Hell is How You Get There

It is Halloween season, the world is perverse with wicked intent, and as the cool night breeze chills the skin and the headlights of cars begin to take on an eerie glow, I find myself drunkenly stumbling home through the dirty streets of Jersey City. 

This is a loose retelling, probable fever dream, and inspired by a true story. In which I play the role of Dante Alighieri, and my lovely long-suffering friend plays Virgil. The setting: the Port Authority Trans-Hudson station (et al). 

I enter wearing a nun costume; all white, veil desperately askew. My friend and guide enters dressed in full drag; her bowtie undone, the wet smear of a drawn on mustache all that remains. As for what follows, well, we all know the phrase: Abandon all hope, ye who enter here. 

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11:54 PM EST.

Before Hell, there is Purgatory. 

Past midnight in these New Jersey alleys does invoke the shivering of the spine, and as we begin the unassuming walk to the Grove Street subway, we pass by the shuffling hordes of souls that flood these shadowed streets. 

These are the Uncommitted, amongst which include but are not limited to: large pigeons, off-duty cops, several clowns, chain-smoking hot dog vendors, drunken sports fans, horny teenagers up far past their bedtimes, and a life-size remote controlled animatronic of the Annabelle doll riding a tricycle. 

As we descend into the first circle of Hell, perhaps the wheezing escalator invokes the image of the river Acheron, the awaiting platform Charon’s riverboat, but I, like Dante, begin to pass out.

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The second circle of Hell is the layer of Lust. Here, sinners are buffeted by a violent and wicked wind, to cool the fire of their loins. I won’t lecture you; we all know about wind tunnels. At the far end of the track, an elderly couple dressed in matching blue wigs begin to ferociously make out. 

As we board the train, we slowly become aware that we have no idea where we are going. But the train goes on and we go with it. 

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Gluttony, the third circle, is where things begin to go wrong. 

My Virgil runs off the train as soon as the doors open, and I chase after her. This is not our stop. She charges up a flight of stairs onto the main platform, and when I finally catch up to her, she has cornered some poor pedestrian to ask for directions. By now, she is drunker than I.

He looks beseechingly at me, but I cannot help him. Poor sinners that we are, we cannot even help ourselves. All I know is that we have surely gone the wrong way. And as I drag her away, he says cryptically, you were on the right train all along. 

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The fourth circle of Hell, Greed, is long abandoned save for a meager crew of night-shift construction workers. They wear bright orange hard hats, and bear golden shovels in each hand. Desperately, we collapse onto the dusty stairs to the platform, and ask if they know which way the trains go. For a price, they say, but we have lost our wallets. So they pay us no mind, and offer no guidance. 

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We have gotten off at the wrong station, at least five stops ahead of what would have brought us safely back into the heart of Manhattan, but alas, we were too eager. My Virgil is a terrible guide, but I am no better. 

One lone man stands on the platform with us, on the opposite edge. He is throwing bottle after empty bottle from a suitcase, down into the tracks. My friend tells him to stop, and they dissolve into a screaming match that echoes through the bowels of the subway, before he stumbles away, cursing us all the while. 

If I were drunker, I could proceed with far more bravado, but it has been hours since my last drink. Now we stand on an unknown platform, completely and unfortunately sober, and wait up to an hour for the next train.

Wrath is the fifth circle, and we cling to each other and hate everything. 

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We realize we have been going around in circles. 

The sixth circle is Heresy. We have gotten on the wrong train four times, gone back and forth between the same handful of stations over and over again like ants in a death spiral. We are no closer to home than we were at the start of this nightmare. 

I think we will freeze before this is over. 

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Two hours have passed. The seventh circle, Violence, is somehow familiar to us. We have made this journey before, only the opposite way, and we know what is still to come. We cope with this by hysterically repeating we are in hell, we are in hell, which as you could imagine does wonders to comfort the mind. We curse the subway gates, the rising costs of Ubers, the PATH, and most of all, ourselves.

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The eighth circle, Fraud, beckons to us with all its earthly splendor. We have finally arrived back in New York City, at least. 

The bony white titan’s ribcage of the subway station inside the World Trade Center Monument and Mall is terrifying, all bleach white and reflective tile. The towering segmented walls give us vertigo, the 20,000 lumen LED lights bear our shame to the world. We wander blind, dehydrated, and defeated. This late at night, or should I say, this early in the morning, we disheveled masses are the only people within a five-mile radius. The blown up posters in the shop windows advertise high-end watches, perfume, Swarovski crystal, and Five Guys new limited-time-only coffee milkshakes, and mock us. 

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Returned to Manhattan, we believe we are safe. This is our territory now, we think foolhardily. But ‘tis not so. The ninth circle, after all, is Treachery. 

The classic ACE trains, which we have taken loyally time after time for years, run on delay. We wait over thirty minutes for the A train before admitting defeat. We walk the last half mile, in despair. 

But the most tragic thing of all, dear reader: our destination is not even Heaven. It is only the Centre of Hell, where Satan lies in eternal bondage. AKA, our friend’s shoddy Midtown apartment. Lucky bastard that she is, she had wisely left that same party long before us, and now awaited us with smug righteousness. 

We should have gone with her then, to save us all this grief, but then again how would we have ever known?

Our journey is almost over, but we of little faith no longer believe it. There was nothing before the MTA. There is only MTA. 

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3:49 AM EST. 

Dante and Virgil stumble through the door, collapse to the ground, and can finally, finally rest. 

Not yet Paradiso.