The Joystick

For some, Hell is a place where the souls of the damned are imprisoned in the afterlife. For others, Hell is a metaphor, not to be taken literally as some kind of place, but rather a state of mind that people create for themselves in this world. For me, Hell is definitely a place. I know this because I've been there.

Hell is not a place underground with fire and molten rock, or anything that even remotely resembles the allegorical imagery of The Divine Comedy or Paradise Lost. Hell is a place on Earth. But here on Earth, it's known by another name: The Votran Transfer Plaza.

Most of you have never heard of it. That's because "Votran" is the name of the county transportation system. So, unless you live here, Votran is probably not in your vocabulary. The "system" comprises a legion of transit buses that serve the legions of underprivileged and proletarian scum, providing them with a cheap means of transportation that can take them anywhere in the entire county. Not a bad deal for only a dollar's worth of quarters, wouldn't you say?

True to its slogan, the Votran does drive a great bargain, but only if you don't mind sharing company with some of the most pathetic forms of life on the face of the planet. I'm talking about the very dregs of society here. No, the dregs of the dregs of society.

I've heard stories about the people who ride the Votran, and public transportation in general, but I've always been fortunate enough to have a chauffeur of some kind—be it my parents or a friend's parents—to take me or my friends and me places. Well, a few weeks ago, that proved to be a luxury my friends and I simply couldn't afford.

On that day, we planned on going to the mall to hang out and make fun of people. We knew ahead of time that we would need to take the Votran, so we synchronized our watches to 8:00 AM, which is when we planned to meet up and proceed down to the bus stop. Everything went as planned, and nothing seemed too out of the ordinary on the ride up. Our first stop at the transfer plaza was routine, and we were back on a bus in no time. Our day at the mall went without incident, and it wasn't until we hopped on the Votran to head home that the freaks started to come out of the woodwork.

It wasn't long after taking our seats that we met the first of several strange characters that we would encounter on our trip to the transfer plaza. I was quietly reading a book I had just purchased to myself when, suddenly, the gentleman sitting in front of me made a comment about my friend and me needing a haircut. I felt the urge to flick out my stiletto and stab him in the jugular, but I was able to restrain myself. I looked up and chuckled, pretending I had found it as funny as he did.

This "gentleman" (and I use that word loosely) looked like the kind of guy you would expect to see eating out of trash cans or sleeping on a park bench with newspapers for covers. From the looks of it, he hadn't showered in at least a month. His hair was filthy and matted, his teeth were dingy and rotted, and he appeared to have some kind of "crust" encrusted around his nose. True, my friend and I may need a haircut, but what this guy needed was a bath and a job.

Now that he had our attention, it seemed like he wanted to strike up some kind of conversation. Of course, I think the conversation that followed would have been more enjoyable for both parties if the one party wasn't drunk. This fellow reeked of cheap whiskey and was obviously wasted on it. His speech was badly slurred, and I was having difficulty making out what he was saying, so I mostly just feigned interest.

But then he mentioned that he had just stolen a car. My ears perked. Curious, I decided to pursue the topic at hand. Before long, I had him rambling on about all the cars he's stolen, but even that became boring after a while. I suddenly realized that if this bum wasn't going to shut up and let me enjoy my book, I was going to have to amuse myself at his expense.

I started to tell him the story about how I once broke onto a military base and stole a tank. Of course, that never happened, and anyone who's not an idiot would know that it never happened, but since he was an idiot—and an idiot drunk off his ass to boot—I figured he just might believe it.

As the story goes, I snuck onto the base after silently killing both guards at the front gate, then doing a backflip over it. There was another guard patrolling near where the tanks were parked. I jumped out from the shadows, snapped his neck, then dragged him back into the darkness. When the coast was clear, I climbed onto one of the tanks, opened the hatch, jumped in, and started it up. I plowed through the front gate as the sirens sounded and soldiers began to pour out from all directions. A chase ensued with me in the tank being pursued by soldiers in jeeps. I fired the cannon at one, blasting it to bits. When the others saw that, they backed off. But I knew that it wouldn't be long before they had choppers after me, so after rounding a bend, I ditched the tank and ran off into the woods.

He believed every word of it. He even seemed to show an intense interest in what I was saying, interrupting me at various points to ask questions, like "What kind of tank was it? How did you get the hatch open? Which base did you steal it from?" And that sort of thing. Naturally, I bullshitted all the answers. By the time I had finished my story, we had finally made it to the transfer plaza. I was glad that I wouldn't have to entertain this bum anymore, but escaping him and that bus would soon prove less a blessing than a curse.

My friends and I took a seat on a bench to wait for the bus that would take us home to arrive. It would be about fifteen minutes, but fifteen minutes in that place seemed like an eternity. As my friends and I sat there, we began to look around at some of the people waiting there with us.

The first person we noticed was this black woman dressed like a Haitian voodoo priestess. It wasn't her unusual attire that distinguished her, but rather the peculiar spasmodic movements she was making with her arms, hands, and fingers. It almost looked like she was playing an accordion—only there was no accordion. She did this all the while talking to herself. I say "herself" because she wasn't just talking to herself but appeared to be holding a conversation with at least three different people that only she could see.

As we sat there watching her put on a show with her invisible instrument whilst chatting with her imaginary friends, suddenly this pudgy, drooling mongoloid wearing huge bifocals came scooting by us in a power wheelchair. He only had about three front teeth, but that didn't stop him from flashing us a big grin as he glided on by, staring the whole time through Coke-bottle lenses with a vacant look on his face.

Now focused on him, we watched as he drove over to a tall, thin black woman. The woman appeared to be in her late forties. Her body was about as thick as one of my legs, but her hair was something truly massive. She had a giant afro, red on the sides with a large white streak down the middle. Not surprisingly, she was also not quite there in the head.

When the retard approached her, she freaked out. When he asked what was the matter (in body language and primitive grunts), she told him that she doesn't like other people around her because she's afraid that they're going to take something from her.

Not far from where we were, our bum was standing around talking to some shady characters that seemed to know him. I was beginning to become fearful for my life, and the lives of my friends. We were literally surrounded by crazy people. What if they all of a sudden decided that they didn't like us? What then? We are all capable of holding our ground in a fight, but there were just so many of them.

It was at that moment I came to the conclusion that Hell is a place on Earth, and this is it! All I could think about was that I had to get out of there, and fast. I began to pray, and it wasn't long before my prayers were answered in the form of a big, noisy bus. The bus that would take us down the road to salvation rumbled to a halt in front of us, and my friends and I wasted no time getting in—and getting out of there.

Though we made it home safely, the thoughts of that awful place still linger in my nightmares and haunt me when I'm alone. But I still am left to wonder: Is the transfer plaza truly Hell, or is it merely the vestibule? Do the souls of the damned remain there for all time, or do they board the buses and ride them to where their true eternal punishment awaits? I suppose one day I just might find out...

Should your soul be found beyond redemption's fold, and you find yourself sharing a seat beside me there, there is only one thing you need remember: "Abandon all hope ye who enter here."