Story #68 or The Devil May Care
The Devil
The man who sat at the far end of the bar, just at the edge of the yellow, overhead glow of dated, dusty light fixtures, was a regular. He wore dark glasses, despite the dim lighting, his exact age hard to pin down, hovering timelessly between a young man in his 20s and whatever was going for “middle-aged” these days. Nondescript, his skin was neither terribly dark, nor overly white. He had what some might consider handsome features, but it would hard to say exactly why, being somewhat obscured by the glasses and facial hair. He smoked cigars that seemed to endlessly smolder, the bartender having never actually seen him light a new one. Once he’d settled on his stool, the bartender brought over his usual, a shot of mezcal she’d poured into a glass prayer-candle holder, traditional except for the black salt mixed with dried cricket and chile that he liked on the rim. She imagined he’d nurse the drink, like he normally did, and perhaps a few more, disappearing when his patience with the night crowd came to an end.
The bartender was young, but had an edge to her gaze that betrayed the rough road she’d traveled to get to where she was now. She was cute, in an average, forgettable sort of way if it hadn’t been for the angry scar that sat high along one cheekbone. She had a no-nonsense manner, polite, but never flirty, and both the baseball bat under the bar and the blade she kept in her right boot were there to make sure no one ever misunderstood her intentions. There was a certain sense of trust, of familiarity, between her and the regular, though they’d never known each other outside of the bar, and rarely shared any personal anecdotes. She wasn’t even sure she’d ever actually caught his name. They’d had enough chats about philosophy, morality, and the afterlife to fill multiple volumes, though, and in the rare instances when patrons had crossed that delicate line from drunken idiot to dangerously unhinged, he’d had her back.
He nodded in thanks, the smoke from his cigar already creating a murky halo around his head.
Settling themselves in at the other end of the bar was a couple that clearly wasn’t a couple. They seemed out of place in the dark den. The man was tall, well built, with sculpted blonde hair, a nose that must have cost him a fortune, and loafers the same shade of salmon pink as his polo. His white teeth glistened as he took the liberty of adjusting his companion’s barstool. The woman was of a medium height, also blonde, but touched by the first silvery hints of age, not as polished. She was a natural but imperfect beauty, which to some made her all the more approachable, and she was clearly uncomfortable.
“Oh, my gosh!” the man gushed, squeezing the woman’s arm. “Did you ever think back in middle school that we’d end up hanging out at a bar, teenage kids of our own, divorcees, life bringing us back together?”
She smiled thoughtfully. “No, I guess not. I never really took you seriously in middle school.”
He laughed, and caressed her knee. “I always wanted to ask you out, but you seemed so mature, so experienced, and I was just a goof.”
“Experienced? Hardly.” She shifted her knees as she picked a cocktail menu up off the bar, and his hand fell away. “The constant sexual innuendos in gym class were amusing, you always made me laugh, but I got the impression that you flirted like that with everyone.”
“No!” he protested. “You were like this unattainable girl that I knew would never give a guy like me, a thirteen-year-old with raging hormones, the time of day. I was just happy when I could make you smile.”
“What can I get for you?” the bartender interrupted.
“Two prickly pear margaritas,” the man ordered, and winked, “put them both on my tab.” Then he grinned conspiratorially to the woman beside him. “They make the best margarita.”
“Credit card?” the bartender held out her hand, unimpressed by the show of chivalry.
The man was into his second drink, the woman still nursing her first, when the conversation shifted.
“I had a really rough patch,” the man was saying. “I left the church. I just had so much guilt. I really wanted to reconcile with my wife, but after the third time, I just don’t think she had it in her anymore. I was in a really dark place.”
“Oh, it was more than once?”
“It was like I couldn’t help it.” His voice softened. “Satan was really working overtime on me.”
The woman, who hadn’t been been afforded many chances to participate in the one-sided conversation, remained silent.
“I’m trying though.” The man sounded earnest. “I’m getting support from the church, taking steps to get back to where I need to be. The bishop says I shouldn’t be too hard on myself. I’ll get there. Baby steps.”
“Mmm.” The woman mused, nodding her head and stirring the straw in her drink.
After a pause, the man gave her arm a playful punch. “Hey, what’s wrong?”
The woman raised her brows. “Nothing’s wrong. Just thoughtful, I guess.”
“Hmpf,” the man pouted. “Don’t you like me anymore?”
The woman appeared taken aback, and the regular and bartender, though they’d shown no signs of listening to the conversation, exchanged a quick glance.
“What do you mean?” the woman asked.
“I mean, I introduced you to my kids and you hardly seemed interested. I’ve been looking forward to this for so long, but I feel like you’ve been super cold and distant.”
“I’ve enjoyed being able to see you,” the woman responded, “and I thought we had a great time with your kids. I was trying to be respectful in front of them. Like you said, we haven’t seen each other in years. What exactly were you expecting to happen?”
The man’s voice had hardened. “I don’t know. You wouldn’t even hold my hand. Just something more.”
The woman seemed genuinely confused.
The bartender interrupted. “Need anything here?” Her hand lingered on the bar in front of the woman.
“No, we’re good.” The man said. “Just the check.”
