The Horror Library - The Best in Horror Fiction

Sensitivity Training
By Kevin Filan

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"José Gomez of Manhattan says, 'My name is not Pancho.'"

Abdullah ibn-Masjid al-Hajj, Senior Managing Director of Post-Mortality Intake Processing (New York Division), puts the complaint form in the Accomplished tray, then pulls another from his To Be Undertaken box. Charley DelCruccio, Intake Processing Guide Second Class, squirms in his chair as Abdullah reads.

"Raven Starwind of Brooklyn says 'My transition to the Summerlands was marred by my guide's lewd and utterly inappropriate comments and advances.'"

"How was I supposed to know she was a dyke?" Charley asks. "In my day all the rug-munchers looked like Willie Mays."

Atop the prayer rug in the corner a mouse watches quizzically. Sunlight streams through the office window, sending sparkles the Mecca snowglobe on Abdullah's desk. He places Raven Starwind's complaint in the Accomplished box, then pulls yet another form from the To Be Undertaken stack.

"Zheng Liu of Teaneck, New Jersey says 'I am a software engineer, not a laundryman.'"

"It's humor. You're supposed to make people relax, right? Ain't that what it says in the Afterlife Worker's Manual?"

Yet another form. "'My name is not Pancho.'"

Charley sighs. "I told them not to assign me to Spanish Harlem."

Abdullah shakes his head. "Keeping abreast of social developments after your passing can be very difficult." He points to the fan atop the filing cabinets. "In my time only the wealthy could afford slaves to fan them. Now cool breezes are available to anyone with…" he pauses "electricity, is that correct? Yes, electricity. And this…"

Snow falls over the minarets as Abdullah shakes. "A friend brought this back after his pilgrimage. A most marvelous souvenir. Are you familiar with Mecca?"

"Sure. It's like Coney Island for A-rabs, excepting they ain't got no roller coasters."

Abdullah ponders. "Is Coney Island a site of Christian pilgrimage?"

"Naah, you don't have to be Christian to go there. It's nondescriptional."

Abdullah begins to reply, then pauses. "I believe Sensitivity Training would be most beneficial for you."

Charley rolls his eyes. The mouse runs behind the filing cabinet. "Oh Christ, this beatnik broad in the Village was always telling me I needed to be more sensitive. You ain't gonna make me listen to no folk music, are you?"

"No. We have hired no musicians for this." He hands Charley an envelope. "The next class begins tomorrow at 10:00 am. I will have my secretary affix the proper notations to your personnel file. I trust you can procure a notebook and writing utensil for yourself."

* * * * *

"Come on in!"

The heavyset man leans back in his chair, a sugar donut in his hand. The room smells of marijuana and Paco Rabanne cologne. Charley examines his brochure. "I'm looking for Sensitivity Training 101."

"You've come to the right place." The heavyset man wipes powdered sugar from his purple velour track suit, then extends his hand. "Ira Levinson, M.D. deceased. Pleasure to meet you. This is a fantastic class! I've been here three times. Every time I learn something new. Dave's a great teacher!"

Dave snubs out his joint, then looks up. "Thanks for the vote of confidence, Dr. Ira." He turns to Charley. "You're Mr. DelCruccio?"

"Call me Charley. Every time I hear 'Mr. DelCruccio' I feel like I'm in court."

"Pleased to meet you, Charley. Have a seat." Dave shuffles through his papers. "So what brings you back, Dr. Ira?"

"Mrs. Gottbaum was channelling me, and some stupid bitch in the audience said she shouldn't be doing any spiritual work because it was Good Friday."

"So how did you feel when she invalidated your Jewish heritage?"

"I felt like she was a stupid bitch."

Dave sighs. "That's not a feeling. Did you feel hurt? Did you feel angry?"

"Yes, I felt angry because she was a stupid bitch."

"And did you address your anger in a positive fashion?"

"I didn't tell her 'You're a stupid bitch.' I told her 'You SOUND like a stupid bitch.' I criticized behavior, not identity, just like you told us."

"And did you offer any constructive suggestions?"

Dr. Ira nods vehemently. Powdered sugar falls from his moustache and lands on his gold Star of David. "I constructively suggested she should find a better use for her big flapping lips."

Dave sighs again and points to the table. "The donuts are over there, Charley."

"Thanks." Charley picks up a cinnamon bun. "You oughtn't to be talking to a lady that way."

Dave nods. "How would you have handled that situation, Charley? "

"I'd give her some slack. She's a woman, you know she's gonna flap her jaws sometimes without knowing what she's talking about."

Do you really think that women say more stupid things than men do, Charley?"

