Chris Mikesell

         I don't know how I died, but I'm certain it happened at some point. I still eat, yes; drink, of course; and take care of business at the other end of the food chain, as my mother used to say. Nevertheless, I am quite dead. There's no other explanation for...things.

         Take my location, for instance. A boiler room. I am—was—a tenured professor in the history department at Hofstra. My faculty ID card had been in a shoebox along with an empty wallet, some mints, and a newspaper article ("King" Arthur Loses Control in Excalibur Re-enactment—6 Dead) when I arrived here. I think I was one of the six. It would explain my attire as well: a pair of boxers and a hospital johnny with Mercy General on the breast. I was injured at a Renaissance Faire exhibition, died at the hospital, and wound up in Purgatory. From ivory tower to sub-basement in a heartbeat...or lack of one. Sounds like the ironic twists from Il Purgatorio, no?

         This isn't what I expected it to be. Growing up Methodist, I confess I didn't expect Purgatory to be at all. Yet here I am.

         In the boiler room.

         Not an ordinary boiler room, not an ordinary boiler. Not the kind my grandfather had in his basement with its squat cast-iron tank, gas ring burning underneath like it was an oversized percolator. A single pipe extended from the top, split into half a dozen branches stretching across the ceiling like a baobab tree. Do I have that right? Baobab? Perhaps not, my memories come and go. And I never was much of a botanist.

         For a historian like myself—ex-historian, ex-self—the mechanical nightmare I'm confronted by confounds me. So many twists and turns to the pipes. Pipes stretching across the floor waiting to trip me up. Waist-high pipes to crawl under. Pipes that drop down suddenly to forehead level on the far side of a blind corner. Pipes so hot they disintegrate cardboard boxes and all your (formerly) worldly possessions. Then there are the dials to keep track of. The valves and their unexpected blasts of steam that fill the room with the scent and taste of overheated metal. The boiler itself.

         I don't know if I can adequately describe this monstrosity. Certainly not to the degree I held classes in rapt attention as I described and dissected the legend of Camelot or the biography of Einstein. I'm sure I did both those things; they were my primary subjects, after all. But the boiler: fifteen feet high, at least forty long; a cylindrical tube tipped over on its side like an old locomotive engine transported to the center of the room—does that do it justice? No fewer than twenty pipes extend from the boiler and those split two, four, ten, thirty times; one section looks like the trident Sir Galahad stole from Poseidon when he searched for the Grail in Atlantis. The pipes coil around each other and themselves, over and over again before disappearing through holes in the concrete walls, ceiling, and floor. All painted red and with black rivets as big as my fist. Three chambers to the boiler itself with fires beneath that never go out; never—so far—need to be stoked.

         About the only part of the room that seems familiar to me, except for the exit door, is the replica of the Einsteinian Rondelphone on the wall. Invented in 1902, early in Einstein's career, it was the first telephonic device to incorporate the mouthpiece and aural amplifier into a single handset. The phone in the boiler room even has the original-style numbered dial instead of the modern push buttons. (Dear me, still the academic. I'll never get out of here if I keep this up.)

         The phone, Linda explained to me, is to be used only in case of emergency. In case the gauges edge up into the red, showing the dragon is trying to escape from the boiler. Well, she didn't say the part about the dragon; I figured that out on my own. But before I get to the dragon, I should explain about Linda.

         She's my angel.

         To look at her...before...I wouldn't have suspected it. With her grease-stained "NYC Department of Environmental Services" coveralls, mussed hair, and dirty hands and face, I would have thought "working-class girl"—"working-class woman" after the sensitivity training in the mid-nineties. Now, however, I can see through the disguise—not literally, of course—but I can see the radiance of her skin, the spark in her eyes; recognize the uniform as the costume it so obviously is. Linda comes from the Latin root for beautiful and, looking past the surface distractions, she certainly is. Eyes the color of Swiss chocolate, coffee-colored skin, short platinum-blonde hair swept back like whipped cream on a parfait dessert. My mouth waters just thinking about her. Or would, if it weren't so parched.