“Look,” the woman said softly after the bartender turned away, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. I honestly wasn’t sure what you wanted. We’ve been sort of flirting off and on long-distance for a while now, but, well, we’re not kids anymore, you know? I thought we were just meeting up, and we’d see where things would go from there.”
The man sulked, and the woman placed a hand on his arm. He pulled away.
“I’m sorry,” she said again. “I wasn’t trying to make you feel rejected.”
He scoffed. “Rejected? That’s not what I meant. Just forget it.”
The bartender returned with the check and made herself busy nearby, wiping glasses that were already dry.
“I think I should go.” The woman stood and slipped her purse strap over her shoulder. “I’ll give you a call tomorrow before I head out.”
“You’re going to the hotel? Stay at my place.” When she didn’t respond, he pleaded. “Hold on, I’ll walk you out.”
The woman shook her head. “That’s ok. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Thanks for the drink.” She made her way to the door.
The man feverishly attempted to sign his name, then shook the empty pen. “No ink.” He winked at the bartender. “I’m sure there’s a metaphor in that.”
She ignored the comment and rummaged for another pen, giving the woman outside what she hoped was a head start. At the other end of the bar, she could see the regular packing it in.
Finally, she put a new pen down on the bar in front of the man. “I didn’t recognize you at first,” she said. “Usually see you on karaoke nights with that other girl, the one with all the tattoos.”
“Oh, yeah,” he sighed, and shook his head sorrowfully. “We’re kind of on a break.”
“Perfect timing, huh?”
His wide smile sparkled. “What? That?” he indicated the woman who’d left the bar. “Oh, that’s just a silly childhood crush. I’m sure things will work out with my fiancée in the long run. I just needed some time to sort some things out, get my head right, you know?” The man had finished signing, and slid the check back across the bar, letting his hand graze the bartender’s.
“Dude.” She jerked the check away and turned to finish closing out his tab. “Taking a break to play some girl from your past in order to fulfill some kind of fantasy.” She shook her head. “You’re some kind of special, aren’t you?”
“I know what it sounds like,” he said, suddenly all earnest again, “but it honestly has been a struggle. You don’t know what it’s like. I can’t seem to get it right, no matter how hard I try.”
“Uh huh.” The bartender was facing him again, arms folded across her chest. “I heard you earlier. Devil made you do it?”
He shrugged. “You can believe what you want,” the man said. “I am trying, though.”
“I’m sure you are.”
The bartender turned her back, and the man headed for the door, fishing the keys out of his pocket.
The door slammed closed about the same time the regular slapped a $20 on the bar.
“Hand me that bat.”
“What bat?” asked the bartender.
“Come on, now,” the regular smiled, his eyes unreadable behind his dark glasses. “I’m asking nicely.”
“What are you going to do with it?” she asked, but she was already reaching for the baseball bat she kept under the bar.
“Guarantee he doesn’t make it to that hotel. I owe it to his fiancée and that poor woman he’s reeling in.”
“You owe it?”
“Long story,” he said, and swung the bat up to rest on his shoulder. “I won’t make too much of a mess. Promise.”
“Just watch the face!” she called after him as he headed toward the door. “He’d be devastated!”
“I’m counting on it.”
Outside, the convertible Jaguar had just been backed out of its parking spot. The regular stepped in front of the man’s car.
The man indignantly honked his horn, then slowly turned sheepish as the regular stood his ground, tapping the head of the worn bat against his palm.
“What do you want?” The man seemed to shrink just a little lower into his seat.
The regular shrugged. “I just figure if you’re going to keep blaming things on me that I have nothing to do with, I should give you something to complain about that I’m not the least bit sorry taking the blame for.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the man stuttered.
“You’re not going to that hotel. You’re going to leave that woman alone, and you’re going to stop lying to your fiancée, your ex-wife, your priest, and most of all, to yourself.”
The man became indignant, and shouted up from his low-slung seat, “Who the hell do you think you are?”
The regular answered by tossing his glasses to the side, revealing two smoldering pits of infinite flames where his eyes should have been. The air around him seemed to reverberate, the sky began to darken, and the man’s jaw went slack as the regular swung the bat.
What a roller-coaster of emotions, writing this one! When I last posted about The Devil card as a prompt, I expressed that I wanted to write about my dad, sort of defying what people think of as pre-ordained destiny. I couldn’t, though.
The words just wouldn’t come, and no matter how much I procrastinated and mulled it around, nothing seemed right. Eventually, I started shifting my perspective on the card. The chains were there, but the humans weren’t prisoners. The mask was there, giving the Devil a menacing demeanor, but his hands were sending an entirely different message of blessings and support. What if, despite the rumors, the Devil does care?
I thought about sayings that have been ingrained in our society, all the things that the Devil gets blamed for, all the misdeeds of man, which seems really contradictory if you believe in free-will, but who am I to say? Anyway, I recalled many a religious conversation that flowed along the same lines, and I settled on one particular situation that seems to come up often in so-called religious men’s lives, and I wondered just what the Devil would think if he could hear what is being blamed on him, and had the chance to interject.
So, I created the scenario, let the Devil listen in, and guess what?! He does, indeed, care. At least, this version does.
I hope you enjoyed this story as much as I enjoyed writing it! Remember that for the price of a mocha iced latte you can purchase a paid subscription to Mundane Magic that gives you exclusive access to the archives, podcast posts, and specially reserved content.
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