"Of course. They talk more than men, don't they? It's just proportionalism."

Dr. Ira smiles. "It's great to meet someone who understands things. More or less, anyway."

A ragged squatter dragging a quadruple amputee in a red Radio Flyer wagon enters the room. The wheel catches on the lintel. The amputee tips onto the Maximum Rocknroll magazines which sit beside him.

"YOU FUCK!!"

"Whoa… sorry about that, Damiens." The squatter rights Damiens, then grabs three donuts from the table. He eats one in two bites, takes another and sits down.

"Hello, my name is Fred, but everyone calls me Crusty, and I'm a heroin addict." The squatter pauses. "Hey, is this Narcotics Anonymous?"

Damiens sneers. "Ohhh… again ze eediot takes a wrong turn."

"Chill out, man… they got grub."

Crustyfred stuffs a cheese Danish into Damiens' mouth.

"MMFFFfff!! roo FUCK!!!" Damiens spits out the danish. "You know Damiens prefer chocolate!"

"Sorry, dude."

"The Narcanon meeting is at noon," Dave says.

"Cool. I thought I was late." He gulps down a donut, then reaches for another.

Dave turns to Damiens. "I'd be interested in your thoughts as a person with a disability."

"Damiens does not have deesability. He has no arms and no legs. And he has no chocolate donut because hees asseestant ees a stupeed fuck."

"Sorry about that, dude." Crustyfred shoves a chocolate donut into Damiens' mouth.

Dave reaches for his joint. "I'm going to be needing this."

* * * * *

St. Gerard Majella fiddles nervously with his clerical collar.

"Ummm… Dave isn't here today. He was out late last night for a Bob Marley concert. So he asked if I could fill in. Ummm… I'm sure I'm no good at this. I'm sorry for wasting your time…"

"Relax, Father!" Dr. Ira says. "You're doing fine."

Gerard goes from pink to bright red. "I'm not a priest, I'm just a lay brother."

"A lay brother?" Ira sniggers. "What's that, a priest who doesn't have to be celibate?"

Gerard goes from red to crimson. "I'm not a priest at all… I'm sorry…"

"Show a little respect, Ira," Charley growls. "If I saw your people in a synagogue doing their Hava Nagilas I wouldn't go rolling pennies down the aisle to distract them."

Gerard flushes into maroon. "Charley! You shouldn't say things like that about Jewish people! And you don't have to call me a saint."

Dr. Ira sighs. "Charley, I know you're not an educated man and you can't help that, but you don't really think all Jews are cheap, do you?"

"I didn't say that, Ira. It's just a lot of youse is."

Ira snorts. "I suppose you met a lot of Jews in your professional life."

"I delivered to Rosenbaum's Restaurant for years. I'm sure you're one of them Jews what don't mind spending a little coin. But Old Man Rosenbaum was a cheap Yid."

St. Gerard sighs. "You shouldn't call them 'Yids,' Charley."

"Hey, I got nothing against Old Man Rosenbaum. He made the best blintzes in Brooklyn. But he could squeeze a penny till the Indian said 'Ugh.'"

"His family owned a factory in Russia," Gerard explains. "When the Bolsheviks came to power the Rosenbaums lost everything they couldn't carry. Mr. Rosenbaum was always afraid he would be poor again. That's why he never liked to spend money, Charley."

"Go Bolsheviks!" The syringe which dangles from Crustyfred's track-marked arm sparkles in the fluorescent light. "Fuckin-A kill the poor! OWWW!" He looks accusingly at Charley. "Why'd you hit my needle, man?"

"So you'd quit with that Commie crap."

Crustyfred rubs his arm. "But that hurt…"

Damiens sneers. "Ohhh… Damiens weeshes he had arm to hurt."

"Remember how you stole food to feed your mother during the Depression?"

"How'd you know that!" Charley's asks Gerard. "I mean, that's different. Rosenbaum always had plenty of food."

Dr. Ira snorts again. "An Italian thief. Who's ever heard of such a thing?"

"Now that's just ignorant, Ira! Most of us Italians is hard-working, law-abiding citizens. You remind me of that D.A. what subpeniled me when I was working on the docks, just because I'm a proud Son of Sicilia."

"Wasn't that because you were stealing cargo?"

"He didn't know nothing about that!" Charley fumes. "He thought every Italian on the docks was a mobster when most of us wasn't even made."

"Prejudice is stupid, man." Crustyfred says between bites. "You shouldn't hate people for who they are. Except for cops."

"Shouldn't you forgive police officers too?" St. Gerard asks.

"No way!" Crustyfred finishes his kruller and reaches for an éclair. "Cops are pigs. And they eat a lot of donuts."

