Fiction Friday - The Doorman

The Doorman pulled open the heavy glass door.

"Welcome, Mrs. Whitmore." He gave a knowing smile to the well-dressed matron who entered. She scowled at him. 

"Wipe that smirk off your face. Do you know who I am?"

With one hand on his heart, smile still intact, he bowed very slightly. "Mrs. Margaret Whitmore, widow of Douglas Whitmore, mother to Patty and Doug Jr., grandmother to Michael, Stacy, Karina, and by adoption, Chase..."

"Beg your pardon - who's that?"

He ignored her interruption. "...current Chairwoman of DexCo Industries,..."

"...Chase who? I don't know any Chase."  

"... running highly profitable sweatshops in Pakistan, China, and ...Myanmar." He paused. "Although that last one is strictly off the books." Now that his recitation was complete he addressed her question. "And I did not mean to suggest that you knew Chase. Nevertheless, he is your legal grandson, the adopted son of your estranged son Douglas and his partner Eric."

Mrs. Whitmore's jaw dropped. In the silence the doorman gave her a wink. "Nice profit margin last quarter, though."

Her small eyes narrowed at him. Then, as if making a decision, she stepped past him and looked around at the vast lobby. Obsidian floors gleamed in the firelight coming from fire-pots near the ceiling, and glowing through the windows. "Where am I? What sort of place is this?"

"Welcome to Hell, ma'am. If you'll step over to the concierge, you will be given further information." 

She turned back to him, about to speak, but the Doorman made a sweeping gesture toward the reception desk at the far end of the lobby. His part of the conversation was over.

He turned back just in time to greet - "Jamal Okafia, welcome!" He gave the young man in the red T-shirt a complicated handshake while gently removing the gun from Jamal's waistband. "That fight was never going to go your way."

"Psh. Fuck you, too, Bolo-tie! You don't know nothin'. I gotta get back to my crew..." he turned toward the door, but the Doorman redirected him by the elbow. 

"There is no going back, Mr. Okafia. Your past has finally caught up with you. Now, if you would..."

"The fuck do you mean? Where the hell am I anyway?"

"That's right, sir. Welcome to Hell. Please check in at the front desk." He directed Jamal toward the concierge. Another soul was approaching the door.

Once more he pulled open the glass door. "Ahh, Miss Sofia Petrov. You've been a busy girl, haven't you?" he said with a smile. 

A surly twelve-year-old with short, dishwater-blond hair scowled at him. He received a lot of scowls. Smiling at people, here of all places, seemed to make them angrier. No one liked it when a stranger knew their secrets.

"Who are you? Where are my parents?" The questions came rapid fire from the girl's angry face.

"Ah, well, after you locked them in their bedroom and lit the fire, your whole house burned down. No one survived."

She looked down at her singed cuffs, then out the door the way she'd come in. Somehow, she still looked defiant.

He followed her gaze. "They won't be joining you, I'm afraid. Their souls have a different destiny."

At that, Sofia's face cleared. "Good." The scowl evaporated and her curious eyes finally looked around the lobby in fascination. "So, this is Hell?"

Every now and then, someone caught on without being told. 

"Cool. What do I do now?" But she had spotted the concierge. "Over there?" With a brief glance back to see the Doorman's nod, she was off.

The Doorman turned back to guard the door. Sometimes it was good to get them young. 

This story was inspired by the character of The Porter in Macbeth, which I'm currently reading. He is rousted from drunken sleep by the sound of knocking at the gates and considers what if he was answering the gates of Hell. It's comic relief in a dark play and I wanted to play with the "what if?" Hope you enjoyed it! 

Don't forget to leave your inspiring writing prompts in a comment.