On a sunny September morning, I was pondering what kind of pills would provide me with the most comfortable ticket out of my body and mind, a pair so hell-bent on torturing me. Considering my inclination toward mysticism, I wondered if the pain would simply follow me to another plane of existence. Or, maybe I would die and be whisked away to a magical land full of people who are sincerely concerned about my well-being. Perhaps a bullet would provide me with the shift in perspective I need to achieve bliss and fulfillment.

Or, perhaps not. Knowing the universe and its demonic sense of propriety, I would probably end up going somewhere even worse. I shook my fist at the sky, indicating my disdain for its sick and twisted mindset. The universe was actively working against my plan; it always found a way to thwart my desire to become a healthy and happy human being.

Sleep had not been providing me with any solace from my hellish life. I was plagued with dreams in which I was a guard at some sort of detention facility. My demeanor toward the inmates is brutal and vindictive. Apparently, I am convinced of the necessity of these people’s incarceration, even though several of the detainees are children. I am dressed in a black uniform and obviously have the full support of whatever government I work for justifying my actions. I am free to pursue my cruelty.

My waking life and my dreams were intertwining into a boringly typical existential nightmare. Like most wage slaves, I had rent to pay and a stomach to fill. To afford myself these necessities, I had a stupid job that gave me a piece of paper in exchange for my time and dignity. This piece of paper is deposited into my bank account, which is transformed into several other pieces of paper, and then given to my landlord. It is a vicious cycle.

I have two bosses, and they are both stupid as fuck. They cannot stand each other, which is somewhat interesting, because they have such similar personalities. The top boss’s name is Rosalyn; he has the personality of a wet napkin combined with the demeanor of a high-ranking military officer. Rosalyn is the leader – der Fuhrer. Below Rosalyn is a specimen named Quaff. Quaff has an obvious complex about being vice-Fuhrer, thus filling the hole of his failed existence with various donuts and candy bars. Quaff is a huge fan of his own flatulence. Below Quaff is a gaggle of assistant managers and wannabe assistant managers with as much oppression in their hearts as Rosalyn and Quaff. There is not much camaraderie amongst the workers. Instead of uniting to create a more life-affirming work experience, the workers fight each other in hopes of one day being able to hold the whip.

The name of the store I work for is Lee’s Discount Goods. Lee’s specializes in providing humanity with items necessary for retaining its successful place in consumer-zombie culture: solar-powered flashlights, lint-rollers, microwaves, etc. There are cameras throughout the store to make sure that everyone remains compliant, both workers and consumers. Some of the employees get really pissed when people steal from the store.

“I hate when people steal from Lee’s!” Merv screamed. Merv is an assistant manager. His hourly pay is twenty cents above minimum wage. He is lamenting the loss of two pens missing from a packet of twelve.

“Merv, every day you work here, you are being robbed of your dignity,” I said. “So how about saving the melodrama for that dinner theater bullshit you’re constantly mucking up with your considerable lack of talent?”

Merv is an aspiring actor. He is actually fairly talented, but his attitude gets on my nerves, so I like to say otherwise. Merv pulled out a switchblade and held it to my throat.

“What the fuck did you just say?” Merv asked.

“Uh, I said you are very talented and will one day win an Oscar.”

“That’s what I thought you said.” Merv gently swiped his blade across my throat, leaving a papercut-sized gash. His face grimaced to show that he meant business. Not only was Merv an aspiring actor, he was also a psychopathic criminal. Even Rosalyn was somewhat afraid of Merv.

“Hey Rosalyn, I made sweet love to your wife last night,” Merv claimed.

“I want to see you inside my office. NOW.” Rosalyn was pissed. Merv and Rosalyn marched back to the office. Rosalyn slammed the door.

“I’m getting really tired of your disrespect,” Rosalyn said.

“It’s not disrespect. It’s the truth.”

“You were not sleeping with my wife last night. She was in bed with me, admiring my muscles.” Rosalyn flexed his arm, producing a slight bulge. Merv poked the bulge with his switchblade, releasing a stream of air.

“A pool floatie? I ought to kill you for that,” Merv philosophized.

“Don’t threaten me. I’m your boss.”

“The Dark Lord is my boss,” Merv replied. “Don’t fuck with me.”

“Can you please stop saying that you’re having an affair with my wife? It makes me sad.”

“The truth is often very sad.”

“It’s not the truth. It’s a god damn lie!”

“I make love to your wife on an interdimensional level. It’s completely beyond your range of perception.”

Rosalyn was becoming extremely agitated. Merv was always talking about various acts of hocus pocus and snake oil salesmanship. He claimed to be four-hundred years old.

“Just sign this paper,” Rosalyn said. It was a write-up. Merv had been written up thousands of times. He signed the paper in an obnoxiously large fashion.

“Now get the hell out of my office.”

Working at Lee’s is similar to being placed inside a coffin while still conscious. There was not enough energy inside the store to power a hairdryer to throw into the bath water. It was the most vile form of consumerism I have ever experienced.