Gerard scratches his head. "But you eat a lot of donuts too."

Crustyfred ponders. "Yeah, I guess you're right. Donuts are cool, even if cops like them."

"Such weesdom!" Damiens pulls the last chocolate donut forward with his chin. "Damiens ees so blessed to have such an asseestant!"

"Thanks, man."

"I'm making a mess of this," Gerard says, slumping.

"You're doing just fine, Jerry." Charley looks around. "Now see what you've done. Youse are getting him all riled up."

* * * * *

"Oh, shit. Tang's over here now."

Behind Dave's seat a lighted poster of the Yangtze River flows eternally toward the curb. "I see you remember Mr. Tang."

"Of course!" Charley says. "I ate here all the time. Best Chink food in New York."

"It's not 'Chink food,' Charley," Dave says. "It's Chinese food."

Dr. Ira examines the place settings. "Here's how you can tell a good Chinese restaurant… the chopsticks. These aren't the cheap disposable kind wrapped in paper. They're genuine plastic."

"Ohhh… plastic chopsteeks are SO much easier for Damiens to use. Damiens weeshes he could dance for joy."

"I see it bothers you when people don't recognize your disability," Dave says. "How can you make people more aware of your needs?"

"Damiens can say 'you fuck! I speet on you! Ptuii!"

Dave reaches for his rolling papers. "Yes, that's one way of handling the situation."

Crustyfred puts a chopstick in each nostril. "Hey, I'm a walrus."

"Damiens theenks 'walrus' ees another way to say 'eediot.'"

Gerard looks around. "I'm really not hungry. I'm sure someone else needs this meal more than I do."

"Relax, Jerry." Dave puts two pinches of marijuana in his Zig Zag 1.5. "I owe you for taking over the class."

"Dave, how come you always got reefer? You smoke like some of the spades I knew up in Harlem."

"We don't call Black people 'Spades' anymore, Charley." Dave licks the glue, then rolls with a quick twist. "I got an unlimited supply after I arrived. They were going to send me to the land of Milk and Honey, but I explained I'm a vegan and they made other arrangements."

"So you're a Vegan? Well, people is entitled to practice any religion they want, just like you said in the morning session."

Dave places the joint behind his hear. "I'm glad you're listening."

Mr.Tang walks toward the table, then stops suddenly. The red leatherette menus fall from his hand and land on the floor.

"Mr. Charley… "

"How you been, Tang, you old Chinaman?"

Tang examines the bullet hole in Charley's forehead. "After you were shot I hoped… I mean, I thought I would never see you again."

"Whatever goes around comes around. Just like Confusionis says."

"I thought I'd reintroduce you two," Dave says.

"Ah, Mr. Dave. You shouldn't have."

"Charley is learning how to be more sensitive. One of the steps in that process is making amends with people he's offended."

"What are you talking about? I never offended Tang. He's one of my favorite Chinks." Charley pauses. "One of my favorite Chinamen, I mean."

"He's trying." Dave says.

"Yes. Very trying." Tang retrieves the menus from the floor, then hands them around the table. "Welcome to Tang's Imperial Pagoda. If you have any questions just ask."

"You know already what I want." Dave says.

"You will be having the spicy tofu?"

"As always." Dave looks around the table. "The vegetarian food here is fantastic."

"Damiens says 'ptui! to vegetarian food. He weel have General Tso's Chicken weeth eggroll. And chicken fried rice, not white rice. Damiens does not like ze white rice."

Dr. Ira looks up from the menu. "I'll have the Subgum Sizzling Go Ba platter, with Hot and Sour soup.

Crustyfred sniggers. "I'll have Cream of Some Yung Gai."

"Ahh, Mr. Charley. You brought your son."

"Hey, hey. This ain't no fruit of my looms."

"I am sorry. To me you all look alike."

Gerard squints. "They don't look alike at all. Charley doesn't have green hair."

"You know what I want, Tang. The chicken chow mein. And easy on the cornstarch. You're running a restaurant, not a laundromat."

"You are funny as ever, Mr. Charley. Of course, I remember. And you want a cup of soup."

"Yeah, that stuff what you always made special for me."

"Yes." Mr. Tang smiles broadly. "Golden Number One soup. I will bring some for your son as well. Perhaps that will help him make up his mind about dinner."

St. Gerard stands up. "I'm really not hungry. I'm going to go for a walk. I'm sorry."

"No need to apologize, Jerry," Dave stands with him. "I think I'll join you for a bit." He pulls the joint from behind his ear. "I need a before-dinner break."

