I’ve got debts for miracles, deals made in badder times, though I’ve had a good run with nobody coming to collect. But luck skips out and gives the past its shoes and a way to track me down. I’m sitting in the grass—watching the sun come up—when a pen and fistful of papers drift from the sky, followed by a voice half-originating in my own head.

“This is the Clerk.” The invasive words shake my body.

“Sign these documents, agreeing to release your balance in exchange for labor.”

“What?” I anxiously fish the pen from the ground and stack the papers neatly before me.

“I’m the Clerk, appointed to remedy debts for the High and Heavenly Order of Miracles, Deeds, and Bestowals.”

That bargain I made, right.

“I thought my arrangement was with the devil, or something.”

“You used a middleman, who sold us the balance years ago.”

Out of business, probably. I knew they couldn’t really afford what they were offering.

“Ok, so I go to work and sign these and I’m settled?”

“No.”

“What do I—”

“Read.”

The font is illegible biblical-type cursive, the language itself packed with thees and thous and redundancies meant to wear my fickle brain down. I try my best to seem competent.

“I have to help you ‘sort’? Sort what, files?”

“No. Offerings. Sacrifices. Unwanted items the HHOMDB didn’t ask for and doesn’t want. People’s semi-precious trash.”

I notice the signature at the bottom of the document and attempt to decode it.

“Don’t look at that,” the Clerk scolds. “Avert your eyes. Just sign and we can get this over with.”

I do as I’m told and barely avoid being crushed by a moving van as it’s chucked from the clouds like a loose stripe of confetti.

“Someone offered you a U-Haul?”

“No.” The voice in my head moves further away, as if fetching copies from a printer. “That’s for when we’re done.” The papers and pen vanish, and are replaced by five massive cardboard boxes, labeled Trash, Repurpose, Wrong Address, Problematic, and Pass Down. 

“Anything that is just absolute garbage goes into Trash.” The Clerk throws down an empty wine bottle as an example, and I toss it into the first box. “Repurpose or Pass Down are things that could be useful for the Left Hand or are worthy of the Kid.”

“The Kid?” 

“If it’s slightly divine, Pass Down. If it’s got nefarious potential, Repurpose.”

“Sure.” The Clerk hands down loaves of bread and two purple bead bracelets. I aim for Trash.

“Wrong.” The Clerk yanks the items out of my hands and drops both in Pass Down. 

“But the bread’s stale, and the bracelet looks like a toddler made it in daycare.”

“The Kid can make the bread new again and loves handmade shit like that.”  

Ok. Into the Pass Down box they go. 

“This is a case for Repurpose.” A busted acoustic guitar crash-lands at my feet. “The Low and Lecherous Collections Circuit can trace that back to its owner and have a field day.” I place the instrument into the Repurpose bin. “There you go.”

The Clerk doesn’t provide gloves for the calf’s heads and loose teeth I shuffle into the Wrong Address box, though I’m made aware of its eyes on me as I handle a sack full of diamonds. 

“Oh, how did those get in there.” The bundle vanishes from my palms. “Mix-up in the mailroom.”

I hold up an old portrait of The Kid, depicted with lepers and hand-painted in a fashion so historically inaccurate I wince upon viewing. “Trash?” 

“Problematic,” the voice says tensely, “we don’t want the LLCC getting near that. We have a museum for those sorts of things.” I nod and dump the portrait into the proper container. 

Noon comes and goes, my stomach rumbling and my knuckles and wrists getting sore from repetitive movement.

“We’re coming down the home stretch,” the Clerk says, seeming just as relieved. “The rest of this is from after the Kid’s birthday, so mostly just a lot of wrong addresses.”

The sun’s overtaken by the stars.

My hands are soon covered in ash from an array of incinerated offerings, eyes tired from discerning objects in the moonlight. I toss a tin bucket in the Trash and find the cold ground empty.

“Good one. Thanks for that, whoever you are.” The voice sarcastically mocks the bucket. “Let me check the back room quick to make sure I’m not forgetting anything.” There’s silence in my head, allowing in the drone of crickets and far-off airplanes. 

