One day a few weeks ago I found myself going to the closest venue of the Sage from Bentonville (Wal-Mart) when I came to realize that all of my current reading opportunities have come from the small section of the store stuck in between the cigarette aisle and the “20 Items or less” cashier. It is the feed trough of my inquiring mind. At least it used to be.
Being an academic by nature and profession, I had been
studying an interesting subject the day prior to my sojourn to the depths of
retail Nirvana. Is there really such a
thing being as the Devil? On a philosophical level it has proven a stimulating
topic. I began the study in order to
reinforce my personal skepticism as to the existence of such a being.
There is research to attest or refute the idea that a being
exists that has nothing but contempt and derision for mankind. All that is offered is the ranting’s of some
believers, and the references in the bible to “That which is called Legion.” My trip out that day was to purchase
groceries and perhaps a new book, but what I found was definitive proof.
Coming out of my driveway I viewed an old woman who lives
down the street from me walking with an umbrella to ward off the rain. I stopped to see if I could give her a
ride. I had done this a number of times
before and I usually looked forward to the chance opportunity to commit a
random act of kindness. The old woman
always gave me a broken toothed smile, and always made sure that I was given
some form of payment for my services.
Most of the time she would hand me fifty cents, as if I was operating
some form of public transportation, and then go about her business. This day, she handed me a pamphlet on the
existence of Satan, and how to identify that being when encountered. She told me to go back home and read the brochure. I told her that I needed to visit the retail
giant and would look at it upon my arrival back at my home.
Instantly waving her hands in the air she wailed at me that
the devil himself was at that store and that if I had to go there, I must
stay clear of the book section. She
reached over, clutched my hand, and began reciting the script of an
exorcism. It took several minutes to
extricate my hand from her grip and assure her that I would be careful.
I took the experience with a grain of salt. This was not the
first time she had exhibited a radical expression of her views. I believed that she was just a crazy old lady
that I got to give a rides Little did I
know how much my life would change that day as a result of a momentary denial
of another person’s dogma.
I got to Wal-Mart and found the items I required and was
going to leave before something told me to go look at the books. I remembered the woman’s admonishment but gave
it little power. Walking to the bookrack
I noticed, standing before the religious books, Satan. Well, at least someone dressed as the
Trickster. The red face and skin, pointy
tail sticking from under the red cape, the black hair and pencil thin moustache
and goatee, the red pitchfork, and the evil smile, just as in all the pictures
I have seen. Staring in disbelief, I
push it off as someone dressed for a costume party. Until, that is, he dropped a bible on the
floor and burned it with a set of flames coming out of his eyes. Afterward, he
turned to me and smiled. He told me that
he had been waiting on me, and that we should get to work.
All my life I have tried to get published as a writer. Reading and writing had been an obsession and
compulsion for as long as I could remember.
I recalled watching someone accepting a prize for writing one time and
took it on as a dream. I would win that
prize one day. This guy told me that he
could give that to me…if I signed my soul over to him.
Admittedly, this seemed to me too convenient, and I scoffed
at him. He, just as I have seen in a
million movies and read in as many books, pulled out a parchment with gothic
writing on it with my name at the top, and next to the signature line. I took
it and read it. It was a standard
agreement for services that already had a prominent “Lucifer” in script next to
the seller line.
As I read the contract, I imagined my new life. Buying the huge house, the book signing
tours, and the trophy wife I met at a reading of one of my poems, as well as
all the rest of the perks of being an award winning author. I seriously considered reaching for the quill
pen when other thoughts came to mind.
There was the IRS audit where I got arrested for fraudulent filing, the
repossession of the house, the multi-raced child my wife had and sued me for
child support, the big guy in the next prison cell who informed me of his intentions
to change my sexual orientation, and the last glimpse of the truck that was
about to run me over. I dropped the book, left the groceries, and fled the
store as soon as I could…never to return.
The devil felt a tap on his shoulder and, turning around,
encountered the broken toothed smile of the old woman who had received a ride
from the fleeing man. He shook his head
in disgust and said, “Ma, you have to stop doing that. I am way behind on my monthly quota!”
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