Tang returns with two bowls of soup. "Here you are. Enjoy."

Charley sips as Tang turns back toward the kitchen. "Tang's a great guy, and he can cook like nobody's business. But he always makes his soup too salty."

"Whoa …" Crustyfred puts his bowl down. "Mine's real salty too!"

Gerard turns pale green. "I have to go…"

* * * * *

The 4/4 house music thump vibrates through the tarpaper roof. Across the river Manhattan sparkles in the faded velvet New York sky. A topless woman walks past carrying a guitar. Dr. Ira leers.

"I remember this show in Las Vegas where a woman played 'Purple Haze' with her cooze."

Charley grimaces. "Ain't it enough she's showing us her tits? How come you gotta objectify her, Ira?" Charley turns to Dave. "You see, I'm learning."

Dave rolls his eyes as he rolls a joint. "Glad to hear it."

"So why are they burning this man?" Abdullah ibn-Masjid al-Hajj asks. "Is he accused of witchcraft?"

"Burning Man is an annual art event," Dave explains. "They're holding a benefit for their camp."

"Reminds me of this Happening I went to in college." Dr. Ira swigs his Heineken. A couple in tie-dyed robes walks past. "Great idea, Dave. After a week of studying it's time to party."

A man in a chicken suit walks past. The muerto shakes her head. Faded rose petals fall from her broad-brimmed hat. "Si, it is great fun to laugh at los gringos locos."

Dave finishes rolling his joint. "You shouldn't call people 'gringos,' Lupe."

Dr. Ira moves closer. The scent of Paco Rabanne overpowers Lupe's perfume.

"Lupe… that's a pretty name."

"Get away from me, Gringo… is that a pretty name as well?"

"Lupe!" Dave says.

"I know, Señor Dave. We will talk about this in class next week."

"You'll love his class," Ira continues undeterred. "He's a great teacher." Dr. Ira turns to Abdullah. "Before I took Dave's class I thought all Arabs were terrorists. Now I realize that most of you are hard-working honest people who wouldn't dream of hijacking an airplane."

"I am sure the Arabians are grateful for your support." Abdullah sips his orange juice. "But I am not an Arabian, I am a Moor."

"I'm sorry, I didn't realize. I thought you had just been out in the sun a while." Dr. Ira throws his empty Heineken bottle into the trash. "My mother loved Moors. She had a huge collection. You should have seen the lamp in her living room. This big Moor held the shade, and you turned it on by pressing his monkey's nose. It was great! I couldn't believe my second wife got rid of it after I died."

"My condolences on your loss."

"This music SUCKS! My mother listened to disco. That's why I moved to a squat." Crustyfred scratches his nose ring from the inside. "Well, that and she threw me out."

In the corner a woman whirls a hula hoop. Dave lights his joint.

"So are you still working the Darwin detail, Lupe?"

"Si, Señor Dave. Are you still trying to teach the pigs to sing?"

"Darwin detail? That's for people what pass over real stupid, ain't it?"

Lupe examines the hole in Charley's forehead. "Like those who mock the wives of armed men?"

"How'd you know that!?.. I mean, it ain't my fault some people can't take a joke. And everybody knew Rocco's wife was catting around like Blanche DeBoyd on a streetcar named Denial."

"I never realized you were a literary man, Charley." Dr. Ira reaches for another Heineken.

"If you're on Darwin detail, I'm guessing some drunk beatnik is gonna fall off the roof any minute." Charley leans against an air vent. "Let me know if you need help."

"Didn't you read the memo, Charley?" St. Gerard asks.

"I never read those things…" Charley begins, then realizes Abdullah is standing near him. "I mean, I'm sorry, I missed that one."

"All right," a man in a satyr costume screams! "We're here to celebrate… so let's JUMP for the SKY!!!"

Two hundred people leap at once. The roof shakes, then cracks. Two hundred screams are drowned out by the popping of 2x4s and the shriek of ripping metal.

"Holy shit!" Charley slides down a twisted girder. "Somebody get me an intake checklist!"

"I'll be right there," Crustyfred says as he spits out dust. "First I have to find Damiens."

"YOU FUUUCCK!!" echoes up from below.

"Sorry about that, Damiens. I thought you were out of the way!"

A mangled man with full sleeve tattoos stumbles over scraps of tarpaper and plaster. "Whoa, that was intense. I'm lucky to be alive."

Lupe shakes her head. "Today is not your lucky day, Señor Gringo Loco."

"I can't wait until George W. Bush gets over here and finds out the Moslems are in charge!" a skinny bald man tells Abdullah. "He's going to shit himself."

"Does this George W. Bush require medicine for his incontinence?"