         Our first encounter was embarrassing, as all first encounters where one is wearing a hospital gown are. Particularly first encounters where you're in a hospital gown, crawling under a steam pipe, and the other person comes up from behind and clears her throat.

         "You're not going to hurt me?" she asked when I had regained my feet on the other side of the pipe.

         I looked into her eyes. Deep. I could never hurt her. I shook my head to let her know.

         "There's something you need to do for me," she said and explained where all the dials were, how to get to them without scalding myself on the pipes, and what to do if any of them crept into the red. I hadn't dared open the exit door before she came, but she took me through it, across the stairwell, to a washroom where she bandaged the burns on my arms and legs. She waited outside while I used the toilet for the first time in days. Mercy exists in Purgatory, even if it's a skimpy hospital gown and a bathroom when you can't hold it a minute longer.

         When we were back in the middle of the pipes and steam she asked, "Can you do the job? Thousands of lives are at stake."

         I assured her I could.

         She opened up her toolbox and handed me two bottles of water and a paper bag. Inside were a sausage and sweet pepper sandwich, a hunk of cheese, and an apple. "You might as well have this, since you're going to be down here awhile. I'll bring more food in a day or two."

         I wanted to ask her about the dragon, but realized if it was important that she pretend to be a maintenance worker and that I was just doing routine custodial work, there must be a reason. I frequently became annoyed with students who questioned what I taught just to float pet theories of their own...so this is what empathy feels like.

         Figuring out Linda is an angel, pairing name with nature, was only one of the tests facing me here.

         Another test is staying sane. Talking to yourself is considered a sign of mental instability, but here I'm the only one to talk to. When Linda comes by—and sometimes she just puts the food in the washroom and I find it later—she doesn't have time to talk, and we can't discuss what's really going on anyway. So I talk to myself; repeating things out loud helps fix them in my brain. Temporarily, at least. My memories come and go like the dragon in the pipes. Here awhile, then gone. Then back. Then gone. The circle of, if not life, then Purgatory.

         One more test lies beyond the exit door. Linda didn't say to stay off the stairs. She didn't have to. When—if...no, when—the time comes, I'm sure I'll be escorted up. Still, it's tempting sometimes.

         No doubt the dragon's to blame for that. How and why Linda keeps it in the boiler pipes, I don't know. Is it a prisoner awaiting interrogation? Or is she trying to rehabilitate it, to enable it to get back the angelic form it had before Lucifer's revolt? This Purgatory business is new to me.

         So I watch. And wait. And sweat.

         From what I've heard of the dragon rattling its claws and scale-crusted tail through the pipes, the beast is of the long, sleek Chinese New Year parade variety; the bulkier St. George sort wouldn't fit in the pipes anyway. The monster constantly growls its way along like a subway train, hisses steam through the safety valves. Once, I thought I'd get used to it, but night after night I wake from a restless sleep to the hissing and groaning of the boiler network, wanting nothing more than to bolt for the door and scamper up the stairway. To what? Another second chance? More likely, my doom. 

         I've stopped myself each time so far, a foot frozen above the bottom step. I wind up stumbling into the washroom, splashing cold water over my face and neck. After the stifling heat of the boiler room the water is a blessing, a reward for passing the nightly test. I strip and rinse out my sweat-soaked clothes, now little more than rags.

         I'd stay in the washroom with its cold water forever, but of course then I'd fail the primary test. The dragon would escape because I wouldn't be watching the gauges, wouldn't be ready to dial the number Linda showed me—in case of emergency.

         So tonight—like every night—I wring out my clothes, return to the boiler room. A half-hour draped over the blistering pipes and the boxers and johnny will be dry. In the meantime I study the gauges farthest from the door in case Linda comes in while I'm unclothed. I try not to look at my reflection in the water pooled on the floor. Naked or not, the sight isn't attractive. The constant heat has dehydrated my skin and I've become gaunt despite the food and water Linda brings. My hair has mushroomed into a caricature of Albert Einstein's. Were it not for the beard I've grown, a beard which Einstein was prevented by Swiss law from growing, I'd look quite a bit like the late, great scientist.

