings, something was telling me
this one was going to be a killer. The
nervous fidgeting from my superior only served to confirm my fears. Goebbels,
however, seemed not to notice. It was
either that, or he had unbelievable numbers to show. He jumped right up and said, “Marketing would
like to begin, sir.” The Boss nodded. Goebbels
picked up a magic marker that had been neatly positioned on the table and
walked to a blackboard. He consulted a
sheaf of handwritten notes and began to write as he spoke. “As
you all know,” he began, “our share has been steadily increasing for the last
decade. We are currently at ninety-five
percent and all the tendencies are favorable.
We are increasing penetration across genders, races and religious
groups. We are choking the competition
out of existence. Soon, we will have
everyone, and they will just have to make do with the souls they currently
have.” Ninety-five
percent? No wonder he was just about
bursting with the news. Share hadn’t
been that high since the crusades! But
the Boss didn’t look as happy as I would have expected. He cleared his throat and silence immediately
ensued. “Joseph,
the numbers look good.” He began softly,
but the volume became deafening when he continued. “But why are you showing me them on a
blackboard? Where is your
presentation? You call this
preparation? Your answer had better be
good, because if not, you’ll be shoveling coal for the Eternal Fire
Corporation. Do you have any idea how
long it would take you to make director again from there? The record is three hundred years. And that was Cleopatra. She slept her way back up!” Goebbels looked as if he wanted the floor to
swallow him up at that moment. Then he
looked as if he had remembered that being swallowed up by the floor was not
only possible, but also somewhat unpleasant.
It had a tendency to chew. “All
the systems are down, sir.” He said in a
very small voice. “What? Again?” This was a bellow of unbridled
rage. I shook my head in
admiration. The Boss was really good at
that. “Systems!” “Here,
sir.” A bald guy with a ponytail,
wearing Bermuda shorts and a flowered shirt spoke up from where he was sitting
at the far end of the table. I vaguely
remembered him as the IT Director. The
Boss glared at him. “Why
are my systems down, Socrates?” “I
have no idea, sir. I don’t understand
how any of it works. Something about a
SAP meltdown. Or was that a missing LAN? I don’t know.
Something like that. Anyway, you
should do what I do. Pick up that phone
and dial four sevens, and you’ll reach the helpdesk. I’m not sure how a desk can help, but I find
that it does.” The
Boss glared at him, but said nothing. It
was the answer one expected from an IT director, who was normally promoted
because everyone else on the staff was actually doing work, and were therefore
difficult to replace and hence unpromotable.
He punched the speaker option and we all listened as the phone rang at
some help desk somewhere on a floor a long way below us. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Finally,
a recorded dulcet voice answered. “We’re
sorry, the helpdesk is unavailable at this time, due to the fact the systems
are down. Please call again once you
have solved this problem. Have a nice
day.” Socrates
disappeared in a flash of smoke. The
Boss now directed his glare at the newly promoted IT Director, who had been an
Assistant Director just a moment before.
His horns glinted evilly. “Who’s
in charge?” He roared. “Er,
you are, sir…” The
Boss rolled his eyes. He slammed his
head on the table a few times in frustration.
Steam poured out of his ears.
Still, this one was undeniably great Systems material. “I
meant, who’s in charge of keeping the system up?” He said. “Oh. Er.
That would be Schliemann, sir.”
The new IT Director said, looking up from his notes. “Schliemann?” “Yes,
sir.” “The
archaeologist? The one who’s down here
because he was a gun-runner on the side?” “Actually,
it’s the other one, sir.” “The
other one?” “Yes,
sir. Fred sir. The one who worked for
Microsoft before his accident. According
to my personnel files you selected him yourself.” Said the new IT director. “Oh,
no. Not that one!” “I’m
afraid so.” “Damn. All right, get him on the line.” The Boss didn’t look at all hopeful that a
satisfactory solution could possibly be found.
The phone rang again. This time,
no one answered. The
Boss let out a bellow of absolute rage.
