Inferno

The man at the head of the table glanced at his watch. It was five minutes past eight and there was still one seat empty. It was a comfy seat, too. Most of the other conference rooms only had wooden chairs. I wouldn’t be late to a meeting like this, thought the man, if I knew that I was going to sit in a swivel chair.

He glanced at his watch again. Six minutes late. The people sitting in the other chairs—there were nine chairs altogether, not counting his—were rocking back and forth, quietly making small talk or staring into space. The professor, who was wearing a blue suit jacket and sat on the left side of the table, had arrived ten minutes early. Now he spoke with a hint of irritation: “Are we going to start any time soon?”

The man at the head of the table smiled apologetically. “I’m sorry, but we’re still waiting on one person.” He paused momentarily, as though thinking. “But while we’re waiting, we can go ahead and get started with introductions.”

He cleared his throat. “Excuse me, everyone,” he said loudly. “My name is Marco Ghibili, and on behalf of Stargaze Comics I’d like to thank you all for coming out today. I know that you all have busy schedules and we are honored that you’ve agreed to help us with our latest project. As you know—”

There was a knock at the door. “Come in,” Marco called. The door opened, and a bald man poked his head into the room.

“Is this the meeting of the Comic Book Advisory Board?” he asked.

“It certainly is,” said Marco, flashing his impeccable teeth. “Come on in. You must be Steve Rust.”

Steve shook Marco’s hand and sat down in the empty seat. “I’m sorry I’m late,” he said. “I got stuck in traffic.”

Marco knew that there was never traffic downtown this early in the morning. “It’s all right—happens to the best of us,” he said. “We were just about to get started with introductions. Why don’t we go around the table—starting with you, Steve—and tell each other our names and what we do for a living.”

Steve’s eyes were bloodshot, and he closed them as soon as he was finished speaking. “I’m Steve Rust,” he said. “I solder fences down at the Mopsley Fence Company.”

Next was Martha McRoach, a young woman with a scarlet blouse and coiffed hair. She worked as a secretary, and so did Doris Smith, the grandmotherly lady in the green hat who sat next to her. Michael Langston, a lanky teenager wearing scuffed-up blue jeans, was still in high school. Regina Philips, with the thin face and neon lipstick, was a lawyer; Kate Finnley, in a battered blue sweater, was quite obviously a housewife. Anthony Guest worked as a chef and still smelled faintly like fish. Spencer Davis was wearing a red T-shirt and worked for E-Z Plumbing, and Jonathan Churchill was the professor in the blue suit coat. And then, of course, there was Marco.

“Great!” Marco said. “It’s good to meet all of you. Well, as you know, Stargaze Comics is planning to launch a new series of comic books based on Dante’s Inferno. Are you all familiar with the Inferno?”

Most people nodded, but Michael shook his head. “We haven’t gotten that far in science class yet,” he said.

“I don’t imagine that you will ever get that far in your science class,” Professor Churchill interjected. “In fact, I would be quite concerned if you did cover Dante’s Inferno in science class, because Dante’s Inferno is a classic work of literature.”

“Well, sorry to offend,” said Michael sarcastically, slouching into his chair and beginning to swivel.

Marco smiled. “Don’t worry—you can’t be expected to know everything. Dante’s Inferno is a poem that describes how Dante took a trip through Hell, looking at all the sinners and their punishments. Of course, all the people that Dante saw in Hell were people from the fourteenth century. Now, what Stargaze is trying to do is to create an updated version of the Inferno that better reflects the mindset of the modern age, and that’s why we’ve called you all here today. We’re looking for your suggestions on who we should put in our version of Hell.”

“What kind of suggestions?” asked Martha. “Anyone we can think of?”

“I’ll leave that up to you,” said Marco. “Throw out any names you want and we’ll take them into consideration. Does anyone else have a question?”

Anthony spoke up. “Yeah—like, how long is this meeting going to last?”

“I don’t think it will keep you more than an hour,” Marco replied. “Anyone else?” The room was silent, save for the creaking of the swivel chairs. Marco pulled out a pen. “Well then, let’s get started. I thought we could go around the table again—you shout out suggestions and I’ll write them down. Let’s start with you, Doris.”

Doris folded her wrinkled hands nervously. “Oh dear,” she said. “I’m afraid that I haven’t thought about this very much. I’m not sure that I know who to say.” She gazed vacantly at the opposite wall.

“We can come back to you if you’d like,” Marco offered, compassionately.

“Would you? I’m sorry to hold you up—I just need more time to think.”

“That’s quite all right,” Marco replied. “What about you, Martha?”

Martha frowned. “Well, there are the obvious people like O. J. Simpson and Charles Manson,” she said. “And Timothy McVeigh and Jim Jones. They definitely belong somewhere in Hell.”

“Excellent,” said Marco. “Now, if you had to rank them on a scale of one to nine, with one being the most lenient punishment and nine being the strictest, where do you think they would belong?”

