The Harrowing of Hell (Third Circle, Sausage Counter, Contracts Office)

Senior year, my best friend Tony and I worked the sausage counter in Hell. Third Circle. Yeah, I know, but they pay better than Wendy’s, and once you’re working in fast food, Hell isn’t that much worse.

Sure, you didn’t want to think about what the sausages were made of, you came home smelling of the rendered fat of the damned, and the gluttonous groaned endlessly, forever dissatisfied. Again, working fast food. On the bright side, no custom orders, and no one ever asked to talk to the manager.

It wasn’t that bad, for Hell. This older guy, Cameron? He worked down in Eight, cleaning the hooks. Now that’s rough, but he’s got a chronic condition, and Malebolge gives insurance. All Tony and I needed was enough money to get us started in college next year. I was already dreading full-time over the summer, but compared to staying in our hometown the rest of our lives, forty hours a week in Hell sounded just fine.

We were on our way back across the Styx one night when he broke the news to me.

“You what!” I yelled, loud enough for Charon to pause ominously.

“I needed the money quick, man,” he said. “Mom lost her job, and we were going to lose the house…”

“But you sold your soul? You’ll be here forever? What about college?”

“Aw, you know I’m not college material. I’m not smart like you.”

“That’s ridiculous! Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because you would have wanted to help and done something stupid.”

Fair point. Because the next thing I said was, “We’re going to steal it back.”

“You can’t just steal back a soul. You don’t think they keep track of that stuff?”

“Look at this place! They’re overcrowded, overworked, understaffed. They’re hiring kids like us, for Christ’s sake.” Tony flinched, but it didn’t look like Charon had heard.

“Sorry. Look, you’d be doing them a favor, honestly. You think they need any more souls down there?”

He shook his head firmly. “No. I made a deal. Signed a contract. I can’t just go back on that.”

Tony is stubborn about the Right Thing, which is precisely why he’s the kind of guy who shouldn’t go selling his soul. I’m probably going to end up here anyway (Circle Two, based on my browser history). But Tony…Tony’s got a chance to make it out for good. Not just out of town, not just to college, but out of here, you know what I mean?

If he would just let me help. Which he won’t. Because he made a deal.

So I make a little deal of my own. This one with Cameron, for some of the Lethe water they hand out to the Malebolge workers to ease the PTSD. Just two drops on the forehead when you’re focusing on something and you forget all about it.

* * *

Next time we were on closing shift, I told Tony I’d wrap up and catch the next ferry.

 I gathered the sausage scraps and vomit into the roller bins and headed toward Cerberus, who guards the main office on 3. His tails wagged when he saw me: he knows I mean food. Now that I think of it, maybe that should be cause for concern.

Normally we dump the slop out into his gigantic bowl, but this time, I turned the three big bins on their side, and every head disappeared into them. I ran past into the Main Office. Cerberus would down the slop in ten seconds, but I’d smuggled some branches from Seven and stuck them in the bottom for him to chew on. So I had maybe a minute, minute and a half.

No one was in the office. Hell’s got too many souls and not enough devils nowadays. Tony’s contract wasn’t hard to find; Management’s so dramatic about these things, all parchment and red ribbons. I grabbed it and was about to go, when my eye fell on the computer with the Permanent Records. 

Outside Cerberus was banging around in the bins. It might not take too long. Maybe I could get myself out, too. I mean, for good. Wipe the ol’ history.

But Cerberus was growling a distinctly done-chewing-on-the-stick growl, and I decided I couldn’t risk Tony’s soul for mine.

I pocketed the contract and slipped out just in time.

* * *

Next day after school, I pulled out the contract and explained the situation to Tony.

Honest to God, he said, “I’ve got to take it back.”

“The Hell you say! I just risked Cerberus for you. You’ve got the money, you’ve got your soul, and we can be roommates at State next year! You’re free now! You’re good!”

He shook his head stubbornly and grabbed for the roll of parchment.

“Damn you, Tony,” I said, reaching for the Lethe-water in my pocket.

* * *

So here we are, freshmen at State. Tony doesn’t remember the contract and can’t quite figure out why he’s paying for room and board in obols. But he’s thriving in college—he’s plenty smart, it turns out, just like he’s plenty good. I like college too. Thing is, I know this is probably as good as it gets for me. Probably headed back home after graduation, probably headed back downstairs when I die. But Tony? He’s escape velocity.

I just made one mistake—well, one more. Add it to my Permanent Record; I don’t care. But of all my mistakes it’s maybe the one I really regret. I screwed up that Lethe dose somehow, and now my best friend doesn’t remember me at all.

* * *

Ⓒ S.L. Harris