He looked evilly at the IT Director, who cringed behind the table. The
Boss snapped his fingers and an unshaven, stocky guy in his underwear
materialized out of thin air, looking very irritated. This, in itself, was very unusual. When summoned by the Boss, one usually felt
confusion (if it was your first time) or abject terror (always). “Hello
Fred.” The Boss’ tail moved from side to
side. I don’t know what that meant, but
I took it to be a bad sign. Another bad
sign was that Fred hadn’t materialized in just any way. He was suspended upside-down in the air about
a foot above the meeting table. The Boss
punctuated his greeting by dropping the hapless engineer headfirst onto the
table before lifting him back into his position. Fred responded by looking even more
irritated. Evidently, he wasn’t
completely devoid of self-preservatory instincts, as he actually kept his mouth
shut. “Fred,
I have a problem.” He began. Fred said nothing. “My
systems seem to be down.” “No,
the systems work just fine,” said Fred.
The Boss bounced him off the table again. “As I
was saying before being interrupted so rudely, my systems seem to be down. This makes it impossible for us to conduct
the normal procedure for this meeting, as we can’t use the overhead projector.” “E-mail’s
down too.” Interjected Goebbels. “Oh,”
said Fred, evidently understanding what they were talking about. “Those
systems! They’re not actually down. It’s just that we reallocated the memory we
normally use to keep them online to a process with higher priority. It’s just a temporary measure.” “Temporary?
It’s been down for a week!” Goebbels
seemed to be desperate that someone else take the blame. Heads nodded around the table. “That
long? Hmmmm.” Fred looked as if this
were news to him. He also looked as if
it would have been news to him had someone been so bold to state that the sun
should rise in the morning. The Boss
looked at him in a strange way, and when he spoke, it was in that soft,
dangerous voice of his. “What,
if, of course, I may ask, is this high priority process you are running?” He purred.
He bounced Fred lightly off the top of the table just to make sure he
had his full attention. “Er…
We’re conducting a simulation.” Said Fred. “A
simulation?” “Er… Yes.
Er.” The
Boss looked at him skeptically and bounced him off the table. Even from my vantage point a few yards
distant, I could tell that the table had been dented in quite a few places by
this treatment. “Ouch!”
Exclaimed Fred, rubbing his head. “What
was that for?” “Just
on general principles. What kind of
simulation are you running?” “We
are running a simulation in which selected employees of the company and outside
elements resolve difficult computer-generated scenarios through the application
of teamwork and advanced tactical thinking under stressful and highly
changeable conditions.” Said Fred. “As
you can imagine, this takes up quite a large chunk of memory, as there are
currently over ten thousand individuals involved.” The
Boss looked at him. He was turning
purple. I had never seen him quite this
angry before. The steam coming out of
his ears was melting a hole in the asbestos tiling of the roof. For a moment, he actually looked too angry to
speak, but finally got a hold of himself and managed. “You’re
(bounce) playing (bounce) Counter-Strike (bounce) again, (bounce, bounce,
bouncety-bounce, bounce) aren’t you (bounce, bounce! BOUNCE! Crunch!)? Answer
me!” Fred
said something that was difficult to decipher, mainly due to the fact that his
head had finally broken through the wood of the table, and his voice was coming
from underneath it. From my vantage
point, it looked as though a particularly ugly five-foot tall fungus had
sprouted from the table and grown, for some unfathomable reason, arms and legs.
It also had bad taste in unclean boxer
shorts. Striking
a blow for intelligibility, although probably a great blow against the concept
of meaningful communication, the Boss pulled Fred back out of the hole. “What?” Said the Boss. Fred looked at him resentfully. “I
said it’s actually a modified version of Counter-Strike which allows more
players.” “And
you’ve had several of my employees tied up with this for over a week?” “A
few thousand, yes.” By this time, Fred
had given up trying to bluff his way out of it and had accepted the fact that
he’d have to face the issues put in front of him. “It
ends now.” “Sorry,
can’t do that.” An
impressive sheet of flame engulfed the engineer, who screamed wildly and
writhed in pain. I looked away, not
wanting to watch. When
I finally looked back, I immediately regretted it, although not for the reasons
one might expect. It transpired that
Fred hadn’t actually been harmed by the flame, except for having had all the
hair burned from his body.
