Suicide Girls In The AfterLife Read Free Page A

smiling happily like he has the best job in the world.
   “Check in,” Salvadore says. “Eldridge, Pogue.”
   The clerk nods and types something into his computer. “Ah, yes. Suicide. Electrocution was it?”Frowning, I say, “What does that have to do with anything?”
   Pencil-mustache’s smile widens. “Only everything,” he says.
   “Electrocution,” Salvadore confirms and Mustache bends down, rummages beneath the counter for a minute and comes up with a keycard. “You’ll be on the fifth floor. Room 658.”
I take the card and look at it. One side has the picture of a hippie guy, grinning and giving the peace sign. I flip it over and the other side shows a pouty Goth, wearing black eyeliner and looking sullen. “Who are these guys?” I ask.
   “Well,” Salvadore says. “My job here is done. Good luck to you, Pogue.” He holds out his hand to be shaken.
   “You’re just gonna leave me here?” I say. “I thought you were my escort.”
   “I was. And I escorted you. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”
   “You should at least escort me to my room,” I interrupt. “That would be the gentlemanly thing to do.”
   “Actually, Pogue,” he says, “truth be told, I wasn’t even supposed to be your escort. I was just filling in for someone else.”
   I fold my arms across my chest. “Who?”
   Turning around to face the doors, Salvadore points and says, “Her.”
   I look and see a big black woman just spinning out of the revolving door. Once inside, she turns to the person behind her, just entering. “Get your scrawny white ass in here, bitch,” the black woman bellows. “Do I look like I got all day?”
   The person she’s yelling at—a teenage girl—looks pissed. She’s dressed like a street kid, in ratty clothes that are too big for her and her hair hangs to her shoulders in long greasy strips.
   The black woman, dressed in a big purple dress with swirls of green and orange all over it, grabs the teenager by the arm and starts pulling her over to the check-in counter.
   “This is Katina,” the woman tells Mr. Mustache. “Another damn fool who went and offed herself before she’s even old enough to vote.”
   “I told you,” Katina says, trying to pull free of the woman’s grasp, “I didn’t off myself. At least not on purpose.”
   The black woman releases the girl and puts her hands on her hips. “Uh huh. Did you or did you not stick a needle in your arm?”
   Katina looks at the floor and says nothing.
   “Uh huh,” the woman continues. “And did that needle contain enough smack to drop an elephant or did it not?”
   Again, Katina makes no reply.
   “Uh huh,” the woman repeats, turning back to the desk. “Suicide.”
   “It was an accident!” Katina cries.
   Beside me Salvadore shakes his head sadly while watching this exchange.
   “Honey,” the woman says to Katina. “There are no accidents. Almost every-damn-body is a suicide when you get right down to it. Those are just the rules. You smoke and die of lung cancer? The big boy upstairs says suicide. You eat at McDonald’s every damn day of your life and your heart turns into a little ball of cement? Suicide. You get drunk and drive into a tree or turn your liver into jelly? Suicide. Don’t matter how long or short it takes people. Fact is, most people kill themselves and it’s no use arguing about it. Like I said, those are the rules.”
   Katina looks at me, her eyes pleading.
   I shrug. “I did it on purpose. Sorry.”
   Salvadore clears his throat and addresses the big black woman. “Ms. Stardust, I’d like to introduce you to Pogue. She was supposed to be your pick-up.”
   “Is that so?” The woman gives me the once over. “Well, sorry I missed you, sweetheart, but as you can tell I’ve had my hands full.”
   It’s only when I’m looking at her face to face that I notice the Adam’s