guff

Bumping Into Satan

The lifeforce of the town I live in is so asphyxiated by tourism you’ll find three separate guide stations for new visitors within a half-mile radius in the downtown area. The one I live nearest to is a very impressive building-sized display case of a tourist center, with an audio-video presentation room, and a well stocked bookstore carrying only the best in touristy picture books. I paid a visit to it recently to pick up a pamphlet on the history of the textile industries in the region — we’re so into tourist trawling around here even dilapidated old factories can scare up foot traffic aplenty.

While there, I browsed the other brochures and purchased a local street map (I must have maps!). As I was taking my change from the park ranger behind the counter (that’s right, the US National Park System is in charge of handling the register), I noticed him on a well polished window bench to one corner of the center.

I knew who he was right off. There was no mistaking the horns, the Van Dyke beard, the black-bordered red satin cape. Naturally, I went over to where he was sitting and took the space on the bench next to him. I had some time to kill.

“So, what’s up?” I asked. Seemed an easy enough first question to put to the Lord of Darkness. He didn’t respond at first. Looking out through the window as he did, I got a good glance at the placidness in his thin eyes and dark, waxen skin. I was taken aback by the sweat forming over his upper lip. When he finally turned to me, I caught a strong whiff of whiskey. He’d been drinking. And it was only two in the afternoon.

“Did you say something?” The words were slightly slurred but completely understandable. It seemed he hadn’t liquored himself up to where handling heavy machinery was out of the question, but knowing nothing of the Heman of Hellfire’s ability to imbibe, I tried not to assume anything at this point.

“I’d imagine you’d be pretty busy about this time of day,” I said, alluding to his near inebriated state and the fact he was hanging out in a place not known for high levels of debauchery or other evil endeavors. I felt rather guilty as I said it, as I too was skipping on duties of my own.

“Mmm, I was, I was. But now I’m not. I’m taking a break.”

“Must be hard work. Really, um, unrewarding at times.” I’d stumbled onto a track of obvious and understated things to say, and didn’t see a way to get off.

“No, not really.” He paused, a small burp emerging through his white, perfectly straight teeth. “I wouldn’t say I like it. But there’s nothing all that bad about it. Except maybe the people, sometimes. They can become kinda abusive at times.”

“Really?” The people get abusive? This intrigued me. Apparently there’s an organizational structure in Hades I was unaware of that requires those in management to permit at least a certain amount of misbehavior on the part of personnel. Was it union related?

“Yeah. Not that I care much, but when they start getting demanding, it can be annoying. It’s the ones with the cameras that can be the worst.”

Cameras? Never for a moment did I imagine they’d allow pictures to be taken down there. You’d think they’d have a rule against that. And it would not have occured to me that photography as a hobby is something one could take with them beyond the grave. So it must be true: eternal damnation is the final stop for those pushy picture snapping tourists.

“Why do you let them get away with it?” I asked. “No disrespect, but considering who you are…”

“Hey, it’s all part of the job,” he answered. “Gotta do what the Boss wants if you want a paycheck, right?”

The train of confusion was coming up fast on me. I thought I could understand what demands the Boss must put on him, but a paycheck? Did Satan need to meet the rent? Maybe it was for pocket money on his days off. That booze on his breath wasn’t homemade.

“So, what exactly does one get paid for… your work?”

“A little over minimum wage. But it’s not my regular job — just part-time.”

We were no longer conversing along the same lines of communication. “Part time…”

“Yeah. I work at the Mobil on North St., but had a few days off and offered to fill in for Todd today. Anyway, gotta get back.” He stood up and smiled at me, those perfect white teeth displayed in all their glory. “Satan can’t keep the tourists waiting, ya know.”

“Yeah, sure,” I mumbled, concerned I’d slipped somewhere and only just now regained my footing.

“Well, good talking with ya,” he said as he left through the doors of the tourist center, then walked down the block in the direction of the Haunted Museum, just another locally run rabbit trap set to catch the attention of tourists in a town built on their open wallets.

I thought I might sit where I was for the next few days, that is if the cash register rangers wouldn’t shoo me away at closing, but instead I shook off the daze I was in, leapt up and out the doors Satan had exited through, and shouted down the street:

“Tell your Boss he did a great job on the costume!”