“You’re too critical,” Merv would tell me. “If you don’t like your job, then quit.” Merv had a point. That night, I put on some black lipstick and spent the night drinking whiskey and slitting my wrists. My co-workers were not impressed.

“If you had really meant it, you’d be dead,” Merv said, rolling his eyes.

“It’s a cry for help,” said Mrs. Franklin, a grandmotherly type.

“If you really want to die, I’d be happy to kill you,” Merv offered.

“Merv, you’re so naughty,” Mrs. Franklin said. Merv pinched her behind.

“Seriously though,” Merv continued, “if you’re really that unhappy, go jump off a building. This cry-for-help bullshit is for the birds.”

“But I even cut myself vertically!”

“I don’t buy it.” Merv was a misanthrope.

An hour later, I got called to the office.

“What’s wrong with your arms, buddy?” Rosalyn asked.

“I was chopping up lettuce for a salad, and I accidentally cut myself.”

“Several times? On both arms?”

“I have bad aim.”

“I think you’re suicidal.”

“Why would I be suicidal? I have a fulfilling job and an active social life.” At this, I burst into tears. Rosalyn sat there, feeling awkward.

“Look bud, if you’re really depressed, then I suggest you go get some help.”

“Will Lee’s pay for it?”

“Absolutely not.”

I continued to cry. Several minutes passed.

“The reason I called you back here is to tell you that you need to wear a long-sleeved shirt to work until your arms heal. That Dr. Kevorkian look is bad for business.”

“Okay.”

“And since you’ve already spent over an hour here looking like a jerk, I’m going to have to write you up.”

“For what?”

“For wearing inappropriate attire.”

“And just so I have this straight, you’re referring to the gashes on my arms, correct?”

“Absolutely. Lee’s is a family store. There’s no room for this subversive look of yours. This isn’t Starbucks.”

So I got written up for slashing my arms with a dull razor. I was hoping for at least a pat on the back, or even a biscuit, but my fortune was not so good. However, the next day, Mrs. Franklin brought me a plate of brownies and a religious tract insinuating where my eternal destination would be if I actually did take my own life.

“God will smite your stupid ass down to the filthiest depths of hell,” Mrs. Franklin explained.

“But I’m so sad!”

“Well, you better buck up, young man. You’ll be a lot sadder burning for eternity.”

“I don’t want to go to hell.”

“Then quit acting like a moron.”

That night, I read the tract, a miniature comic book. It was the tale of a man plagued with various tragedies of an earthly existence – the most painful being the murder of his wife by brutal hoodlums, resulting in the protagonist’s doubting of the existence of any deity he cared to respect. This man is unexpectedly run over by a bus and finds out that God does indeed exist. The protagonist is promptly sent to hell for having the nerve to doubt His existence. I pondered the connection between accidentally being run over by a bus and deliberately taking your own life, but quickly lost interest. I knew that Mrs. Franklin meant well, which I appreciated.

I threw the tract in the garbage. I wasn’t afraid of religion, nor hell. My life was hell. I didn’t know what else to do. I took my pistol out of the closet, scribbled a quick note to anyone who might care, and blasted myself into unforeseen circumstances.

Obviously, my suicide wasn’t the end of conscious existence. My soul carried on. I was greeted by Mary, the Cosmic Mother.

“Well, I suppose it took quite a bit of intestinal fortitude to do what you just did,” she said.

“I am strong like a Samurai.”

“There is an argument to be made in favor of that perspective,” Mary agreed. “However, your action is going to result in a reaction that you will likely find unfavorable. I apologize for that.”

“Will it at least be more interesting?” I asked.

“You are going to be born into a Muslim family living in Afghanistan. At the age of seventeen, you will be captured by NATO forces and accused of a crime you did not commit. Due to the circumstances behind your arrest, you will be labeled an enemy combatant, thus disqualifying you from the opportunity to defend yourself against your adversaries. You will be sent to Guantanamo Bay, tortured, and eventually killed.”

“All this because I didn’t like working at Lee’s?”

“Not exactly,” Mary replied. “The reason for your reoccurring dream about being a guard at a detention facility is because you were a Nazi in a past life. You were given the opportunity to forge your soul into a less savage demeanor in postmodern consumer hell; but obviously, you couldn’t handle the despair.”

“I don’t see how this is going to help. Two wrongs don’t make a right.”

“You reap what you sow. Unfortunately, the universe is very fair.”

I knew that what she said is true, so I remained silent. Mary snapped her fingers, and I found myself inside a white void. The past, present, and future were occurring simultaneously. In a flash, I was sliding down the birth canal. The temperature became very uncomfortable and I was surrounded by strangers. I could think of nothing else to do, so I began to scream. After that, I remember being slapped, and then sleep.

—

Elijah Infinity‘s story, Technology, was published by Verbicide in June 2010.