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Grimsby

Grimsby

By Danaë Brandt

Click.

A pale naked man looked up at the worn-out contraption.

Digital Board: 3 001 768 288 Served.

This naked man’s name is Carl if you must know. That however, is unimportant. He was but one, of countless “hopeful” (and just as naked) applicants, queuing up the narrow hallway to Mr. Grimsby’s door. He breathed a sigh of relief. I’m next. Bout’ fuckin time. He took a step forward toward the red tape on the floor, and stopped. He watched Frat Boy, the guy he had been standing behind, lower his head, clench his butt cheeks, and make his way towards the office door. He stopped just as he was close enough to smell the nauseating green lead paint. The only object around that was new enough to gleam. His left thumb went from tan, to red, to purple as the right pressed into it, suffocating the life out of his manicure.

Where the hell is the guard? Carl thought. He had gone on coffee break a while ago. He would have shoved this idiot in there already. He turned his head to glance over his shoulder, keeping his eyes levelled as to not catch anything below the belt. He could not see where the line ended anymore. The flickering lights were dying along the mile-long corridor, plunging the unfortunates at the end of line into complete darkness. One could be excused for thinking they were trying to gain entrance to the most in vogue underground club in the U.S. instead of a meeting with the terribly trivial Mr. Grimsby. One could also wonder why this place was so under-staffed, or why one man would be in charge of all the applicants in North America. After all, they were in the most notorious of places. Seems positively, unequivocally, really truly… Anticlimactic.

The people in line started sneering at the apparent cowardice of the Head of Gamma-Something-or-Other house.

“Gutless moron,” someone whispered at first.

“Yeah asshole? What happened to that smart-ass attitude?” asked a woman in a nasal voice.

“Not so tough without your polo shirt, huh?” said far way voice. Not the best heckler in the bunch.

“Where your bros at?” added another. Many applicants in line started joining in. The deluge of taunts made its eventual way to the folks so far back, they had never seen the front crowd. Soon enough, they were also mocking the pathetic guy at the door. Then, in a steady and decisive voice, Carl, the man right behind him, let out the last one Frat Boy wanted to hear.

“Pussy.”

The young boy turned around raising both his arms, like a priest during Acclamation… Or a frat boy after a keg stand.

“Oh yeah? Fuck you!”

He turned back swiftly and, in a hyperventilating fit, reminiscent of a child about to dive into glacial water, Frat Boy twisted the silver doorknob and stepped in. The line erupted in cheers. They were glad to be rid of the aggravating boy. Their long wait had been made even more unbearable by Gamma-Douche’s loud and incessant whining. From what Carl had gathered, Frat Boy had driven his Camaro into a minivan, killing a family of five. His parents had managed to bail him out. Clean record and all. Five months later, plastered Frat Boy got himself into yet another accident. Needless to say, a meeting with Mr. Grimsby was unavoidable. Mr. Grimsby could not be bought by daddy dearest. Or by Carl for that matter…

Click. Digital Board: 3 001 768 289 Served.

Carl’s head snapped back to the front. Already? The Digital Board had been so slow, Carl had found himself counting his eyelashes to cope with the painful wait. This time however, it had not been a minute before it was the next person’s turn. His turn. He slowly walked up to the office door and turned the heavy plain knob, inhaling longer than he would, hoping it would slow his frantic heartbeat. With a forceful exhale, he pushed the door.

Mr. Grimsby’s office reflected a life of bureaucratic exactitude. There was one desk in the centre of the room, opposing chairs, the white walls were bare, and the file cabinets neatly locked with the endless contracts he has drawn over the years.

“Take a seat,” said the little man, his attention fixated on the form in front of him. He scribbled with frantic movements of the wrist, his skeletal elbow anchored, steadying his writing arm with the precision of a printer. His green visor blocking his sure to be weasely face, framed his glossy bald head. Once he finished, he tossed the pen into the bin by his bare legs. Carl heard it hit the metal brim, then the floor. He got down to pick it up and toss it himself. He didn’t want to take any chances with the clerk, even if he looked like weakling. Surely he couldn’t be. The bin was already half filled with dried up ballpoints. Mr. Grimsby’s crossed his legs, giving Carl a front row seat to his— THUD.

