Johnny Wraith Stories

Hades’ suburbs. The biggest planned community I’d ever seen. Tract houses in the millions, packed together so close neighbors could reach out their windows and shake hands. Everyone had the same floor plan. I just sat there, looking out the window, watching it all pass by. My train could have been going in circles, though it seemed we were chugging straight ahead. I’d just keep getting off at each stop and taking a look around. Maybe I’d solve the riddle of how to get out of Hades? Maybe I wouldn’t. Seeing Gina again wasn’t pleasant. Somehow she’d managed to win a ticket to suburbia. I wasn’t sure her suicide was her condemnation’s culprit. Adam had said there were 3 Torments in Hades, and which one you got depended on whether your Vice was Idleness, Rigidity, or Greed. Who knows which one was hers? Maybe she had all of them? She was sitting there in the tub all day, hogging all the bloody bathwater and razorblades, bitching and complaining about the same shit over and over again. I could see how all the Vices were possibly manifest in her eternal Torment. Let her be friends of Brutus, Judas, and Cassius.

The train arrived at the next platform. I jumped off. The conductor waved goodbye and I waved back. Next thing I was back on the sidewalks, counting my steps, 1,2,3,1,2,3, “don’t step on a crack…”

When the time felt right, I broke the flow, stepped on a crack, and looked up to find myself standing in front of Larry’s old mobile home. I knew I could walk in the door any time I wanted, so I didn’t knock. The rusty screen door slammed shut behind me. It was dark and cool inside, the blinds were all closed, and a large screen television in the corner was the only source of light. When my eyes adjusted, I could make out Larry’s giant form. There he was, all 300lbs of him, reclined and snoring, bare feet up, a padded easy chair serving as his bed.

“Larry?”

“Eh? Snort! Grunt!”

By lunging forward on the springs and kicking at the footrest with his heels, Larry half sat up and looked at me with surprise, but the surprise quickly turned into a gap-toothed smile on his big, round face.

“Johnny!”

“Larry, what the Hell are you doing here?”

“Hell if I know. But before we hug and kiss, go get us a beer out of the fridge.”

I went to the kitchen and came back with two cold ones. Larry didn’t get out of his chair to hug me. I bent over and put my arms around his mass while he pounded my back with his palms. We cracked our beers and smacked the aluminum together in toast.

“Go grab that folding chair ‘gainst the wall and pull it on up!”

I unfolded and pulled the chair up, sat down, and took a swig. Larry started talking, and he didn’t give me a chance to say a thing. It had likely been a long time since he’d had company, so I let him talk. He went on and on about the movies, shows, and standup routines he’d been watching on the comedy channel. I pretended to listen as I remembered the events surrounding Larry’s death. When he was 27, his heart began failing – something about an enlarged heart. When he was 28, he had a heart transplant. When he was 29, his new heart failed and he died. I’d known Larry since grade school. I was one of his pallbearers. He was a good old boy that lived in the country, wore overalls around his big belly, drove a beat up Ford pickup, and was always filling the truck’s bed with empty beer cans. I helped with the task. As he drove, and we drank, we’d throw the empties out the truck’s rear, sliding window. They’d usually land in the bed with the other cans, but sometimes they’d jump out onto the highway and end up rolling into a ditch. Larry never worked any job more than a month, and he’d dropped out of high school. Half the time his utilities were shut off. His grandfather had died had left him with the mobile home and pickup. The only thing that stopped Larry’s nonstop talking was the start of a comedy channel sitcom.

“Don’t mean to be rude, but I gotta watch this. You’ll like it. Go get us round 2.”

I didn’t find the sitcom funny. It was something about the life and times of some white guy with an afro.

Larry found it quite funny. Every other line or so, he’d let out a booming laugh.

“Hahaha! Hahaha! Hahaha!”

And he’d laugh some more.

“Hahaha! Hahaha! Hahaha!”

And some more.

“Hahaha! Hahaha! Hahaha!”

It was horrifying. Though we were watching comedy, the whole scene was something out of Hitchcock, or the Twilight Zone. When commercials came, I went to the refrigerator for more beer, and while I did so I had a chance to ask a few questions.

“Larry, don’t you want to get out of here?” I wasn’t sure if he knew he was dead, so I said “here” instead of “Hades.”

“Hell no. This is where I live.”

“What do you do all day?”

“I don’t have to do nothin’. One day I was sitting here watching my shows and was all bummed out about the empty fridge, but I got up and looked in it hoping something was there anyway. And wouldn’t you know it! It was full of food and beer! I ain’t goin’ nowhere. Ever!”

“Who’s been filling the fridge?”

“Hell if I know, but he’s a pal of mine. Sometimes I drink all the beer and munch down all the eats, and then I take a nap. When I wake up, the damn place is cleaned up. Not an empty is on the floor where I throw ‘em, and the fridge is all full again.”

“Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”

“You can say that again! And let me tell you. Since all this good stuff has been happening, I haven’t been constipated once and nobody’s shut off the water or electric.”

“You don’t want to go anywhere with me, I take it?”

“Like where?”

“To the train.”

“Nobody rides that train. I wouldn’t if I was you. Besides, I think I’m too fat to fit through the door.”

The commercial break ended and the sitcom about the white guy with the afro came back on.

Larry found it quite funny. Every other line or so, he’d let out a booming laugh.

“Hahaha! Hahaha! Hahaha!”

And he’d laugh some more.

“Hahaha! Hahaha! Hahaha!”

And some more.

“Hahaha! Hahaha! Hahaha!”

I stood up and walked out the door without saying a thing. I don’t think Larry realized, or cared, that I left without saying goodbye. He had comedy channel sitcoms, beer and food, air conditioning, and never had trouble taking a shit.