Unfortunately, said flame had also burned off the boxer shorts. While they had been grubby, smelly and had
been stamped with what were possibly the ugliest green flamingoes I had ever
had the misfortune of being unable to avoid seeing, they were sorely missed. “How
about now?” Said the Boss. “I
still can’t. God knows I want to.” The whole building shook. “Oops sorry about that, Boss, it just slipped
out. The problem is that we programmed
the machine so that if anyone tries to end the program prematurely, the whole
thing shuts down and formats all the company’s computers.” “Why
did you do that?” Fred
Shrugged. “In case management found out
and tried to stop us.” “Oh.” The boss considered this, and thought it
sounded reasonable enough. “Can’t you
unplug it?” “That
doesn’t work. After the last
cost-cutting measures, we were ordered to save electricity. We asked them how, and they told us to unplug
the computers or something. We’ve been
running the computers unplugged for the last four years, and they don’t seem to
notice. Physics is pretty weird around
here, in case you haven’t noticed.” It
was hard to argue with this, especially as it was coming from someone suspended
upside-down a foot above a table, and who, furthermore, had materialized there
mere minutes before. “Damn!” Said the Boss. Fred
disappeared, presumably to finish his game of Counter-Strike. I couldn’t understand it; I had seen the Boss
cut people of Fred’s station slowly into small cubes for failing to hit the
ground hard enough with their heads when groveling. Yet this act of gross insubordination had
gone unpunished. “HR!” The boss bellowed. Uh, oh, that meant us! And he was really, really pissed now. “Here,”
said Smith. He straightened in his chair
and was all business now. “What
can I do to him? Can I grind him into
mincemeat and keep him alive so I can burn the little pieces?” “No
sir, he’s on loan from Purgatory Ozone Inc., where he was assigned. We’re not supposed to damage him in any
permanent way.” Ahhh! That explains it! “I
can put him back together afterwards!” “Sorry
sir. The contract is very specific about
that. Anything that would cause
permanent harm were he still alive is strictly off limits.” The
Boss looked despondent for a second, but brightened quickly. “Can
I at least turn him into a slug for the duration of his contract?” He looked at us hopefully. “I’m
not sure…” Smith began. The Boss silenced him with a wave and snapped
his fingers. “There. It’s done.
I don’t care. It’s Legal’s
problem now.” Off in the distance,
Mephistopheles gave him a sour look, but wisely said nothing. “Now,”
continued the boss, “let’s get to the real business.” Smith relaxed, and Leonardo went even deeper
into his chair. All I could see was the
tip of his pointy hat, as the boss consulted his notes. “Smith!” Oh,
no! This was us. We straightened and listened intently to what
the boss had to say. It was possible
that the rest of our eternal existence would hinge on the events of the next
few minutes. “It
has come to my attention that Charon has decided to leave the company. Can you confirm this?” “Er,
yes,” said Smith, “but I wasn’t going to bring it up. I don’t think a low level employee like that
was important enough for a board meeting.”
Smith sniffed. “Barely a
nuisance, I would say.” I immediately
saw from the Boss’ face that this had not been the best thing to say. “A
nuisance? A nuisance? He’d been with us
for six thousand years! He was with me
when all this –” He gestured around him, making it completely unclear whether
he was referring to the boardroom, the building, or Hell itself, “- When all
this was just a few guys in a shack trying to get a few souls away from the
Almighty. When, if we had to punish
someone, he would have to wait for us to find someone else with some spare time
on his hands to build the fire. But even
then, when we were so poor, I could count on Charon guarding the river! He didn’t even say goodbye. Could you tell me how you managed to bungle
your job so badly that one of my most trusted and loyal employees felt the need
to leave?” “There
was a conflict over profit sharing and obnoxious fat women.” “Explain.” “He
insisted that it was his right to keep the coins given him for passage, and
also that his habit of pushing paying customers into the River Styx if they
irritated him was perfectly acceptable.
He had a special problem with loud fat women. We determined that both practices were bad
for business and ordered him to stop.”
Smith shrugged. “He quit. We can replace him easily enough. It’s not as if the qualifications for the job
are particularly stringent; all you really have to do is be able to pole a boat
across a river. And stand around looking
enigmatic and menacing. Child’s play.” The Boss
nodded. “I
disagree,” he said. Smith
disappeared. He turned and looked at
me. I swallowed very hard. “Your
predecessor and former supervisor will spend the next ten centuries roasting
slowly over a small fire. This sort of
punishment is unusual in the extreme for board members. I usually just send you back to the very
lowest and dirtiest job available, with thousands of levels of management
between you and me. I enjoy watching the
progress as you try to make your way back up.