"Where's the intake form!?" Charley yells over screaming.

"Sorry, man. I had to dig Damiens out." He hands Charley a wrinkled paper, then turns to the battered Radio Flyer wagon. "You got a pen?"

"Of course. Damiens has two pens, so he can write weeth both hands. You fuck."

"Never mind, I got one." Charley turns to the skinny bald man. "What's your name."

"I'm Eric, but everyone calls me Lovemuffin."

"Welcome to the afterlife, Lovemuffin. You got plenty of company to keep you occupied till I get back. In the meantime some of us got to work." Charley checks off Lovemuffin's name. Someone moans from a pile of twisted metal. "Who's that?" Charley asks.

"That sounds like Gina!"

Charley examines the list. "There ain't no Gina on here." He sniffs the air. The harsh smell of gas rises above the scent of powdered concrete and spilled beer.

"Oh shit."

Charley steps into the world of the living, then grabs a girder. He pulls with all his strength; the rubble shifts slightly but does not move.Charley tries again, then gestures to a bruised Spanish man.

"Pancho!"

"My name is not Pancho."

"Look, I ain't got time to appreciate your culture. We gotta get this little lady out here before the place blows sky-high." He gestures to the pile. "Give me a hand."

Together they push the girder aside. A bloody leg and tattered skirt appear.

"Gina! It's me, Gabriel."

"Save the small talk for outside," Charley says as he continues clearing rubble. "Right now you and her gotta make yourselves scarce. There ain't no Gabriel on the list neither."

Charley pulls Gina from the wreckage, then thrusts her into Gabriel's arms. "Go on! What's that you people say? Andele! Andele! Arriba! Arriba!"

Gabriel carries Gina into the night. A dusty punk stumbles over the remains of a keg.

"Whoa… fucking-A. It smells like gas in here." He reaches for his cigarettes, then strikes his lighter. The night erupts into an orange flash, then returns to darkness.

"Ahh!" Lupe says from across the room. "There is the man I was looking for!"

* * * * *

"I owe you an apology," Charley says to Mr. Tang. "When I was making Chink jokes I was minimizing your individuality. And that ain't a good thing to do, especially since there are so many of youse. And you come in different varieties, like Ira explained to me. You got your Mandarin Chinks, your Szechuan Chinks, your Cantonese Chinks … you got all kinds. And not all of youse is laundrymen neither."

"Ah, Mr. Charley. I can see you have given this much thought."

"Anyway, I'm sorry for all them times when I wasn't respectful of your heritage, and I'm hoping you ain't the type what carries a grudge. And since I got a bonus along with my commendation, I figured I'd treat my friends to a meal at your place. No hard feelings?"

"But of course not, Mr. Charley." Mr. Tang turns to Dave. "Perhaps you have been taking lessons from Mr. St. Gerard on performing miracles?"

St. Gerard blushes. "God does the miracles, I just ask him, that's all."

"I have to hand it to you, Charley. When there's a crisis, you're one hell of an Intake Guide." Ira shakes his head. "I can't believe that bonehead lit a cigarette in a room full of gas. What kind of idiot does a thing like that?"

"That was T-Bone, my old friend from the squat! I always wondered what happened to him. I'm glad he didn't sell out like those other posers."

"Forget I said anything."

"Damiens theenks he deed not sell out because he had nothing anyone weeshed to buy."

Mr. Tang returns with a tray. "Complimentary soup for everyone!"

"I'm really not hungry." Gerard says. "Besides, they're going to be serving dinner after Fr. Liguori's seminar tonight. And Mary always gets mad if I don't eat something."

"Ah, come on, kid. It'll put some hair on your chest. Besides, you don't want Tang thinking you got something against his cooking. It'll make him feel invalidated." Charley sips his soup. "Say, this ain't bad. First time Tang ever made soup what ain't too salty."

"We should do this more often. After a week working with Mrs. Gottbaum I need a break." Dr. Ira rolls his eyes. "Four years of medical school, four years of residency. And for what? So I can become a spirit guide and go around with a damn turban like some cabdriver."

"What are you talking about? Cabbies don't wear turbans."

"You've been over here a while, haven't you, Charley?"

"You really should come to Fr. Liguori's seminar. He's a very inspiring speaker. And tonight he's talking about Purgatory.

Dave examines the crowd gathered at the table.

"Thanks, Jerry. But I think I understand purgatory pretty well by now."

Soup drips from Crustyfred's lip piercing and wets his grubby Anarchy patch. From the red Radio Flyer wagon Damiens slurps loudly. The Yangtze River flows behind Dave and sparkles on toward eternity.