Found in the Underworld

I woke up to the sound of dogs barking outside, and the high pitched mechanized growling only the majestic garbage truck could produce. It was really weird. Garbage trucks normally came around 8.

I opened my eyes and the sun was high in the sky, piercing through a gap in the curtains. I rolled over and grabbed my phone off of the night- table to check the time. My stomach sank a little bit. It was 8:32, and I had to be at work in 28 minutes. I must've forgotten to set my alarm the night before— I stayed up past the point of normal functioning ability to finish some of the work I'd started that day.

I couldn't risk losing this job, therefore I couldn't risk being late. It was the first decent job I'd had out of college, and my moving into a nicer place depended on it. Everyone told me it was the next step. I'd worked there for a half a year already, but I was still considered the new guy, and still under the watchful scrutiny of all of my supervisors. I guess I never realized how consuming a real 9 to 5 job would be.

I threw my sheets off and raced to the bathroom. There was no way I was going to get to work on time. Instead of showering like people who are presentable, I slathered on some extra deodorant and liberally applied more after-shave than is socially acceptable. Hopefully my stench would be masked well enough to avoid much notice.

I hurried to throw on the shirt with the least wrinkles (long sleeved to hide my half-sleeves), and franticly struggled with my tie to create the elusive "fastest-decent-looking-knot." I fled my room, didn't bother to get anything to eat, and grabbed my briefcase and cell phone with one arm still hanging out of my jacket. I almost forgot to lock the door behind me on the way out.

I quickly hurried down the cement steps of my row-house, my shoes splashing in the small depressions that accumulated water. It almost always seemed to be raining, here. That day, though, there was just the sense that it had rained recently.

I jogged to my car parked on the opposite side of the street, still struggling to get into my jacket and fumbling with my hands full. I reached into my pocket, pulled out my keys, and attempted to get my fingers on my car key. Unfortunately, my motor skills failed me, and at that moment all I could see was my key ring floating through space in slow motion, and falling between the grates of the sewer my car was parked directly in front of. I heard a faint splash from below.

I looked from my shitty car, to my shitty row-house, to that shitty sewer that was, literally, probably full of shit.

"Shit." That was the first word I'd thought to utter that entire morning. It was fitting.

I looked at my phone. It was nearing 9:00. I felt a complete sense of powerlessness overcome me. I didn't really have anyone to call that could provide any immediate help. I sure was glad I remembered to lock my door! The knowledge that there were spare keys right behind that peeling red paint taunted me.

I released a surrendering sigh. I walked around my car and stood in the gutter, staring directly down into the abysmal pit beneath the grates of the sewer. I put down my briefcase and took off my jacket. It was time to get serious.

I unbuttoned my cuffs and rolled my sleeves up to my elbows. I bent down and tightly gripped two of the bars that covered the storm drain. I pulled as hard as I could. It didn't budge. I tried bracing myself against the sidewalk, and pulling from the opposite direction, but it still wouldn't come up. I clapped the rust from my hands and stood.

There was a circular sewer cover on the sidewalk— I figured I might as well try. I shoved my fingers in the small gap and pulled up. It hurt, but I could feel the lid move a little. There must've been some sort of tool for it, but I managed to push through the pain and lift it enough to slide my fingers underneath the dense slab of metal. I pulled up, heaved the cover to the side, and let it fall on the sidewalk with a huge metallic thud.

I looked into the opening I created and saw metal rungs leading down into a very wet underworld. I surveyed the area around me. There were only a few people walking up and down the sidewalks. I assumed most everyone had already made it to their places of work. I hoped no one would really take notice of the man in the suit disappearing into the sewer. But knowing this city, nobody would. It was pretty easy to get lost in a crowd, (or lack thereof).

I put my jacket back on and grabbed my briefcase. I didn't want anyone to steal them. Then, I took my last deep breath of fresh city-air, and stepped backwards onto the metal rungs that led me down into the unknown.

It was like I'd descended into hell—an entirely different world existed right below my apartment that I'd never even considered. I stood at the edge of a huge brick tunnel. I looked both ways, and it seemed indefinite. I was just a point somewhere along infinity.

There were quite a few unidentifiable objects floating on the black surface of the water that flowed between the two ledges of the tunnel. It was impossible to tell how deep it was—it could've been an inch deep or it could've gone down for miles. I didn't really want to find out.