This time I made an exception. I
tell you this only because I want you to understand how angry I am at your
department right now. Are we clear?” I
nodded, not trusting myself to speak. “Good. You have a week to bring me a recommendation
on who to place in Charon’s position until you get him back.” “Yes
sir.” I said. I had
no idea how I was going to accomplish either of those tasks, but I was aware
that failure was not an option. Meanwhile,
the Boss had, finally, turned his attention to Engineering, in the end deciding
to disband the whole department and assign their projects to a newly created
joint office for interior decoration and Yoga headed by Attila the Hun. I
barely noticed. I was thinking about
where in the world I would go if I was Charon, essentially tattered black robes
wrapped around a frame of sticks with glowing red eyes, to lie low and be hard
to find. This was going to be a tough
one. *** Charon, in fact, had just ordered his second double Scotch on the rocks
in the Pink Butterfly, a gay bar in Fort Lauderdale, chosen mainly on the
strength of the fact that Charon knew almost nothing about human customs,
straight or otherwise, and also on the fact that he had decided, after a bit of
soul-searching that he rather liked butterflies after all. Although
he wasn’t aware of it, his choice was quite fortuitous, seeing as how a gay bar
is the sort of place where an entity that doesn’t conform to society’s stuffy
structures is least likely to draw comments or even to be looked at askance. Even if that entity is obviously not human,
looks like a stick figure wrapped in tattered black robes and has only one, or
rather two, facial features: glowing red
eyes. He
was talking to the barman, who, despite being extremely open minded both on
general principles and as a very habitat-specific survival trait, was not
enjoying the conversation at all. “So,”
Said the barman, “I don’t think I’ve seen you around before.” “No,”
Replied Charon. His voice was like the
wind over the mountains. “But I knew
your grandmother, Frida.” “That
can’t be. Frida’s been dead for over
fifty years!” “Yes. I met her shortly after that.” There
was an uncomfortable silence as man and immortal entity mulled this over in
silence. One lost in reverie, thinking
of simpler, better times, the other wondering if it would be all right if he
simply spared everyone some time and went mad right away. The barman was saved from having to answer
by Charon’s next comment, which was the one that made it impossible for him to
sleep for the next six months. “Fat
and loud. I took her penny and tossed
her into the river.” Charon fixed the
barman with his terrible glowing gaze.
“Is that so bad? What’s wrong
with an entity simply enjoying the pleasure of watching an immortal soul be
torn to shreds by the nameless creatures of the River Styx? Can you tell me?” No
answer was forthcoming. “I
need more scotch,” said Charon. The
barman fled. “Wow,”
said a voice from Charon’s right, whose owner was dressed in a dark green suit
“I’ve always thought that mysterious supernatural entities were much more
worthwhile than other men. I mean, men
are all the same. Do you know what I
mean?” “I
know what you mean. I also know much
more than you can even imagine,” said Charon. “About?” “Life. Death.
The eternal soul. Everything.” “Do
you know about Macadamia nuts?” “Yes.” “And
the music of Barry White?” “Unfortunately,
yes.” “Wow,
let me buy you a drink.” And
so it was that when that guy finally left, another took his place, followed by
a third, and so on until about seven in the morning. The stack of pieces of paper with phone
numbers written on them that Charon carried out of the bar could have done for
a who’s who of the most desperate men in the Miami area. He also hadn’t paid for a single one of the
drinks he had had that night, which was a fortunate thing, as most of the
coinage he carried was not likely to be accepted or even recognized in a bar on
Las Olas Boulevard. It was also
fortunate because he had consumed about two thousand dollars worth of whisky. Which
likely explains the fact that he never even saw the car that knocked him
halfway down the block when he tried to cross the street. *** The
boss popped into my office and dropped something on my desk. He popped back out. My
heartbeat returned to normal, and, as the sulphurous smoke slowly cleared, I
was able to make out a copy of the Miami Herald that hadn’t been there
before. It had a yellow note stuck onto
it, which said, “Yours, I think.” This
being The Company, and the boss being the boss, I was sure the note was not
referred to good news or a high point in my career. Anything else, however, I was willing to
believe. And
it didn’t take me long to spot the bad news.
