Sign Here(8)

I had heard people mention the Downstairs like that—like it was any other floor—but I wasn’t expecting it from her. A millennium Downstairs was a rough way to start, even if it was a relatively short stay. I looked at her as she sipped her beer, eyes closed. I could feel her knee next to mine, bouncing slightly beneath the bar. She looked small and timid. Gun-shy. I wondered if she had always been that way, or if the Downstairs had done it.

“A millennium Downstairs, huh? I started on Second. I spent a lot of time Downstairs, what with working the factory line and all, so I know it. I know it very well. But obviously . . . well, it’s a different experience. Are you—how did you—”

“I’ll tell you; I prefer it up here!” Cal said, and she pushed her glass against mine so it clinked, a hopeful sound.

I took the hint.

“So, what do you think of our fine department so far?” I picked through the bowl of peanuts, looking for anything but empty shells. I thought about waving Jack down and asking for more, but decided against it. It’s important to stay on your bartender’s good side.

“It’s . . . well, can I tell you the truth?”

I grabbed a peanut shell and put it in my mouth, just to taste the salt. Or Hell’s version of salt, rather, which is more like skin two days after the beach.

“Of course,” I said. “I’m very trustworthy.”

Cal laughed. “Didn’t the whole team have a How to Be Trustworthy training session not too long ago?”

“You’ll be so convincing, you’ll start to trust yourself!” I said, mimicking the poster.

“Honestly, I’m still reeling. I’m so grateful to be here—I mean, I’m so grateful. But I can’t help thinking they made some kind of mistake. There’s no way I can keep up with you all. I mean, just look at Trey! He is so impressive . . . I could never sell like him.”

“Trey?” I exhaled out my nose, quick but obvious. “You could definitely outsell Trey.”

“But in our meeting today, he got a Complete Set! And I know the last time he got a Complete Set, he was awarded with memory clearance, right? Isn’t that basically unheard of—getting so many Complete Sets you are allowed to investigate people’s memories?”

I cracked my neck. “Yeah, he did get memory clearance. I was there when KQ gave him the honors. She did a whole ceremony after his fourth Complete Set. But it’s really not that rare. Not at all. It hasn’t happened in a while, sure, but it happens plenty.”

“He just seems like a really hard worker.”

“Trey wouldn’t know hard work if it killed him. He’s a bar snake.”

“A what?”

“A bar snake. He hangs out at bars and gets deals from the drunks at two in the morning. If that’s hard work, sign me up.”

“Well, as long as we’re being honest, he does seem a little . . .”

“Asshat-ish?” I finished. Cal laughed, more loudly than we had been talking, a burst of a laugh that made me think of a dry riverbed after it rains. Of water moving freely, the way it should.

We finished our beers, chatting in between sips but not really saying anything. It had been a while since I’d shared a beer with someone; I tried not to make friends in Hell. But it was nice, sitting there with her.

“Wow, it got late!” she said when we stepped outside. I could tell from that alone that Cal had had a good time. The sky doesn’t change in Hell the way it does for you. Our sky is caught forever in gray scale, hazy enough to make you feel like an intruder upon a sleeping world but bright enough to leave everyone squinting. The ending of one day or the beginning of another, just the same. So when she said it had gotten late, she didn’t mean we were so captivated that the world around us had gone on turning and we hadn’t even noticed. Rather, she meant the time we had spent together had passed quickly. They might sound like the same thing, but there’s a difference between finding something so entrancing that you are able to forget, for even just a minute, the ticking pressure of mortality, and feeling pleasantly surprised that the contents of your daily slop-bucket of time are less rotten than usual. You would’ve eaten the rot just fine, but this was . . . better.

That’s the highest compliment anyone can get here.

“Hey, listen, I want to say thank you for tonight. It’s been a weird transition, and it’s nice to know I have a—well, it’s nice to see a friendly face.”

“My friendly face is here for your enjoyment whenever you need it!” I said. I could feel the beer toasting me from the inside, and her words and my warmth combined to make me want to do something crazy. I wanted to hug her. I almost did it too. I really almost hugged her. But she started walking before I remembered how it worked: putting your arms around another person. Where would my hands go? What if her hair got in my mouth? In the end, urge lost to etiquette, and I watched her walk away.

Did humans hug in their caves? I went back into Jack’s and thought about it the rest of the night. Who was the first person to seek comfort in another? Did it work?

And if not, who was brave enough to try again?





MICKEY





MICKEY HARRISON HATED SOCCER. But she hated it less than piano or ballet, and her parents had nothing else to do with her in the afternoons. Even though she hated it, Mickey was good at soccer. She had the right kind of body: one long line, knees and elbows that looked like cartoon dog bones. No cleavage, nothing to get in the way. And she could run without getting winded. She could run for miles.