“Well, what they did was pretty bad,” replied Martha, biting her lip in concentration. “I think I’d probably put them at an eight or nine.”

Marco scribbled on his legal pad. “Thank you, Martha. Doris, have you come up with anything yet?”

Doris, staring intently at the wall, shook her head.

“Then let’s move on to you, Spencer,” said Marco.

Spencer Davis slammed his fist on the table. “President Obama!” he cried. “That thug is bent on destroying America. He’s driving our country into bankruptcy, socialism and moral decay on purpose!”

The table began to murmur. “Hold on, man!” Anthony exclaimed. “You can’t do that to the President. He’s the greatest leader we’ve seen since Roosevelt.”

“My point exactly,” Spencer shot back. “Throw FDR into Hell, too!”

The panel gasped, and Professor Churchill leaned onto the table. “Wait a minute, sir. If we’re throwing inept national leaders into Hell, we need to make room for George Bush. The dunce wasn’t qualified to steer an oil rig, let alone a country.”

“George W. Bush,” Spencer began, “was America’s greatest president since Ronald Reagan!”

“Speaking of Reagan,” said Professor Churchill, “if you want to talk about bankrupting the economy—”

“Actually, I agree with Spencer,” interrupted Kate Finnley. “President Obama really hasn’t been responsible with—”

“Ronald Reagan was—” Spencer shouted.

“Is there any way to make him stop talking?” asked Professor Churchill, pointing at Spencer.

“Hold on, everybody!” Marco was smiling. “There’s no need to get upset; I can barely hear what you’re saying. Regina, what do you think?”

Regina Philips tossed her head. “I find it surprising that no one has mentioned the elephant in the room. Surely Hitler deserves a place in the ninth level of Hell.”

The panel nodded in agreement, except for Spencer, who was still breathing heavily.

“And Stalin,” added Martha. “He killed more people than Hitler.”

“While we’re on the subject of killing,” said Professor Churchill, “I suggest that we add Christopher Columbus, John Smith, and William Bradford to the list. Millions of Native Americans died from slavery and the diseases that they introduced to the Americas.”

Spencer’s eyes bulged. “The Pilgrims are the foundation of our nation! They are heroes!” he bellowed.

“Imperialists, you mean,” the professor corrected.

“Can I make a suggestion?” asked Anthony. “I can’t stand James Dobson. Every time I hear him on the radio it gives me chills.”

“You can’t put Dr. Dobson in Hell!” Kate cried. “He’s the only one preserving some semblance of decency in America. If we’re going to put anybody in Hell, it should be that hussy in charge of Planned Parenthood.”

“Excuse me?” Regina asked incredulously. “Planned Parenthood is an essential provider of women’s health services. I volunteer regularly at my local clinic.”

Kate stared. “How can you murder innocent babies like that?”

Regina’s nostrils flared. “We do not murder babies,” she retorted. “We support a woman’s right to choose.”

“Ladies, please,” interjected Marco, still flashing his impeccable teeth. “We can share our suggestions in a civilized manner, can’t we? Michael, you’ve been quiet so far; do you have anything to add?”

Michael opened his eyes. “Well, I have this really awful English teacher—he’s a real grouch. I’d throw him into Hell if I could.”

Doris leaned onto the table and waved her hand. “I’m ready now,” she said.

“All right—what do you have for us?” asked Marco.

Doris read out of a small notebook. “Well, there’s my next-door neighbor, Sue; she borrowed one of my cake pans last year and never returned it. And my sister—we haven’t spoken for ten years now. Then, of course, there’s that McDonald’s employee who always gives me strawberry ice cream when I order vanilla. I thought of putting my husband in there, too,” she chuckled, “but I didn’t think that would be very nice.” Doris closed the book and looked up at the silent faces around the table. “That’s all I have,” she said.

Marco finished writing. “Thank you, Doris. What about you, Steve?”

Steve was staring into his lap, and he looked up slowly. The dark circles under his eyes made his face seem hollow. “If anyone’s going to Hell,” he said, “I think you should put me in there. I can’t see why I don’t deserve it.”

For a moment, even the swivel chairs were silent.

Professor Churchill glared at Spencer. “Well,” he said, “I don’t know about you, Steve, but there are definitely some other people in this room that I would consider sending to Hell.”

“I take offense at that!” Spencer fumed. “You’re lucky I didn’t bring my rifle to this meeting.”

Kate turned to Regina. “How can you live with yourself after murdering so many babies?”

“And we can’t forget about Mao,” Martha interjected.

“Can we throw Cheney into Hell, too?” inquired Anthony.

“Oh, I forgot,” said Doris. “There’s also my great-aunt—”

An hour passed by, but nobody knew or cared. The comfortable swivel chairs hemmed them in, trapped in an inferno of their own making.