This is not due to any overly large capacity for analysis on my part,
but was mainly due to the fact that the bad news was printed just below the
words “Miami” and “Herald”, and was, moreover, composed of bold lettering two
inches high. The words said: “Immortal being fails to dodge Dodge”. And there was a photo of what was,
unmistakably, Charon just below this. He
was on a stretcher. Unsurprisingly,
this did nothing improve my mood. I
sighed and turned the TV to CNN, where a man in a white lab coat was holding
court, surrounded by microphones wielded by a great number of presumably
dangerous individuals. The audio filled
my office. “Dr.
Ross, how would you describe Charon’s condition at this time?” “Er. We would describe it as undead and stable.” “So
he’s alive?” “Er… No.” “So
he’s dead, then?” “No. We can definitely state that he’s not dead.” “How
do you know? Have you taken his pulse?” “We
tried that, but couldn’t actually find any arteries. No breath either.” “So
how can you say that he’s not dead?” “Well,
son, in all my years practicing medicine, I have yet to encounter a dead
patient with a hangover as bad as the one Charon seems to be describing.” “Dr.
Ross, what…” I
turned the TV off and thought about Miami.
The last time I had been to Miami was with Ponce de Leon. I needed help. I
thought about it for a while before deciding that I would take the systems guy
with me. I had looked through his file
thoroughly after the last board meeting, just in case the boss wanted any
additional information. He had died
quite recently, and would probably know about Miami. Plus, I had decided that this was all his
fault, so he should have to atone. So I
walked down to his office. I
found it easily, as it is not very difficult for anyone in any company to
deduce that the door with the sign that says “no entrance - beware of leopard”
on it always leads to computer geeks. Unfortunately,
the company was the company, and the geeks had somehow managed to get hold of a
leopard, which they had trained, it seemed, to jump on anyone who opened the
door and rip out his or her throat, which did nothing for my mood. Eventually,
the leopard was called off from inside the room, allowing me to stand up and
heal painfully. Fortunately, the process
was quick. Hell would be rather
pointless if suffering could be ended by something as simple as having your
throat torn out by a leopard. The boss
was much more creative than that, having had all of eternity to practice. I saw
Schliemann sitting at a terminal putting together a 3-D animation which seemed
to involve robotic animals doing something very graphic to a mermaid, although
I was never very good at deciphering modern art. “Hello,
Schliemann,” I said. He
turned to face me. “You’ve
been seconded to human resources for a special project,” I lied. I explained the situation to him, which
seemed to make him unhappy in the extreme. “You
want me to go to Miami? I hate
Miami. You have to be fit or cool or
Cuban to be in Miami. I mean, they would
have discriminated against me when I was alive, I don’t even want to think
about how they’ll react to me now. I can
just imagine trying to get into a nightclub…”
Tuning
out Schliemann’s ramble, I pulled out my phone and called the transport
department. “Get
me a hotel room in Miami. And rig the
computers so they think I have a reservation.
Send Schliemann in first, dematerialize him slowly, I’ll follow in
five.” Schliemann
shut up when he started disintegrating.
He gave me a betrayed look and opened his mouth. Cutting
him off quickly, I told him to get us a room.
Then I sat down to wait my turn, looking at his computer screen and
trying to figure out if the mermaid was anatomically correct or the product of
a seriously deranged imagination. I was
still undecided when I was whisked to Miami. *** Most
reporters would have given anything to be the first in history to get an
exclusive interview with a supernatural being.
For this reason, Charon should have been surprised at the lack of
newshounds outside the hospital, even at four in the morning. Nevertheless, even reporters have to give
priority to important subjects over merely earth-shaking ones, so they were all
on stakeout outside Madonna’s island house.
Rumor had it her dog had died in suspicious circumstances. So
the hospital entrance was deserted, allowing Charon to simply walk out of the
hospital. He had eventually stopped
complaining about his headache and just laid still, until, not knowing what
else to do with a nonbreathing entity with glowing red eyes, the hospital staff
had finally decided to stow him away in a large drawer in the morgue. After a while, Charon had simply pushed open
the drawer and walked out. The choice of
four in the morning was a fortuitous one, as the bodies habitually discovered
in the early morning in Miami would not begin arriving for another couple of
hours. He
walked aimlessly down the deserted streets until, at length, he arrived at the
mouth of a dark alley in the downtown area, and suddenly felt extremely
homesick. The dark, pointless emptiness
and foul smell reminded him of home. It
suddenly hit him exactly how much he missed the sulfurous fires, the eternal
darkness and the screams of tortured souls.