“Ow! Mother-f—“ Carl cursed after slamming his head on the edge of the table.

“Shall we we proceed sir?” Mr. Grimsby suggested with an impassive expression. His spidery fingers twisted the form to face Carl. His beady eyes unwavering behind his Mat Steel Windsor eyeglasses, “You will need to sign these papers to be permitted passage. Sign on the first dotted line at the bottom of the first and last pages, and write your initials on the the others as you read.

“There must be thousands of pages,” Carl complained.

“Indeed. Isn’t convenient we have all the time in the World? Once you finish reading, and I do suggest you read every page carefully, we can then discuss your options.”

“My options?”

“As to how you shall be spending your time here.”

“I have a choice?”

“We all make choices don’t we? It is what has landed you here in the first place, sir,” his neatly filed fingernail tapped the dotted line. Mr. Grimsby reached for another ballpoint in his drawer, and started scribbling on another form. Carl looked down to the papers:

Nether World District - Perdition Application Admission (NB - 1318)

Permanent Resident (North American Damned)

Carl read through the numerous Hell Residency Situations. It all looked pretty standard. With escalating gravity, the road to purgatory would be lengthier and more torturous. To be expected. Carl identified with situation 329: You have lived a life of sin by committing fraud in the 2010 Synthetic CDO case, trading insider secrets with your competitors at Citigroup, causing your investors to lose their material possessions, emotional stability and in some cases, caused them to take their own lives. You have spent more time pursuing selfish pursuits, causing you to miss eight of your son’s baseball games, two of your other son’s dance recitals and all of your twelve anniversaries—

“I always sent Beth flowers!” Carl muttered.

“I’m sure she appreciated being sent flowers from your secretary. The one you were having an affair with.”

“So? She was a pill-popping washed-up socialite. I was done with her. She wasn’t a better parent anyway.”

“Very astute of you sir. She is scheduled to arrive here six years and two months from now. She still has quite a few wild oats to sow. Your children’s future is still to be decided.”

“Hmmph,” Carl rolled his eyes and signed before finishing the ten page long situation, “Nice first name… Barney,” he mocked as he signed he last page, noticing the small engraved name plate on the desk, “I have to say, I didn’t expect Hell to be so… civilized.”

“How so sir?” Mr. Grimsby asked going over the application and making sure he wouldn’t be cheated by a con-man. He had also worked as a clerk in law firm way back in the day. He had been the type dot all the “i”s, cross all his “t”s, measure the dots above both “i”s and “j”s, making sure they were always perfectly aligned. He also doubled-barred all his zeroes, because God forbid his unfaltering compulsion for order, could be perverted by simpletons. It’s that obsession for the penny-ante that had landed him there in the first place.

“Well look at us? You’d think we’re at the DMV.”

“I’m afraid the Department of Motor Vehicles was established after my time.”

“Where’s the fire? Where are the hook wielding demons? Where’s the big dog guarding the Gates of Hell? This is all I was supposed to be “afraid” of? A scrawny immigration officer in a shitty poker cap?”

“Shall we proceed to the options of residency available to you?”

“I was at least expecting some fucking second-rate James Earl Jones declaring “I am the Gate Keeper” or some shit,” Carl continued. He sat back comfortably in his chair. He had eaten bigger steaks than the pathetic paper pusher sitting opposite him.

“This is not about living up to your expectations of Hades sir. It’s about tailoring your punishment to your worst nightmare… You are now insignificant, and, for all intents and purposes, I am the Gate Keeper.”

“Sure thing sir. Whatever you say “boss”.”

“As you qualify for an extensive list of punishments, you must purge your soul through a minimum of 300 years process—“

“Say Barnster, what landed your sorry ass down here?” Carl interrupted.

“It is of no importance,” he answered, his face as stoic as ever. He had not lived a selfless life. His nit-picky attention to the insignificant, had poisoned his promising accounting career, his family life, and finally his soul. His death had been dramatic in its own pitiful way. His employer had found a mistake in the books. One Mr. Grimsby refused to admit. It had been a mere difference of a few dollars. Nothing worth offering a challenge for. Mr. Grimsby had often likened himself to the misunderstood Third Vice President, Aaron Burr. This would be a farfetched comparison, praising Mr. Grimsby all too much. One could argue for delusions of grandeur perhaps, but most would note an unmistakeable inferiority complex. His employer, his own Alexander Hamilton, had been a skilled marksman, and petty Mr. Grimsby well… He had been vain… And legally blind.

