"But, but, I'm an Atheist! There is no 'Hell'!"
Ah, another one. I laughed the first thousand or so times I heard it, but it's gotten old. I didn't laugh when I said it, these many -- how many? Who knows? -- years ago. But I guess it's new to them, isn't it? Oh well, 'another day, another holler' as we say.
"It seems you were wrong, doesn't it? Don't worry, it won't be the last wrong decision you'll ever make." I directed my further words to the entire group of new inductees. "Gentleman, ladies, welcome to Hell. Practically everything you've ever heard about us is wrong, so I ask you to please leave your preconceived notions at the gate and follow me."
They never follow, but I always say it anyway. The guards will see to their compliance.
"You'll find life as a non-physical entity a bit disquieting at first, don't be alarmed. Everyone goes through it, just takes a little getting used to," I told the air, knowing they weren't hearing me. It's hard to remember now when I first arrived. Everything seemed so surreal. "Gates of Hell", I remember the phrase rolling through my mind. Bits and pieces of memory remain. I remember the smell, of course. Like a piece of meat improperly salted in the back of the cellar, found in the spring as it began to seriously rot. The smell is like anything else, you get used to it. I'm not even sure how it works, smells and taste and so forth, here in the realm of the damned. There's probably an explanation, I've just never looked into it.
"There's been some sort of mistake!" It was my atheist again. "Mistake?" I asked, as evenly as I could manage. "Yes, yes, this whole thing is just some sort of misunderstanding. Is there someone I need to talk with to get it straightened out?" I couldn't suppress my laughter, although I've heard it often, too. "Mr. Barrymore, I assure you there is no error. Of course, if there was, it wouldn't be by anyone here. You see, we didn't 'call' for you. God makes the call, if he wants you with him, you're his. If he doesn't, you're ours. Simple as that. If you didn't want him, why would he want you?" Seems clear enough now, but I remember going through this at my orientation, so I could sympathize with a little disillusionment.
"It's not that I didn't 'want' him, for Christ's sake, I just never saw any proof! THIS is proof! NOW I can believe! What kind of crazy system gives you the proof when it's too freaking late?!?"
He had a point. And so did many others, he couldn't really believe he was the first to make this argument, could he? "Look, I understand where you're coming from. Many people here feel the same way. But again I have to point out, this isn't something we can handle here. You're here, you're not leaving, accept it." He wouldn't, they never do. Not at first.
Hell, I didn't accept it. It seemed crazy. Hell? It's impossible. But there's something about the sight and the smell and the finality the orientation people are trained to speak with that sooner or later drives home the fact that this is it. Yes, it exists. Yes, you're here. No, you can't leave. End of story.
Truth be told, it's not so bad. For the godly, it would be terrible, and mercifully none of them have ever been sent here. "God" is a far-off concept, rather than a being. And Satan, of course, is never around. When he is, it's on some pressing matter that nearly never involves me. When was the last time I even saw him? Time is so hard to gauge, mostly because it means so little. Sleep is another far-off concept, I truly don't remember sleeping. I know I did it at one time, and I actually remember enjoying it. Enjoying slipping into unconsciousness, it seems so foreign now. Funny.
"There must be someone I can talk to about this," said Mr. Barrymore, grabbing at my shoulder, apparently meaning to turn me around in some sort of compelling, earnest way. I would've liked to have seen his face as his hand slipped through me, I always enjoy watching the new ones when they first see that. Opportunities missed, it won't be the last. I turned of my own accord to face him. "Mr. Barrymore, I am assigned to you. I am the someone you can talk to. And I assure you that I will do so. Please though, we have considerable material to cover on your first day, many things to do, so please hold your questions until later." I didn't expect his cooperation in this, and didn't get it. But the guards know when to step in, and they did. His screams were unpleasant even after all these years. Necessary, but unpleasant nonetheless. I was pleased when they subsided. A few seconds only, hardly even a warning. Good.
"As I said, incorporeal life is new to you, there will be many changes from your previous life you will need to be aware of. You are clothed, but it is an illusion. As are my vestments. In time, you will learn to adorn yourself as you see fit. For the time being, you will be covered by me and my will. If you find the appearance of your garments distasteful in the extreme, please feel free to ask me to change them. You will not be given homes or food, as these are not needed for your survival. In time, you will find ways to develop privacy for yourself and acquire the objects of this world that serve the same non-nutritional purposes that food has served for you in the past. Do not dwell on this at present, it will come to you in time."
