The Courier

Why am I still sitting here? I want to quit. I want to leave. This is always the way it is with me. Do what you’re told, Barry. Wait in the break room, Barry. Now, an hour has passed and I’m still sitting here, forgotten.

Where’s Margery?

I slam my fists on the table and stand up with a force that causes the chair to screech backwards. There’s a loud crack when it hits another chair and falls to the ground. I kick it and head for the doorway.

Taking a left turn out of the break room, I head back to the garage, hoping to find Margery or the guy who greeted me on my way in. The place is so quiet and dark, like everyone went home for the day.

There’s a window with a view into the garage. I peer inside and find it vacant. The van sits where I left it but with the back door cracked open. Margery’s warning replays in my head, Don’t go in the back of the vans.

I creep around the corner and into the garage, surveying for onlookers. I can’t help myself. There’s still no one around, so I sneak towards the van and peek into the back.

“For someone who wants to quit,” I hear in a whispery voice beside my ear. You’re awful interested in our business.”

I jump and turn my head, but there’s no one beside me. Coughing from across the room clues me in to Margery’s presence. She’s standing with the man in the red coveralls beside the garage entryway.

“Find what you were looking for?” asks Margery.

There’s laughing.

My face burns red with embarrassment as I slam shut the door of the van. I clear my throat.

“Did you think we’d leave the cargo alone for just anyone to get at?” asks Margery.

I grin. “No.”

“That’s the problem with you new drivers,” she says while placing her hands on her hips. “None of you follow directions very well.”

I blurt out, “That’s why I should resign.”

The man in the red coveralls shakes his head. “You new guys are all alike.”

“Now now, Oscar. You were new once too,” says Margery.

“Forty-five years ago. Can you believe it?” he asks. “But I wasn’t as bad as the new guys.”

“Sure you were. Especially when you found out what you lost.” Margery cackles. “That’s my favorite part. When you guys figure out the contract.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

They’re still facing each other talking, like I’m not in the room.

“Well, can you blame a guy,” says Oscar. “It’s a real shocker when you find out you’re working for the man down below.”

“Shut up, Oscar.”

“What? Working for who?” I ask.

Margery points at me. “Look at his face.”

“Put him out of his misery," says Oscar. "Just tell him.”

“And lose another driver to the other side, like we did this morning,” says Margery.

“You have to tell him eventually,” says Oscar.

My head whips between Oscar and Margery.

“I can already tell he’ll be an excellent driver for our side,” she says.

I shout out, “Tell me what?” But no response. Apparently I'm invisible again.

“You told me right away.”

“Oscar, you were different,” says Margery, “and you’re not a driver.”

“You two are acting like I sold my soul.”

They both turn and look at me at the same time, their eyes wide.

“I sold my soul?”

“Looks like you can’t hide it from him anymore.”

Margery approaches and puts her arm around me. “Honey, let’s have a little chat.”

Margery sees the disarray of chair and asks, “What were you doing in here?”

“Nothing,” I bark back at her.

I pick up the chair I knocked over and have a seat, assuming sitting is probably the best place for me.

“Would you like a soda?” Margery opens the refrigerator and pulls out an off brand of cola for herself.

“Something without caffeine,” I reply.

“Not sure we have anything without caffeine, honey. People around here like to indulge in their vices.”

“Whatever you’re having is fine.”

Margery sits down across the table from me and slides a can in my direction, then she pops one open for herself. I grab the soda and avoid eye contact with her, afraid I might jump over the table and strangle her.

“You okay,” she asks.

“Margery, just get to the point. Did I sell my soul or what?”

“Wow, honey. Feisty. I like that you’re changing so quickly.”

“What are you talking about?” I ask sharply. “I’m not changing.”

“Listen to yourself. Would you have talked like that to your last boss? For that matter, would you have talked like that to any one in a position of authority before today?”

“You’re stalling.”

“Oh, honey, I’m not stalling, I just want you to see that this job is good for you.”

I shake my head, lean back and sigh. “Did I sign over my soul or what?”

Margery takes a sip of her soda, then pulls a pack of cigarettes out of her pocket. “Honey, you can’t just sell your soul anymore.” She holds the cigarette with her lip and says, “No one’s been able to do that since the end of World War II.” Margery’s eyes roll back like she’s dreaming. “Those were the days. Everything was so much simpler back then.”

“So you admit Satan has something to do with the contract you said I signed?”

“Well of course, honey. Difference is you signed over your human life to serve Satan on Earth.”

I choke. "You mean like a slave?"

“Oh, Barry, it’s not that bad.”

It’s not so bad? Is she nuts?

"Yeah, honey, it’s not that bad a deal, really."

I lean toward Margery, “Did you just read my thoughts?”

Her expression turns malign. "If only you knew the half of what I can do.”

I jump out of my seat and back away from the table. “Are you Satan?”

“Of course not. You’re being silly.”

I cautiously return to where I was sitting.

“It happens a lot though, and I suppose I’m flattered. More so, I’m surprised you new drivers would consider old Margery the ruler over Hell.”