“So you are just some poor sap who died before confession. That explains it. I want to see your manager.” Now that was a new one.

“My manager? Sir?”

“Oh don’t play innocent Barnacle, I want to meet the the Top Dog.”

“I am not familiar with that title.”

“The Big Cheese.”

“Sir we need to sign—“ Mr. Grimsby started before flinching when the other man slammed his fist on the desk.

“Listen here Barnicus—“ Carl stood up fast, his large frame casting a shadow on the Gate Keeper.

“Was that meant to be an insult?”

“I want to meet Satan.”

“Satan?”

“Yes Satan! The Devil, Lucifer, the Morningstar, God’s whiny eternally grounded teenage son. He’s the one that runs this place right? I’m the man to run this dump back to its former glory.”

“Unless you know one of the original demons, you have no connection to Mr. Morningstar. No common damned soul meets with the Head of State here,” Mr. Grimsby explained. His expression static.

“And have you met him?”

“I have a key position in his administration now don’t I?”

“So who’s a guy gotta blow for a job down here? I saw some of the mandatory punishments I got to go through. I’m sure as hell not going through phase two. Phase seven and eight, I can manage. I draw the line at becoming anybody’s money shot.”

“I’m afraid that isn’t how it works, sir,” Mr. Grimsby spoke, with his straight lips starting to twitch at the corners. He was amused.

“Oh come on man, is there anything I can be of use to the Big Guy? I have a array of skills that should be more than useful down here. You need to slice up some bitches? I took anatomy in first year of College. You need to get people to talk? I’m a master extortioner. Just ask Chris Christie. That fat old blockhead stood like a whimpering idiot behind the T Man, all because I got him drunk enough to take pictures with a half naked Ru Paul. You need to teach a slut a lesson? I’ll—“ Mr. Grimsby held up his right hand, and rubbed his temples with the left.

“Please sir. You’re making this process needlessly long. I am behind with the line-up, and I would hate to underperform after turning in my best numbers to date.”

“Please Barney…”

“Mr. Grimsby, sir,” he said, grinning at the large man, cowering at the idea of losing his manhood. Idiot, he already had.

“Mr. Grimsby,” Carl repeated.

“Fine, I’ll show you the way to his office. Forgive me if I don’t follow you. I have no time.”

“Of course, of course. Thank you Mr. Grimsby.”

“Very well,” Mr. Grimsby snapped his fingers. A golden door, carved itself into the bare wall behind the desk. The carvings drew a modern man’s body, in a fitted suit, tossing a coin into the air. His head was that of a large bull. “Send my regards to Mr. Morningstar.”

“Is there anything I should know?”

“If I was welcomed in his administration, I’m sure a strong man like you would have no problem doing the same. Have at it.”

Carl entered the dark corridor, and closed the door at snail-like pace. As soon as it closed, the door disappeared, manifesting a new, and decidedly less ostentatious door in its stead. A horned red skinned demon wearing a security cap entered, holding a steaming white coffee mug with a powder blue logo saying “Jesus is my Bitch!” He looked back the the door, with a puzzled look.

“Did you open The Door?” the demon enquired.

“Indeed.”

“Who went in?”

“A new resident.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“He tried to show you up didn’t he?” the demon ventured, and Mr. Grimsby shrugged, “You’re a sick bastard you know that Grimsby?” he remarked in a matter-of-fact tone.

“After over a Century down here… I am loathed to finally admit. I am petty. Send in the next one.” Carl follows the long narrow corridor, plunged into blackness. He made his way slowly, weary of what would be at the end. His eyes adjusted slightly, spotting flickering lights somewhere ahead…

Silence. Digit Board: 3 001 768 289 Served

[snarksicleblog-blog]

Let Me In!

Let Me In!

By

Danaë Brandt

A 15 minute Play.