         Scientist! He was so much more. How many times did I lecture my students about the seventeen fortunes Einstein made in his lifetime? Regrettable that now I can only remember Number Twelve: the invention of the Monte Cristo sandwich. Ironic that Linda frequently brings me ham sandwiches and hardboiled eggs, but never the sandwich dipped in egg batter and deep-fried golden brown.

         Even more ironic is the fact that Einstein predicted my fate in his short story, "The Fortunate Purgatory of Arthur MacArthur." His title character's name matches my own. Of course, his story went on to become the basis of the movie, The Breakfast Club, and only involves boiler rooms tangentially. Still, it gives me hope that my experience here will be fortunate, too. Pity his fictional writings were never celebrated as much as his scientific theorems. His children's book, E is for Emcee Squairt, was popular for a brief time after its publication, but was quickly overshadowed by Make Way for Ducklings.

         The hiss of the dragon like the whistle of a teakettle—the scream of an Empire State steam engine—wakes me from my reverie. I rush to the valve nearest the sound. Check the gauge beside it. How could I have neglected my responsibility? And to think I was contemplating good fortune.

         I rush to the phone, dial the seven digits on the wall above it. I've always considered Einstein's dial more elegant than the modern buttons, but the number I'm dialing is full of eights and nines and zeroes. I live a lifetime each time the dial cycles back to its starting point, imagining the gauge behind me drawing deeper into the red, the dragon creeping closer to escape, perhaps even now out of the pipes and ready to pounce.

         At last the final number goes through—a two, thank God!—and a Department of Environmental Services operator comes on the line.

         "Linda! Please, I need to speak to Linda." I squeak out "Emergency" before I have to catch my breath.

         "What? Who are you?"

         "Emergency!" A room number is written in the center of the dial. I rattle it off to her. "Send help immediately."

         I hang up and turn around, expecting the dragon to clamp its jaws around my head. But the beast isn't out yet. Steam billows from half a dozen valves now. The noise is terrible. Terrifying. I start for the door, the washroom, the stairs. Then stop. Surely this is no test, but I know I have to stand my ground. Take responsibility for my failure. Maybe there's an only slightly-inconvenient circle of Hell in store for me if I don't run. Like that cartoon where a symphony conductor is escorted into a room of banjo- and accordion-playing morons. "Your room, Maestro," says the Devil to a man who looks a lot like Einstein. But he isn't, of course. Although Einstein could play eight of the eleven musical instruments he invented, it's common knowledge he never once conducted an orchestra.

         Damn my intellectual pride. Here I am about to be condemned to Hell for letting my knowledge of Einstein trivia keep me from my responsibilities, and I distract myself with more of it. It's a wonder I don't come up with a Son of Uther Pendragon analogy. No, don't even think about that. Don't.

         Two men barge through the door. Though they're dressed in the standard-issue DES coveralls, they're heavenly knights as sure as Linda's an angel. I shrink back against the wall, not wanting to get in their way. Not wanting to hasten my condemnation.

         They pull enormous wrenches from their tool chests and set about undoing the damage caused by the dragon's schemes. With no less fervor than Sir Gawain swinging his sword at the Green Knight's neck, or Arthur battling Mordred on the plain of Camlan, the pair of angels hammer on the pipes, open and close valves, and otherwise thwart the dragon. The whistling gradually fades and only after the steam clears do the knights turn to me. Only then do I notice the names stitched on their coveralls. Gabe. Pedro. And only then do I realize I'm naked. Curiously, my fear overwhelms my embarrassment.

         Gabe has the blue eyes and blond hair stereotyped in Eurocentric Renaissance artwork. If I had missed the secret to Linda's identity, it would be impossible to miss it with Gabe.  He towers over me by a good three inches. "Hey, Mac, you okay?" He knows my nickname. Of course he does. Gabriel is an archangel, after all.

