Good intentions

Static and smooth jazz wafted through the receiver of Stuart’s telephone. Periodically it would pause and his ears would prick up until he realized it was the same recorded message he had already heard a dozen times before. “Thank you for holding. Your call is very important to us. Calls will be answered in the order in which they were received.” He sighed as the alto saxophone continued its crackly solo yet again, and returned to clipping his toenails. A voice came on the line. “Hello and thank you for holding, my name is Baruch. This call may be recorded for quality assurance, how may I help you today?” It took a moment for Stuart to realize his call had connected. After a brief pause, he dropped the toenail clippers on the floor and cleared his throat. “Yes, I was wondering if I could go to hell. I mean, just to visit. You know, to get out of town for the weekend.”
There was a long pause. “Please hold”. The saxophone solo picked up mid-bar and continued on for the next eleven minutes.
“Are you still on the line, sir?”
“Yes”
“Well, I’ve reviewed your inquiry with management, and I’ve been told to inform you that is not one of the services we offer, but do offer comparable trip packages to visit loved ones in the Sudan, Flint, Michigan or Chernobyl, Ukraine, among other places.”
“No, I’ve been to Flint already. Look, I just want to go hell and visit my dad. Just for a day, come on, you’re the Lord Almighty’s people, right? I’m sure you can find a way to make this happen.”
“There isn’t.”
“Is there some other agency you could refer me to? I mean, is hell like North Korea, and you just don’t have any diplomatic relations? What about Dante Alighieri, how did he manage it?”
“He didn’t, sir. Inferno was a work of fiction” The angel’s voice betrayed a hint of divine vexation.
Stuart sighed.
“Will that be all today, sir?”
Stuart said nothing.
“I’m sorry we could not help with your inquiry today, as I said, my name is Baruch, and on behalf of Paradise Timeshare Tours I would like to thank you for calling today. Goodb-”
“Wait. Baruch, right? Put me through to your manager.”
“Please hold the line.” The alto saxophone was scarcely able to play a full bar before his call was transferred.
A new voice spoke into the receiver. It was deep and resonant. “This is Bethor, how can I help you?”
“Hi Bethor. Look, I really need to go to hell, and your customer service guy Baruch says I can’t.”
There was a long, awkward pause. Stuart thought the call had been cut off until he heard the angel on the other end crunching on potato chips.
“That’s ‘angel of customer service’” Bethor said, his mouth full of half-chewed food, “Not ‘guy’. You realize we're genderless, right? Anyway, you want to go where now?”
“Hell. There’s somebody there I really need to see.”
“Oh, that’s easy” Stuart could hear the man’s smile in his voice, and leaned forward to listen, “Just click your heels together three times and say ‘there’s no place like home’”
Stuart said nothing. Bethor erupted into a belly laugh, punctuated with an enormous belch. Stuart pictured him in his mind, his overweight paunch jiggling like gelatin. Stuart had little patience for those who laughed at their own jokes.
“Ok, I’ll tell you what: It’s under Cleveland. You buy a package trip with us to Cleveland for a weekend, you can go do whatever it is you want to do in Hell. Understand that you won’t be covered by your travel insurance while there, and that we assume no responsibility for your well-being as per our terms and conditions.“
“Cleveland? Hell is under Cleveland?”
“God’s honest truth.”
“I’ll be damned.”
“Sure will.”