Characters:

ASEFI, 56 year old housekeeper, works for Patrick and Jeanne. Has a close relationship with Jeanne, but a somewhat tumultuous one with Patrick.

PATRICK (a voice off stage), 53 year old owner of the house, Asefi’s boss and Jeanne’s husband.

JEANNE, 48 year old woman, Asefi’s boss and friend, and Patrick’s wife.

Setting:

PATRICK and JEANNE’s house in downtown Port-au-Prince. The scene takes place in the foyer. There is a door staged diagonally on the left, and there are three locked latches on it. The room is decorated with Edouard Carrié-esque paintings.

It is Wednesday January 6th 2016 around 11pm. Someone off stage is pounding at the door. ASEFI, the housekeeper, is frantically pacing the stage.

ASEFI:

(Stops centre stage. Starts speaking to herself) Why did I choose today of all days to forget my wanga? This is bad. Really, really bad.

PATRICK:

(Off stage. Yelling.) Open up you crazy woman!

(Pounding.)

What the hell is wrong with you?

ASEFI: (To herself.)

It’s my fault. Mine. All mine.

PATRICK:

(Still yelling.) I’ve had it with your batshit antics! You’re fired! Get the hell out of my house!

ASEFI:

(Waiving him off) Please I hear that every other day.

PATRICK:

I SWEAR I AM GOING TO RIP YOU TO—

ASEFI:

(Turns head to the door.) Will you be quiet? I can’t think straight.

Pause

PATRICK:

Ha! Understatement of the year!

Beat

ASEFI:

And why would I let you in?

PATRICK:

This is my house you lunatic!

ASEFI:

You must think I’m an idiot. I know you’re not Mr. Patrick. He would never enter through the front door.

PATRICK:

(Between clenched teeth.) I. Told. You… I forgot my keys.

ASEFI:

(Tchuips) Manti! Mr. Patrick would never forget his keys.

PATRICK:

(Starts pounding and yelling again.) Son of a b… Open up you maniac before I—

Beat

(JEANNE enters stage right. She is wearing a night robe.)

JEANNE:

(Yawns.) Asefi? What’s all this racket? It’s passed 11pm.

ASEFI:

Please step back Mrs.Jeanne.

PATRICK:

(In a soft voice) Jeanne? Honey? It’s so good to hear your voice. Could you please open the door? Asefi is having one of her “episodes”.

JEANNE:

What? Why are you home so late? You missed dinner and…

(Awakens slightly and turns to ASEFI)

Wait why won’t you open for Patrick?

PATRICK:

Couple loose screws.

ASEFI:

It’s not Mr.Patrick.

JEANNE:

What do you mean it’s not Mr.Patrick? It’s his voice. I know I’m half-asleep but I know my husband’s voice. My very, very, late husband’s voice.

ASEFI:

It’s his voice. It’s not Mr. Patrick.

JEANNE:

Why do you think it’s not Mr… I mean Patrick.

ASEFI:

Let me demonstrate.

(Turns to the door and knocks on it lightly. A loud bang is heard from the other side. Both women jump back in unison. ASEFI tentatively approaches the door again.)

Mr… Um… Whoever you are, I have a question for you. One you would be able to answer, if you were indeed Mr. Patrick. Ready?

PATRICK:

I have a meeting tomorrow at 7am… I have no time for this I—

JEANNE:

Have you ever tried being… I don’t know… Nice perhaps? Because if you were being this rude to me, I wouldn’t let you in either….

PATRICK:

Don’t you think I tried? Or do you really think I’m the type to just start pounding like a hammer before acting like an actual human being? I’ve been here for half an hour already. I asked nicely at first, I chuckled after because I assumed she was kidding, then tried to bribe her when I realized she wasn’t, then I—

ASEFI:

Showed your evil true colours!

PATRICK:

DO YOU SEE WHAT I MEAN?

JEANNE:

Patrick! Just play along. We’ll be here all night if you don’t.

PATRICK:

Fine.

(JEANNE gestures to ASEFI to continue)

ASEFI:

It’s easy, so you should not be worried.

PATRICK:

Just get over with it already.

JEANNE:

Be nice.

PATRICK:

But honey…

JEANNE:

But nothing.