“Like you said earlier,” I say, rolling my eyes, “nothing should surprise me anymore.”

“Do you really think The CEO--that’s how he prefers we refer to him these days--has time to meet his minions. Heck, I’ve been working for him for three hundred years, and I’ve never even met him in person.”

“Three hundred years old,” I say. “You expect me to believe you’re three hundred years old?”

“I’m actually three hundred and twenty, but at my age you round down.”

“You got any liquor?” I ask.

“Far right cabinet, beside the refrigerator.”

Inside the cabinet, I find it’s loaded with at least twenty different types of booze. Most importantly, there’s a bottle of my favorite brand of gin, right at the front of the cabinet. I grab the bottle, unscrew the cap and take in the aroma. The first swig goes down smooth, but only for a few seconds before the burn hits the back of my throat. It doesn’t stop me from taking a couple more swigs.

“Easy, Barry. You’ve got to drive back north.”

“Can’t you snap your fingers and make me sober?”

“Honey, I’m a demon, not a witch. You won’t enjoy what I’ll do to sober you up.”

“What, a little fire and brimstone under my ass?” I laugh, then take another swig.

“Barry, put down the gin and sit down,” says Margery in her evil voice.

I feel a loss of control in my lower extremities, and I’m forced to walk back to my chair, like a puppet. A pressure forces my shoulders down and I sit.

“That was cool. How’d you do that?” I ask while laughing.

“That gin’s going to your head too quick,” she says. “Give me the bottle.”

I slide the bottle toward Margery, and it nearly tips over before she grabs it. Then I drop my face down on crossed arms.

“You’re not much of a drinker, are you?”

“I guess not.”

“Should I leave you to nap, or do you want to hear more?”

I sit up. “Tell me more.”

“Where did we leave off?” she asks.

“I’m a slave to Satan, who prefers we call him The CEO of Hell, and you’re more than three hundred years old.” Then I add sarcastically, “Oh yeah, and it’s really not that bad a deal.”

“Careful smart ass,” says Margery. “I can make your service time miserable, if that’s what you prefer.”

“Sorry.”

“Honey, this job is really no different than any other job. So try thinking of yourself as just another employee of OTG. “Eventually, when you’ve accepted the truth about who you’re serving, you can have so much more.”

“Like living three hundred years with emphysema?”

Margery waves her hand holding the cigarette in a scolding manner and frowns. I rub my lips when a red, hot, burning sensation strikes across my lips and tongue.

“Like I said earlier, when you signed the contract, you signed over your human life to The CEO. What you get in return is immortal life, a decent salary and just about any other nasty little thing your heart desires.”

“What if the nasty thing my heart desires is to get out of the contract?”

“Barry, I’ve had enough. Shut up and listen.”

I feel a strangling sensation on my throat, and when I try to speak nothing comes out. Her eyes are black again and her face turns an angry crimson as the wrinkles on her face morph into a demonic form. When horns pop out of her head, I try to flee, but realize I’m also paralyzed. Margery no longer looks like a feeble old woman when she picks up the bottle of gin and chugs down at least half a pint. She slams the bottle down on the table and it shatters, sending shards of glass and gin across the table and onto my face. Then she wipes her mouth and leans onto splintered glass.

“I’m through being nice!“ she roars in a voice that causes my bladder to burst. When she realizes I’ve pissed my pants, howling laughter fills the room along with the overpowering stench of Margery’s breath. In demon form her halitosis turns my stomach to the point that I can’t control my retching. Still unable to move, I vomit down my shirt and all over my lap. Margery finds this equally hilarious, and she can barely get out the words, “See, honey, I told you I could make your life much worse.”

My body remains tense and paralyzed as I watch Margery shrink from her demon form back down a wrinkled old woman. The whole while, her laughter transforms from a deep baritone back to a hacking cackle. It’s almost like watching a balloon deflate.

“Now, honey, I assume you’ll be quiet while I finish explaining your contract.”

I can’t speak, but I can nod my head in agreement.

While she lights another cigarette, Margery lounges in her chair with her feet up on the table. She blows a few smoke rings and stairs at the ceiling.

“Barry, were you listening when I told you no one’s been able to sell their soul since World War II?”

Whatever spell she put on me must of worn off. I can nod my head and when I try to speak, my lips are dry and stuck together, but I manage to reply yes, which comes out more like, “Mwa.”

“The reason humans haven't been able to sell their souls is because Hell filled up around that time.”

I pause. “C’mon. Filled up?”

“Yeah, it filled up,” she repeats. “You wouldn’t believe the number of souls collected during World War I and II. We were busy as hell back then, so to speak.”

Margery pauses to laugh at her own joke.

I join in, although mine’s forced through a lopsided grin.

“If they sold their souls or the souls of their unborn children, we promised to get them out of combat, end the war, help them win the war, or just about anything they wanted. Almost no one read the fine print in the contract though, which is where we really stuck it to ‘em. It got us out of delivering what they wanted. Imagine selling your soul and finding out you’re not getting what you were promised.”