“That’s all. You did a decent job.” Invisible eyes survey the boxes before invisible hands disappear the Problematic and Pass Down bins. The Clerk kindly transports the remaining three containers onto the back of the moving van and opens the driver’s side door for me.

“GPS in there is programmed with two stops. First stop won’t seem like the correct place. It is. Leave the Wrong Address items on the hillside.” I nod, and hop into the cabin. “Second destination is the Middle of Nowhere. Dig a hole as deep and wide as you can, and drive the vehicle into it.”

My excitement melts into exhaustion. 

“I have to dig a hole?”

“Dig a hole big enough for a moving van, drive into it, and bury it.”

All I can do is agree. I’ve made it this far.

“Any issues, hit the Roadside Assistance button in the van. My shift is over but someone else will help you.”

“Aren’t you the Clerk?”

“Of course.” The Clerk shuts the door and turns the ignition. “Good luck.”

The moon peers out from behind sinister clouds as I idle at stop one, headlights illuminating the dead sea of grassy hills. 

“Delivery,” I call out from the back of the van, my voice not echoing as it should. I hoist up the cargo and trudge into the emptiness. 

“I’ll leave it here.” Placing the heavy box on a dry patch of weeds, I hear rustling in the tall grass. No wind is blowing. I hurry back to the safety of the van and lock the doors and put it in drive. As I pull away, some shadowy thing enters the roadway behind me and gives chase. Panicked, I accelerate enough to lose it, and it crawls back into the unending ocean of hills. On to the next stop.

The sun should be rising when I reach the destination, but it doesn’t. The moon, too, refuses to shine. In abysmal darkness, I grab the shovel from the passenger’s side and begin my dig. The ground is cold and hard and stinks like briny sea-mud. 

“I want this to be done.” I hoist mounds of soil over my shoulder, bones shaking. “Deep and wide as the van, no more.”

I dig and dig, never hitting tree roots or rocks. Just blacker and blacker earth, until its color looks like burnt wood and the stench is too much to bear. I take a break, my filthy fingers clinging to the sides of the ditch as I hoist myself back up and out.

“Looks about right.” A curly-tongued voice sounds from somewhere behind me. “Think you should be set.” I can hardly see through the tar of air and sky, and spin in circles to glimpse the source. I’m not so sure, but more than happy to be finished.

“Ok. I’ll give it a try.” I attempt to show no fear or doubt and fix my eyes in front of me. I get the motor running, headlights barely piercing the darkness, and idle towards the pit. Cautiously, I plow the front tires over the edge, then the back, until the automobile sits slightly crooked at the bottom of the hole. The top of the van still protrudes from the mouth of the ditch.

“Nice work.”  The voice comes from the passenger’s seat, and my head swivels in its direction. Someone who used to be in my life, but isn’t for reasons that are none of your business, smiles at me. “Told you that you’d make it.”

I shut off the van and sit in the blackness.

“Am I done now? Can I go home?”

The apparition to my right chuckles, and turns on the interior light above their head. 

“Of course. All’s forgiven and—” they produce a dingy, old hat from their coat pocket, “—forgotten?” I hesitate on the object, pretending not to recognize it, clinging to the knowledge that my soul is nearly free.

“Glad we’re done.” I shove open the door and squeeze out through the crack. As my foot touches earth, I’m transported back to my house, alone beneath the moonlight in my backyard. Two whole days, eaten up, sixteen hours of unpaid sick leave. Something shines in the distance, and tentatively I venture to investigate.

“You might want this.” The curly-tongued voice says from somewhere behind me in the dark. I pick up the tin bucket and nervously spin it in my hands. “I’ve got no use for it. Besides, you never know if you’re gonna need to catch some rain.” The specter laughs, hums to itself, and vanishes into the night. I lay the bucket on its side, sit cross-legged in the muddy tire tracks, and wait to watch the sun come up again.

♠

May 7, 2024