         "Scared," I say.

         Pedro is shorter than Gabriel, about my height. He looks squarely in my eyes. "Don't worry about it, you're a hero now. Saved half a dozen city blocks from destruction. Wouldn't surprise me if your sentence gets commuted because of this."

         They persist in the illusion that the boiler was the problem, not the dragon. I suspect if it were to have gotten loose in the physical world more than six blocks would have been at risk. Maybe things are measured differently in the spiritual realm. And what was that about my sentence being commuted? Does this mean...

         The angels turn away, whisper to each other. I make my way to where my clothes have dried board stiff on the pipes. They crack and fall apart as I try to put them on. Why am I not surprised?

         "Don't worry about that, Mac," Gabriel says as he slips out of his coveralls. He has on jeans and a t-shirt underneath. The shirt has a picture of a saxophonist and the legend, Charlie Parker: August 1920–March 1955. Parker died a month before Einstein, though I'm unaware of any connection between the two.

         They help me into the clothes and I stand and wait while Pedro uses the phone. His skin is coffee colored, like Linda's, but his eyes and hair are darker. Despite the ethnicity of his name, he speaks with the same "New Yawk" accent the other angels favor.

         "Yeah, it's me down in 2974. Crisis over." He glances toward me, then looks back at the wall. "Do me a favor, huh? Call Bellevue and tell them we've got their man. Yeah, that's the guy. We'll need a car waiting to take him to a room once we get topside?"

         Bellevue? The name is familiar.

         "Nah, we can handle it." Pedro hangs up.

         Bellevue?

         Of course, Latin for Beautiful View. Against the odds, against my fears and expectations, I've passed the last of my tests. I kept my head in the midst of disaster. I didn't try to rationalize my way out of my negligence. I stood naked yet unashamed. And now my eternal reward: a room in a heavenly mansion named Beautiful View.

         "Will your co-worker Linda visit me there?" I ask, finally putting my foot on the bottom step.

         After three flights of stairs Gabe answers my question. "Don't know any Linda. There's a Lynette on night shift, and a Lashaunda who works payroll on weekends."

         "Or there's Melinda..." Pedro suggests. "No, she moved to Seattle."

         I describe Linda, but the pair still claims they don't know her. I look at their tool chests, imagine the oversized wrenches inside. If I could get one of those, start swinging it at their heads—would that persuade them to stop this nonsense? Wait; this must be another test.

         "The angel who took care of me for the past..." How long has it been? It seems like only weeks, but making one's way out of Purgatory surely must take longer than that. And it was almost all for nothing. I reprimand myself silently: "Idiot, MacArthur. Stop thinking about toolboxes and wrenches and Excalibur and Einstein's middleweight prizefights. You're almost home." We're nearing the top of the stairwell; I can see the fluorescent lightbars on the ceiling.

         "Oh, thaaat Linda." Gabriel assures me she'll stop by if she can.

         As the archangel and Pedro—Peter. St. Peter? Of course, that's why he arranged my admission into Bellevue—help me up the stairs, I try to imagine what the view from my room will look like, how beautiful it will be. I think of Eden. I'm no Biblical scholar—Camelot and Einstein were my specialties—but I remember a thing or two about the Garden of Eden from Sunday School. The Tree of Life and four rivers.

         "Will I have a view of one of the rivers from my room?"

         The final landing. Blinding light floods through an open doorway. Twelve paces to go.

         "Yeah, Mac," Pedro says. "On a clear day you can see the Hudson."

         Ecstatic, I step into the light.

 

Copyright 2006, Chris Mikesell

Chris Mikesell lives in Blachly, Ore., a stone's throw (if you have a good arm) from Triangle Lake. His short fiction/poetry has been published by The Wittenburg Door, Flashing in the Gutters, and Infuze. His hobbies include reading, writing (including his blog), and informing people how to pronounce Blachly (BLATCH-lee).