Imagine signing your life over to demonic slavery and not remembering it.

“Unfortunately we ran into problems when the division in charge of the acquisitions of souls underestimated the number of humans willing to sign on the dotted line. When you add their souls together with those of the truly evil--collected by the Intake Office for Sinners--the numbers were daunting. Needless to say, when the dead started flooding in, there was a rush and a panic to find places to put them all. Hell looked like a damned refugee camp.”

“Both offices tried to hide the dilemma from The CEO, but when he saw the souls lined up outside the Gates of Hell, there was hell to pay, literally.”

“How could Hell fill so quickly?” I ask. “Isn’t it heaven that would go over capacity?”

“Don’t be naive, Barry. You humans can’t resist temptation. That’s what lands you in Hell.”

“What about forgiveness?”

Margery shakes her head and grins. “Good one, but that only works when you humans believe you’re worthy of forgiveness, and most don’t.”

“But religion.”

Margery interrupts me. “Honey, don’t even try to argue religion. Who do you think had a part in manifesting religion on earth? In fact, Satan was quite cunning when he stood by as God created laws that work to his advantage. Like when God gave Moses those Ten Commandments. The CEO didn’t object because he knew you humans would be even more likely to break them.”

I suddenly realize I’m having a theological debate with a demon, and I can’t possibly win when she says, “Honey, look at your own vices.”

I jump in my seat. “I’d rather not.”

“There’s nothing to hide, Barry. I saw your dirty little secrets the day you called me, looking for work. Why do you think you were hired so quickly?”

My face turns red. “Nothing I’ve done is against the law.”

“Not human created laws.”

I sigh and hang my head. “Do we really have to talk about me?”

“Don’t you want to understand how you came to sign the contract?”

Oscar saves me when he enters the room, waving a hand in front of his nose. “Margery, why do you have to torture the new one’s in the break room?”

He approaches and looks down at the mess I’ve made of myself. His expression turns sour. “Let me guess. Her demon breath?”

“Oscar, get out,” says Margery.

“I need a soda,” he says. Oscar pulls a soda from the refrigerator and pops it open.

“All I’m saying is there are plenty of other rooms in the warehouse to stink up.”

As Oscar take a sip of his soda, Margery’s gives him one of her black looks, and seconds later liquid and bubbles are shooting out of his nose. He jerks the can away from his face and bends backward to avoid spilling on his clothes. “All right, I going.”

Margery looks at her watch. “You need to get back on the road to Denver. And I’ve got a meeting in Hell in five minutes.”

Panic fills my gut. “I don’t know Margery. What about those white things?”

“You’ll be fine,” she says. The vans are empty on the drive back, and they only care about the cargo.”

“What are those things?” I ask.

“I call them the white warriors, and you have a lot more to fear from them besides attacks on the vans.”

“Like what?” I ask. “What could be worse than trying to kill me?”

Margery jumps from her chair and hurries to the doorway. “Oscar!”

There’s a faint, “What?”

“Is Barry’s van ready?”

“Almost.”

Margery turns back towards me all nervous like. “Listen, honey, I don’t have time to talk anymore. I’ve got to get to that meeting. There's a locker room down the hall to your right. You’ll find showers and clean coveralls in the lockers.” She disappears around the corner, and I’m left alone, feeling more in the dark than when our conversation began, but relieved I can finally clean myself up.

After showering and throwing my reeking clothes in the trash, I make my way to the garage, where I find Oscar tinkering with machinery. He looks up and grins at me, like he’s laughing at me inside. “Ready to head home?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I reply, my eyes now staring at the floor.

“Keys are in the ignition.” He waves his hand towards the van. “Normally, vans are parked outside, so always remember the stock number of the one you’re driving.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he says while polishing a metal gadget. “Margery does that to all the drivers. I guess it’s her way of dominating you new guys.”

I nod my head, then open my mouth, readying to speak but pause. We stare at each other while Oscar waits for me to build up enough nerve to speak, but I don’t.

“What is it?” he finally asks.

“I shouldn’t trust Margery, should I?”

He bursts out laughing. “You’ve seen her. She’s a demon. Of course not.”

“Thanks,” I say and turn and face the van.

“Aren’t you going to ask me about the cargo?” he asks. “That’s what you really want to know about, isn’t it?”

Keeping my back to him, I ask, “Do you have something to tell me about the cargo?”

“No,” he replies and laughs.

I jump in the van irritated, slam the door shut and start the engine. The garage door remains closed tough, while Oscar continues to polish the gadget. So I roll down the window and ask, “You going to open the door so I can leave or what?”

Oscar approaches. “Listen, besides all the crap jobs Margery makes me do around here, I prepare the vans for the road and fix them when they’re broken down. That’s it. If you’re looking for information about the cargo, try talking to one of the senior drivers or the guys in the warehouse. Just be careful who you ask, and don’t let Margery catch you snooping around.”

Oscar backs away and uses a remote to lift the garage door. I pull out of the garage, and the GPS tells me where to turn to reach the main road. I’m finally heading back to Denver.