The Devil and Me

The devil wasn’t beautiful, at least, not in the physical sense. It didn’t need to be, or rather, didn’t want to be. It knew what it was, what it represented, and chose to uphold that belief. As it wasn’t human and had no reproductive organs (nor the use for them) it reduced itself to an “it” or “thing” or “being”.

Although lacking any aesthetic beauty, the devil had a smooth and powerful grace when it moved. It was haunting and mesmerizing. As it glided through the park on that particular day, others, the humans, couldn’t help but stare. When their eyes fell upon it, they didn’t see pale white skin that seemed almost iridescent in the dim sunlight. They didn’t see the dark, hooded eyes that sunk endlessly into its skull, nor the taunt stretched lips that spread across its face, nearly devoid of color. They didn’t see or choose to notice the lack of any hair on its head, brow or where the eyelashes were supposed to be.

They only saw an “it”, a thing, wrapped in a dark, hooded cloak, moving effortlessly across the grass as if there was crystal black ice beneath its feet. They saw it and were repelled and drawn to it at the same time. They wanted to look away but didn’t, they couldn’t. it was the same sick fascination as watching a bloody, violent car crash in a movie with an itch to press the rewind button.

The devil knew this and met the eyes of those that were staring one by one. Its gaze was powerful and effective. The stare said, although subtly stated, that yes, they were all sinners and their time too shall come to pass and it would come for them, but no, not today, not at this moment, not now. One by one they would suck in sharp breaths, swallow hard and look away. They then knew who it was in that instant and just as quickly chose to forget. They would deal with that another day, another time, but no, not now.

That, however, was not the fate of Jack Black. There was nothing particularly special about Jack except that this particular day was his birthday. He celebrated today, his 42nd year on this planet like he’d spent all the others: by ignoring it. He’d managed to slip out of his office for a quick lunch, something he rarely ever got a chance to do, and took a walk through the park. It was a park that he’d passed every day for the last eighteen years of his life. He grabbed a hot dog from a street vendor loaded with onions and mustard and sauerkraut topped with extra calories and extra fat and a regular soda, none of that diet crap that Sally, his wife, had been shoveling down his throat since his last visit to the doctor. The man had told Jack that he was three steps away from a heart attack and Jack was trying his best to hop in that direction as quickly as he could. He jammed the last beefy bite down his throat, dribbling mustard down his chin and onto his overly starched shirt and popped the top on the soda. He chugged half of it in one gulp as if he were back at a kegger in junior college and let out a deep, unattractive belch. Sally would have been disgusted if she’d witnessed such a thing, which brought a smile to Jack’s lips. He suddenly missed her.

“Sally will not kiss you tonight.”

The voice froze Jack in place and made the blood in his veins quiver in fear as he stared at it. His body could not move, his brain could not function and everything except the…the “it” in front of him seem to freeze in time. It spoke again.

“She will smell the onions and the pickled cabbage on your breath and turn away from you.” There was that voice again. It sounded as if its throat had been scratched with sandpaper and soothed over with shots of whiskey and egg yolks. It was layered, as if more than three people were talking in unison and echoed around Jack as if in surround sound. Suddenly, time began to move around him again as if nothing had happened and a warmth settled within Jack’s bones. He swallowed thickly and opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

The devil held out its hand and gestured for Jack to come sit with him at a gray stone picnic table. There were checkered tiles painted alternately in shades of fading and chipped reds and blacks. Jack sat across from the devil without a word, placing his soda can in the center of the table as if it were to serve as a protective barrier between him and the…the “thing” across from him.

They sat quietly for several minutes, avoiding each other’s eyes and drawing in the nature that surrounded them, both waiting for Jack’s heartbeat to return to it’s normal rhythm.

“How do you know my wife Sally?”

It was an honest question although unimportant to the devil and it chose not to respond.

Jack was confused. For one, he couldn’t for the life of him figure out why he was sitting at a park bench so willingly with someone he didn’t know but obviously knew him. “How do you know what I had for lunch?” After asking, somehow knowing that he wouldn’t get a response from this stranger, Jack brought his hand close to his mouth and breathed hotly into it, testing to see if the onions and sauerkraut were indeed that powerful. The smell was overwhelmingly strong and Jack dropped his hand to his lap and looked away, embarrassed.

Jack started to rise, but the devil spoke again. “You don’t play chess.”

It was a statement, not a question and Jack willed himself not to respond, especially with his bad breath and all, but found that he couldn’t hold his tongue. “And I don’t play the piano, either. Your point?”

The devil didn’t smile but didn’t frown, either. It just stared at Jack and tilted its head to the side. “Chess is a game of skill,” It said instead. “It teaches patience and strategy. It is a game you should learn. Today is the anniversary of your day of birth. I will teach you chess. It shall be my gift to you. But not today; tomorrow.”

Without another word, the devil stood, turned and disappeared as gracefully as it entered. Jack sat mesmerized by the presumption of the odd-looking stranger, but knew somehow, that It would return and that he would be there waiting for It. Tomorrow.