The smell that assaulted my nose at that point was too complex to be properly described. No words in the English language could do it justice. The closest I could get, though, was something like "wet rotting produce and death by feces."

I decided I wanted to find my keys and get out of there as quickly as possible. I looked down the damp brick and searched for some sort of connection to the storm drain I dropped them in. There wasn't anything within sight, so I finally stepped out of the small circle of light that bound me to the streets above.

I walked along the edge for a few yards, dodging water leaks and keeping an intent eye on anything that I thought could've possibly moved. The only sounds were the echoes of my footsteps and the rhythmic dripping bouncing off the rounded walls. It was strange that it was so silent down here when I knew that directly above me were busy city blocks.

I passed a perpendicular connecting tunnel, and I had to stop for a second. I waited until the echoes of my steps diminished, and I swore I heard the faint sound of music.

I looked back at the ray of light splitting the dark where I entered. There was nothing. But still, I swore that I could hear music. I jumped across the water and started down the connecting tunnel. There was something compelling about the haunting experience of following mysterious music to its source that made me forget I was on a tight schedule.

It gradually grew louder the further I went, and the louder it got the more familiar it sounded. It took me a few minutes, but I realized that the ghostly music was turning into heavy metal. I took a few more steps, and stopped. I saw another perpendicular connecting tunnel up ahead. I didn't want to get lost in this hellish labyrinth, but I was pretty sure I was hearing the familiar guitar riffs of Iron Maiden.

I think it spoke to some part of me that had been buried under paperwork and deadlines for the past few years, but I couldn't find it in myself to turn around. Images of the cramped, sweaty venues of my youth filled my mind—deafening music so heavy that it moved people to beat the shit out of other people. But still, there was a unifying sense that everyone understood and respected. Nobody got lost. I remembered I hadn't been to a show in years. The sound of Iron Maiden brought me back to the present, and I continued to follow it to some unknown end.

My feet started to move again of their own accord. Rationally I knew that this was kind of ridiculous. It was possibly too ridiculous to go uninvestigated. I slowly turned the corner and the now clear lyrics to "Number of the Beast" accompanied the image of a man hunched over a pile of garbage. He was pulling on a damp wooden chair, trying to free it from the clutches of trapped debris. There was a small, battery-powered radio sitting on the ledge, safe from the water he was standing knee-deep in.

I took a few steps forward, and then he noticed me. He turned and wiped some sweat from his forehead.

"Oh. Hey," he said.

"Hey," I responded.

This was kind of weird. We looked at each other for a moment.

"Um, what are you doing down here?" I asked.

He really looked at me, this time, and he furrowed his brow a little. I realized how ridiculous I must've looked asking that question. I mean, I was holding a briefcase.

"Just looking, really. Trying to get this chair out. Seems like it could be pretty nice with a little cleaning," he said.

"Ah. You come down here often, then?"

"You know, every now and then," he said, "The name's Simon, by the way." He extended his hand.

I looked at it wearily. It was dirt-covered and slightly damp. His nails were chewed off and had what looked like weeks of built-up gunk underneath them. I swallowed, stepped forward, and shook his hand.

"I'm Jefferson," I said, "Uh… Need any help with that?" I gestured toward the chair he had been working on.

"Sure, that'd be great," he said. He moved the damp, dirty blonde hair out of his eyes. I couldn't tell how old he was exactly, but he was probably around my age. Late twenties, if I had to round up. I felt like I knew him, with his old black t-shirt emblazoned with the Slayer logo. I doubt he felt like he knew me. He was tall, and seemed in control of himself in this environment. I kind of just felt awkward.

I walked to the point where all the trash had started to dam up, put down my briefcase, and began to pull smaller items from around the chair—splintered pieces of wood and fast food trash, among other things. I didn't really mind that I was getting my hands dirty, and I pushed any ideas that I could get diseases from this out of my mind. Something about this guy, or maybe just the fact that I found him in a sewer, made me want to help him out.

"How do you think a chair got down here, anyway?" I asked.

"I don't know, really. Sometimes I think maybe someone brings them down here and just sits. You'd be surprised by some of the things I've found, though." Simon continued to give the chair a few more yanks.

"Oh yeah? What kinds of things?" I was genuinely interested at that point.