"The biggest misconception people have about Hell is that it is a place of eternal torment. That is simply not the case. You may have noticed the smell" -- the looks of distress on their faces suggested that they had -- "and other indications that this is an unpleasant place to spend eternity. I say that life is what you make of it, so if you want to be eternally tormented, that is your choice. I have chosen not to be so, and for me it is not."
My poor, poor mother. "Gabriel, you're going to go to Hell, don't you understand that?" she'd said to me on more than one occasion. I didn't believe her, or rather, I didn't believe the religious dogma she was simply parroting at me. I must assume she's now enjoying whatever it was she expected to be enjoying. She isn't here, I've looked. I wonder if she's allowed to miss me? In the moments when I wax philosophical, I wonder what my life would have been like if I'd trusted her god, as she had. Earthly life would've been little different. Less carousing, I suppose, though I remember little of that now. More religious ceremony, which I had little stomach for at the time. The biggest difference would be the freedom of thought I enjoyed. I could never allow myself to simply accept the idea of a god, or a Satan, or a Hell. Not without more proof than the word of some old women reading from an even older book. And what about now? What did I lose as a result? I am still free; free to think, to speak up, to disagree, to choose, to fight, to learn. I understand the fear and regret in the eyes of the new inductees, but will they still fear it a thousand years from now? A million? I wonder if Mom's happiness with her reward is at all diminished by the knowledge that I'm not sharing it with her.
She's probably not allowed to think about it.
"It doesn't seem so bad," said one inductee -- Miss Shenkle -- looking around as we walked toward the central receiving station. Did she mean it? Or was she being hopeful, positive? I didn't know, and I really and truly didn't care. In a few weeks, they would all move on to their assignments and I would quite possibly never see them again. Hell is a big place, after all, and I've seen almost none of it. I should really travel more.
"No, Miss Shenkle, it's not. I'm glad you surmised that already. You'll find your life here fulfilling, enjoyable, and quite livable. Perhaps it is purposefully played up to be otherwise to encourage people to worship God? I think so, and I think it's rather disingenuous of him to play it up to be so bad for his own purposes. But that's neither here nor there. Here we are!" I try to make it something of an event, their official acceptance into Hell. They only do it once, after all, and I always felt somewhat cheated that I hardly knew what was happening before it was all over. "Please proceed to any available desk. The associate will assign you your identification information, discuss your likes and dislikes, and help you determine how you will be used in our society." Watching them mill around reminds me of my first assignment. I try to give them the feeling that they will be assigned something that suits them, but they'll all be given the same positions. All new inductees begin as line guards, what else can they do? After a few decades of that, some will be ready for personal guard duty, as experienced by Mr. Barrymore, who I notice has already found a desk and taken a seat. Good for him. There's precious little to do here, there are so few needs. But you need an authority structure to keep civility, thus guards. And there is a complex communication network that needs runners, pages of sorts. With so many available workers, nobody works that much anyway. This is my first new inductee introduction session in I don't remember how long.
I saw my atheist wrapping up so I joined him at the desk. "Where will you be serving, Mr. Barrymore?" I asked, as enthusiastically as I could. "I'm going to be a line guard, whatever that is. Sounds like a glorified crossing guard."
I was unfamiliar with the term, but it was of no consequence. "I'm sure you'll do well. Be diligent, and your duties will lighten and increase in their challenge. I'm sure you enjoy an intellectual challenge, don't you?" Even if they don't, everyone says they do. "Absolutely," he returned, and I believed him. He'll be fine.
It was time to grab the next lot off the boat. Why Satan insists on bringing people in on a boat is beyond me. Yes, showmanship. Yes, aura of suspense. But I personally think it is just a build-up that doesn't need to be there. He says it fills the inductees with a "Dante-esque dread" which he seems to feel is important. I told my immediate superiors that he never sees the dread anyway and it would be easier on the orientation people if they'd just pop them in at the gate, or at Central Receiving, even better. But nobody seems to want to cross Satan. It's all political, I'm sure.
I've got maybe fifty more boatloads and my shift is over. Then it's back to my home in the Agrasia. I chose it not because it's so far out of the way, though that's nice. But more for the kind of people that settled there. My people. They don't use words like "crossing guard" and "cell phone", and understand the word "mead" and why you think you miss it. Charles will probably be off on assignment when I return, such is the way things like this tend to work out. But he'll return as well, and we can get back to normal for awhile. Of all my neighbors, I miss Charles most when I'm away.
"What is the meaning of all this? That boat pilot wouldn't tell us anything! Who's in charge here?!"
Ah, another one. Now I'm sure why I miss mead.