PATRICK:

(Sarcastic) Ask away Asefi.

JEANNE:

(To ASEFI) I don’t appreciate his sarcasm, but I think that’s the best you’re going to get at this point.

(ASEFI nods.)

ASEFI:

When is my birthday?

(Pause)

PATRICK:

How should I know?

JEANNE:

Oh Patrick.

ASEFI:

Told you so.

PATRICK:

(Yelling) Why would I know your birthday? Jeanne doesn’t know it either!

JEANNE:

(Slams palm on her forehead) Seriously Patrick? She’s been with us for twelve years. It’s October 3rd for future reference.

PATRICK:

I won’t bother remembering because she’s fired!

JEANNE:

(Waving him off) You say that every other day.

PATRICK:

This time I mean it.

JEANNE:

Sure.

PATRICK:

Do you really think I wouldn’t?

ASEFI:

Be gone, heathen!

JEANNE:

(To ASEFI) Enough.

Beat

PATRICK:

Thank you Honey. I’m really tired. Could you please let me in? It’s really late.

(JEANNE walks towards the door, reaches for the set of keys under the mat, unlocks the first padlock. She puts the key in the second padlock but stops)

JEANNE:

Why exactly are you so late on a Wednesday?

ASEFI:

(Imitating JEANNE’s voice) Yes Patrick, why are you so late on a Wednesday?

PATRICK:

(Whispering) Oh Goodness Jesus.

(Raises voice slightly)

Jeanne honey, I was finishing the presentation for the investors. You know… The ones I have to meet with tomorrow.

JEANNE:

I’m sorry. I didn’t realize how tired you must have been.

PATRICK:

You have no idea honey.

ASEFI:

Exhausted. Drained. Bouke. Completely and utterly pooped, he was.

JEANNE:

My poor poor husband. You must have been in such agony as well.

PATRICK:

Agony?

ASEFI:

(Whispering) Agony…

JEANNE:

Why yes. Considering you did not deem it necessary to call your wife to warn her you were going to be late during these unsafe times, I have no choice but to assume you have suffered a concussion.

PATRICK:

Jeanne…

JEANNE:

(Imitating her husband’s tone) Patrick…

ASEFI:

(Imitating Jeanne imitating her husband) Yes Patrick….

PATRICK:

Can we talk about this?

JEANNE:

You weren’t working on your proposal were you?

PATRICK:

Yes I was!

JEANNE:

Until what time?

PATRICK:

(Mumbling incoherently) Around four something or other.

JEANNE:

Excuse me?

ASEFI:

We can’t hear you.

PATRICK:

(Getting worked up.) This doesn’t concern you!

JEANNE:

It sure does when you wake her up at this hour to open for your sorry ass. You didn’t forget your keys either did you?

PATRICK:

No, I lost them.

ASEFI:

(Sarcastically.) Likely story.

JEANNE:

(Ignoring the comment.) You promised you would stop.

PATRICK:

It was a one time thing honey. The guys just wanted to celebrate Ti-Malice’s birthday. It was just a couple of guys hanging out, I swear.

Beat

ASEFI:

Oh no… Mr.Patrick went out tonight? It makes sense now. That’s why’s he in trouble.

PATRICK:

No shit.

(JEANNE sighs and unlocks the second padlock. ASEFI slaps the keys out of her hands before she opens the third.)

JEANNE:

What the hell is wrong with you? Seriously?

PATRICK:

Thank you! There’s no reasoning with her honey!

JEANNE:

(To PATRICK) Shut up. (To ASEFI) Are you having some sort of episode?

ASEFI:

I beg of you Mrs.Patrick, do not open that door.

JEANNE:

Believe when I say I don’t want to, but I also want to go to bed. I’ll be doubly nasty tomorrow after he’s had his meeting.

ASEFI:

It’s not your husband I tell you.

JEANNE:

(getting irritated) And who, pray tell, is it?

ASEFI:

A Djab. An evil spirit. Seeing how great they’re able to imitate Mr.Patrick’s voice, I’d say it’s the Baron.

JEANNE:

The Baron?

ASEFI:

Yes. Baron Samedi.

PATRICK:

(Whistling) Cray cray.