"Well, I've found appliances and carpet and things like that. One time I found a rocking horse. Sanded it a little, cleaned it up, and gave it to my sister's little boy."

"That sounds nice," I said, and I smiled a little. "So, what do you do when you're not, uh, down here?"

"Oh, you know. I never stay in one place too long. I always think that there's something more to learn somewhere else, and I end up getting new jobs." He thought for a moment. "What do you do?"

"Oh. Well… I'm working at an office right now. You know, numbers and all that."

"Yeah," he said. "Do you like it?"

I had to think for a minute.

"I don't know," I said, and I looked down. Heavy metal continued to ring throughout the sewer.

He yanked again, and the bottom of the chair was finally released by the mound of debris.

"Oh, nice!" Simon had a very pleased look on his face as he knocked some of the remaining trash from the rungs.

"Well, anyway. I always find the best stuff underneath the storm drains. That's where everyone drops their wallets and their fancy watches and stuff," he said as he admired his new chair.

"Wait. You know how to get under the storm drains?" I said.

"Yeah," he paused. "Why?"

"Well, I dropped my keys down one back there—" I suddenly felt ashamed of being one of those people that Simon only knew by their lost items. I couldn't believe I had turned into one of those guys that drops their shit in storm drains.

"Ah. I was going to ask earlier, but I didn't want to be presumptuous," he said. He had a smile that was unassuming.

"I can show you where to go, if you want," he said.

"That," I replied, "would be great."

"Where'd you come in at?"

I told him to follow, and we made our way back to the original tunnel that I had come down. Simon carried his chair and his hand-held radio with him. We turned a corner, and I pointed toward the ray of light that broke through the dark of the rest of the sewer. He followed me all the way till we were right beneath the opening above us.

"The storm drain right across from here?" He asked, pointing up.

I nodded, and he told me to wait. He set down his chair, and gently placed the radio on top of it. He bent down, and somehow squeezed his body through the small opening at the bottom of the tunnel wall. I took a step back and watched as his feet disappeared. I heard splashing from within, and I could only stand still.

A few moments later, I saw a hand emerge with a ring of keys. Simon slithered out of the small passage, even more coated with wet gunk than he already was.

"These yours?" he asked as he stood, and held up the keys.

I couldn't thank him enough. I grabbed his hand and shook it with both of mine.

"Well, I guess I should be heading up, then." I looked above me and through the opening to the side walk.

"I'll follow you out," he said.

I climbed the rungs and stepped back onto the sidewalk. The air up here actually did smell fresh in comparison. I turned around and watched Simon as he pulled his chair up behind him.

He stepped out onto the sidewalk and stood up straight. He looked taller in the openness and the light, and I noticed that under all the dirt he seemed to look full of color. He looked alive. His eyes shone through the smudges as green instead of black.

"Can I give you a ride?" I asked. It was really the least I could do.

"Sure," he said. I couldn't help but think about how he'd gotten there in the first place.

I helped him put his chair and his radio in the trunk of my car. I walked back to the hole in the sidewalk and looked down it. I pulled one side up, dragged it over, and dropped it back in its original place. I clapped the dirt from my hands, and turned around to see Simon leaning against the side of my car and watching.

"Where you headed?" I asked as we both got into my car. I put the key in the ignition and turned it.

He directed me to a small corner at the edge of the city that I never really knew existed. I drove up to one of the many hovels and pulled in the gravel drive way. It had a lop-sided wooden porch that looked about to give way and collapse. I could tell from the assortment of junk piles in front of the door, and the few mismatched chairs, that this wasn't the first Simon had found in a sewer.

I parked and got out to open the trunk for Simon. He pulled out his new chair and his radio, and set them down on the gravel.

"You on your way to work?" he asked me.

"I don't know," I said.

"Didn't you have a briefcase?"

"Oh," I thought for a moment, "Yeah. I think I left it down in the sewer." We both laughed.

"I guess I should be heading out, then," I said.

He nodded, and looked around.

"Well, you know where I live. You can come over some time and I'll show you some more that I've found."

"Yeah, that sounds good, man."

We shook hands one more time.

I got in my car and watched him carry his chair to his porch, and place it in line with the others— no two the same. He sat in one of the bigger ones, and turned on the radio.

I pulled out of his driveway and made it back to my apartment. I called my work and told them I was sick, and that I wasn't going to be able to make it in that day.