Chapter Seventy Three

I've never used an "Exit" sign to find a way out of a room. Never. I remember seeing them in darkened theaters and airplanes but never once followed their plea.

There was one in the office of Foote, Carp, and Thor where I had worked as an accountant but the only time I noticed it was once, during the Christmas season, somebody had hung a piece of mistletoe from it with duct tape.

That was the only time I ever kissed Lynette.

The far end of the room could only be seen by squinting and a door that looked like the entrance to a restaurant kitchen, with pleated and padded leather on the front and two circular porthole windows gently swinging in the distance. Above it was a red, blinking, "Exit" sign. The letters were so small that I couldn't actually read the word, but I recognized the general shape. I walked briskly towards the it.

To the right of the door was the kind of clock they used to have in the classrooms at William Henry Harrison Elementary, where I had filled a miniature desk with my tiny, prepubescent body. It was large, black and white, and protected by a thick, wire shield. The minute and second hand arrived together at the top of the hour and a loud, obnoxious alarm broke the deathly silence in the room.

Human beings by the hundreds, spilled in, flowing into the cubicles and around me like gravy pouring onto a blob of gray, mashed potatoes. Still having 360 degree vision, my mind was overwhelmed with the sheer numbers of faces and physiques as they enveloped me like an ocean wave.

I could see no difference between what I was seeing and what you would normally find in your average, big city office building. There were men in shiny suits and women with their hair pushed back and wrapped around their heads like cake frosting. I saw men that looked disheveled and under-slept. A few women had put too much makeup on their faces, applied so unevenly that it appeared to have been performed while riding on bumpy, public transport.

Alan Bob Johnson looked just as I had remembered him, trying to push his sloppy way between a slickly dressed, ladies man and one of the frosting women. His white, stained shirt was too small for the beef on his stocky frame and his collar was flapping upward, revealing the thin black string of a tie underneath. He was sweating.

I had worked with Al-Bob at the accounting firm. His presence here gave me the thought that this must be hell because I don't remember him ever being happy for even one day at Foote, Carp and Thor. Let me tell you right now that this is not hell. I was completely wrong to assume so. As it turns out, some people really love to complain and be unhappy. To some people, Hell IS Heaven.

"Alan! It's me Marty!" I pushed my way through the crowd at met him at his desk.

"Marty!" Al-Bob gave me a hug and I instantly felt a little dirty.

"What are you doing here?

"Dead Marty." He spoke in the high pitched voice of a man with a tiny penis. "Freak accident a couple of months ago. I opened the door of my pickup to spit out some chaw and I'll be damned if Chester the Molester didn't come speeding by in that damned little Mitsubishi of his and decaptivate my whole Goddamn head."

"Sounds bad"

"Didn't feel a fuckin thing Marty. One second I'm spittin and the next second I'm talkin to my late Grandfather Moe." He opened the drawer of his desk and pulled out a tin can and spit a drippy wad pretty close to making it entirely in the container.

"I see it didn't put you off the chew!" I tried to hide my smirk.

"Skoal Marty, Skoal!" He spit again, this time hitting the can dead center.

"How'd you end up here Al-Bob?"

"Geez I hate this place. They were so behind with replacing the body parts of the dead that as soon as they put my head back on, they asked me to stay and take charge of quality control. I'm constantly fielding complaints and fixing fuck-ups." His phone rang and he held his pudgy little index finger to signal me that he needed to take the call. "Yea yea, I'm listening. Open your hole and give me the poop."

"You what? Listen, this is by no means a funny thing to do. I realize that you have a natural dislike for suicide bombers, but you can't be messin with their parts. Take his feet off of his arms and his hands off his legs and start over. I don't care! Just do it! Nobody's forgettin how you put that one camel jockey's dick on the end of his tongue. That was just plain gross...especially when he ran into that dead model, whats her name, and got a boner." He held his porky hand over his mouthpiece when he giggled. "Now do it!"

"Problem?"

"Naw, happens every day. I just sound like I'm pissed to expedite things." He looked at the ceiling and paused for a moment. "Anna Nicole Smith! That was that bitch's name! I don't care if those juggs were real or fake, I'd squeeze em!"

"Can you have fake boobs here?"

"Oh yea! If for no other reason it helps remind the men that they're in heaven." He held his paws up and made a squeezing motion. Everybody wins here Marty...everybody."

This was the first time since being in the room that I heard it was heaven. I didn't push the subject any further with Al-Bob, I didn't want to ask him why he was still a fat, sweaty, pig. It just wouldn't be nice.

"So, you gonna get yourself out of here and back to Louisville?" He reached into his desk and pulled out an old Egg McMuffin. I wondered how he was going to eat it with his mouth full of tobacco.

My brain filtered out the thought the same way you try to forget seeing a dead bird on the sidewalk.

"You better get a move-on! It's a long way from Tennessee to Louisville and you're supposed to be there tonight!"

"How did I get back to Tennessee?"

"Beats me." The phone rang and the finger went up again. "Hello, open your hole and...oh hello. Yea, he's right here. I'll tell him. Yes, sir!" He put the receiver down."Asshole!"

"Marty they need to see you in the garage. It seems they left out one of your parts the last time you were here."

"What part?"

"Have you checked yourself over lately? I don't know, probably something you don't ever use like an appendix or something. Just go through those doors, past the line of people waiting to get in the door marked "Service" and ask for a guy named Don." He pointed towards the big swinging doors as he spoke. "Hurry, times a wastin!"

As I nodded goodbye and walked towards the exit I could plainly see Al-Bob by using my 360 degree vision. He mouthed a word as I departed.

"Asshole." He said.