JEANNE:

You must be joking.

ASEFI:

If only I were Mrs.Patrick.

PATRICK:

Why are you still listening to her? Are you taking her vodou mambo-jambo seriously?

JEANNE:

(She nods in agreement) Asefi, I’m tired, you’re tired, and Patrick—

ASEFI:

Baron Sa—

JEANNE:

Patrick. Patrick needs to rest.

ASEFI:

But he will eat us both as soon as he enters the home.

JEANNE:

Lord…

PATRICK:

Just kick her out already.

Beat

JEANNE:

(Breathing in.) Asefi, you know i’m not comfortable with this Vodou nonsense, but I let you listen to your Racine music, I let you tie your red scarves on the avocado trees, and I even let you go to your “ceremonies”. The only condition is that you go to church.

ASEFI:

(Frantically.) That’s just it! I couldn’t go to the ceremony. I should have insisted. (Starts pacing along the stage.) I know, I know. It’s my all my fault for not going tonight. I was supposed to be the chosen one. Had I gone, none of this would have happened. The Guédés are angry with me.

(JEANNE grabs ASEFI’s shoulders and shakes her.)

JEANNE:

Listen here. There is no devil at my door. God is always on the side of the righteous, right?

ASEFI:

Right.

JEANNE:

(Continues to shake ASEFI.) Who chased away the delinquents trying to induce my daughter into smoking marijuana cigarettes?

ASEFI:

I did.

JEANNE:

(Continues to shake her.) And who fought two grown men after they threatened to kidnap your son?

ASEFI:

(Louder.) I did.

JEANNE:

(Still shaking.) And who makes the best, and I mean the BEST, Creole chicken anyone has ever tasted?

ASEFI:

(Loudly.) I do!

JEANNE:

(Lets go.) Do you really think God would ever turn on someone as good as you?

PATRICK:

Amen.

(JEANNE shoots a murderous stare at the door.)

ASEFI:

(She turns away from JEANNE, and faces the audience) I suppose you’re right Mrs.Patrick. I must be feeling guilt for missing the ceremony. There will be others to participate in. There cannot be a devil at the door. It’s an old wives’ tale after all.

(ASEFI picks the keys up, and walks over to the door to finally unlock it. She continues to look at the audience as she speaks.)

And too think it was all because Mr.Patrick’s secretary came to pick up his lunch at noon and said he would be extra exhausted tonight.

JEANNE:

What?

ASEFI:

(Her movements slow down.) That she would be working him hard. Or was it making sure he works hard? (Chuckles) Forgive this old bag’s failing memory.

PATRICK:

Jeanne honey, it’s not what you think.

JEANNE:

(Quietly) Let Asefi finish her story… Honey. Go on.

ASEFI:

(Turning her head towards the door, her movements are now back to normal.) That was it Mrs. Jeanne. I just decided to stay and fix his favourite dinner tonight. I mean…You know…Because he would be working late with that young pretty—

PATRICK:

Stop. Talking.

JEANNE:

(Livid.) With that fucking whore? (She walks toward ASEFI, snatches the keys, then violently slams the door with a closed fist.) You didn’t fire her? You piece of shit! Rot in Hell you son of a bitch!

Beat

(JEANNE storms off the stage with the keys. Leaving ASEFI near the door.)

PATRICK:

I hope you’re happy. She’s definitely going to leave me now…

(Pause)

Are you seriously not going to answer?

(ASEFI doesn’t answer. She stares at the door.)

You’ve ruined my life. Not to mention our kids will hate you for breaking up their parents. I guess that’s a consolation.

(Pause)

Guess I’ll go sleep in some hotel tonight…

(Pause)

ASEFI:

You’re seriously sot letting this go huh?

PATRICK:

I don’t know what you mean.

ASEFI:

Sure…

(ASEFI exits stage. The lights dim on the stage, and brighten behind the door. A clear silhouette is visible. A skeleton wearing a top hat, is smoking a cigar.)

PATRICK:

Well that was a complete waste of time… Stupid disobedient horse.

(His voice deepens gravely)

PATRICK/SILHOUETTE:

Now I have to fucking wait til’ Mardi-Gras.

[snarksicleblog-blog]