Even the fat women weren’t all that bad when you came right down to it. Going
back was out of the question. Smith had
made it perfectly clear that in today’s modern company there was no room for
what Smith called his “barbaric habits and idiosyncrasies”. That door was closed to him forever. He
knew that there were excellent pits of suffering and despair available on this
world, where a soul could exist in the blissful knowledge that other people
were suffering considerably more than he was.
But he also knew, instinctively, that no matter how far he wandered in
this world, he would never fit in completely. Had
he been human, this would have been the place where he simply broke down and
cried. This was, sadly, impossible for
him to do at the moment. He actually
found himself wishing that he could, as he suspected it would make him feel
enormously better. So, being unable to
find a better use for his time, he just stood and looked at the wall of the
alley. To his surprise, the wall had
been written upon in human script.
Obviously not by a Marketing genius, as a sign here was only visible if
one should happen to be standing exactly in Charon’s present position. He
painstakingly deciphered the human script.
The writing said ‘Shark Territory - Keep Out’. Reading this, Charon looked around
nervously. He knew about sharks. They were similar to the creatures that lived
in the river Styx. The ones that tore
apart the souls he threw into it. He
was quite relieved that no sharks had entered the alleyway while he was
distracted, and that he was alone with seven youthful humans in red jackets. “You’d
better leave before the sharks arrive,” Charon said to them, motioning at the
writing while he moved towards the mouth of the alley. “Nasty creatures, sharks.” “You
don’t say,” said one of the humans, moving to block his path. “Yes,
really. Look.” It suddenly occurred to Charon that, perhaps,
this human was unable to read. He
understood that this happened with alarming frequency among the living. “The sign on the wall clearly states this. Be careful.” The
young human looked stunned. He turned to
his companions without getting out of Charon’s way. “It
seems we have a comedian here tonight.”
The group snickered. “What are
you, a cop?” “No,”
replied Charon, “I’m a Ferryman.” The
effect on the group was immediate. There
was no more smiling they all shifted position slightly, and looked somehow more
menacing than before. “I’ve
never heard of your gang, although I gotta admit the uniforms are an inspired
touch. Black robes stand out and have a
very sinister air, and all. But I also
think you’ve made a very big mistake coming into this alley alone. You see we’re in a really bad mood right
now. You must understand that Rico got
busted again tonight, and we’ve been out looking for the rat. And I think we just found him.” “I’m
not a rat,” said Charon, who wasn’t. It
was obvious that these people not only couldn’t read, they also seemed to be
extremely dense. “I’m a Ferryman.” “Do
you really think we will let you walk in and take over our territory? Your friends the Ferrymen are going to get a
message tonight. And you’re going to be
the message. Goodbye, rat.” “I
told you, I’m not-” The rest of what Charon had to say was lost under the
barrage of chains and baseball bats that suddenly seemed to fly at him from
everywhere at once. The youths beat him
until he fell over, and then continued to work him over on the ground. This went on for about fifteen minutes. “Is
he dead yet?” Charon
moved. The youths began to hit him
again. “How
about now?” “I
don’t know.” Answered another. “Well,
check, then!” “No
pulse, Mikey.” “Let’s
run, then.” Said the leader. They were almost at the mouth of the alley
when the dead man they were leaving on the ground spoke to them. What he said, while not overly deep, would
haunt them forever. “Ouch,”
said Charon, sitting up. He then
realized that sitting up had been a bad idea and lay down again for a bit. *** “What
do you mean, he’s gone?” I was
furious. I was bewildered. I was aghast.
For some reason, I was also extremely unsurprised. It had just been one of those weeks. “He
left, sir.” The nurse seemed very put upon. She explained to me that the
journalists hadn’t believed her either, and they were tired and cranky. They had also had a bad night. Finding nobody to give them any explanation
about the death of the dog, they had decided to take matters into their own
hands and forced the gate. It was at
this time that they discovered that Madonna’s dog was very much alive, and that
it was a well trained attack Doberman.
The survivors had returned to the hospital after that, and not only did
they not believe her, they thought she was part of the cover-up. “And nobody saw him?” “No,
sir.” “He’s
a skeleton wrapped in tattered robes with glowing red eyes and no face, for
God’s sake! How could nobody have noticed him?
Are you all blind as well as stupid?” Judging
by the reaction of two large orderlies, this was probably the wrong thing to
say. But I still think that they could have at least tried to avoid hitting the
tree when they threw me out. It’s a good
thing I was already dead, because the landing would otherwise have taken much
longer to heal. Some
minutes later, I was back at the hotel. “So,
how did it go?” asked Schliemann. “Unless
you want to be reassigned to sewage disposal for the rest of eternity, you will
shut up until I speak to you again. Are
we clear?” “That
bad, huh?” I sat
down and tried to do the usual mental exercises. Where would I go if I was Charon? I just had too much trouble finding any sort
of emphatic bond with an entity quite that alien. And
then it hit me. I had tools I could
use. Twenty-five years in HR had taught
me quite a lot. “Schliemann,”
I said, “I need you to call the Miami Herald.
I need to place an ad in the jobs classifieds.” “I
don’t the boss is going to let you walk out of this one, even if you do get a
job here.” He smirked. “Shut
up and listen. I want the ad to say the
following: ‘Wanted: being to ferry tourists to the Keys. Perks include being allowed to throw
obnoxious fat women into shark-infested waters.
Experience with the supernatural a plus.’” I was happy with it, and it seemed to me that
Charon would eventually have to read it, as he would probably be feeling as lost
as I was trying to find him. Eventually,
I was sure he would try to get a job, just in order to fit in. And the text of the ad was ideally suited to
our quarry. We
set it up simply. We would conduct the
interview in the hotel room itself. I would stand behind the door and hit
Charon over the head with a lead pipe that I had brought along for this
purpose. Then we would skedaddle back to
Hell, and install him on his boat with an unbreakable contract and a
raise. I admired my own brilliant plan. I
went to bed feeling smug. And awoke the
next morning feeling smug. I felt incredibly
smug when the doorbell rang early the next morning and unbelievably so as I
swung the pipe. My
smugness ended abruptly when I noticed I had brained an ordinary-looking fellow
clutching a newspaper. I
asked Fred to hold the fort while I disposed of the body. In the end, we had over five hundred
responses to the ad, none of them from Charon.
Men, women, old, young, fat, thin, and even one guy who claimed to be
the Phantom of the Opera. Fred turned
them all away. It
was nearly eight at night when I finally decided to call it quits. I was absolutely dejected by this turn of
events. The knock at the door surprised
me, and I was unprepared when Charon walked in.
It seemed to me that he was limping, but perhaps it was just my
imagination. “I’m
here about the job.” He said. “Do
you have any pertinent experience?” Fred
was quite accomplished at repeating this line by now. “I
was the Ferryman at the river Styx for over six thousand years.” “Very
impressive. Do you have your resume with
you?” “No.” Charon seemed to deflate, which was a neat
trick coming from a being with almost no mass to begin with. “I suppose you’ll tell me I can’t work here
without one. He turned to leave. And ran into me. “Not
necessarily, I said smoothly. We just
need you to sign here and you can start tomorrow.” Charon
signed the proffered contract. I
couldn’t believe how easy this had been. “Welcome
back, Charon.” I smiled and hit him with
the pipe. *** All
in all, thought Charon, it could have been worse. At first, he had been furious, but then he
realized that nobody had complained when he started throwing fat women into the
river again. Emboldened
by this, he decided that anyone wearing hats would also fall in. And still no complaints. He eventually expanded this to include people
with a British accent. But
the people he most enjoyed “accidentally” throwing overboard were anybody and
everybody from Miami, especially all the people he had met. Miami had not been good to him, so he wasn’t
being good to it. And as for the gang
that had beaten him up, he was content to wait.
They weren’t likely to go to heaven, and he had made a special
arrangement with the dark denizens of the river for their disposal. They
would be here. And he would be waiting. Life
was good.