(Governor Tom's Note: This is a little piece of escapism I whipped up ten years ago. 'Hope you like it.)
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The tinny chimes of the wall clock on the other side of the room made him jump in his seat, causing a few drops of his watered down Scotch to spill onto his dried, veiny hand. He looked at the contract on the table in front of him to be sure it was indeed the right time. The twelve monotonous chimes, drowning out Mozart, seemed to mock the rapidity of his heartbeats while he quadruple-checked the last clause. Yes, there it was. The contract stated it plain as day. The expiration was midnight, October 10, 1998. He slouched back in his chair, his fear closing his throat. After putting down the Scotch, he took off his reading glasses and checked the clock to see if it was only eleven instead of twelve, just as the twelfth chime sounded. He checked his watch (which also gave London and Moscow times in case he still cared), but it only confirmed the clock’s claim. It was really time. Had it been two hundred and ten years already? He remembered vividly the day he sat down with the agent Bartholomew at O’Reilly’s Pub in Boston. That a lifetime had a fixed definition in the contract of exactly seventy years hadn’t bothered him at all. Three of those were more than enough, he remembered thinking. But he’d been wrong. He realized this long before this lifetime was over. Three was no better than one. He was just as confused and bitter as he’d been in the beginning.
Someone tapped lightly on the front door.
Maybe he’d ask a question or two, he thought as he stood up, the pain in his lower back flaring, his knees popping, the soreness in his left foot coming back to life when he put his weight on it. The pains and sores that riddled his aged body made the already agonizing trip to the front door even worse. When he opened it, he greeted the shaded Bartholomew with a glance before standing aside to let him in.
"Hi, Stan," he said with his thick voice that made the flab under his chin shake. It never ceased to amaze him that someone like Bartholomew would bother to knock and wait to be invited in like a kind neighbor. And he hadn’t changed physically either. He wore the same navy blue suit with the icy blue tie. His brown hair was the exact same style it had always been, the sides slicked back and the top spiked. He had the same small patch of whiskers on the tip of his pudgy chin with the same amount of curled flab beneath. He had originally guessed his weight to be about three hundred pounds, and to this day, over two centuries later, Bartholomew had probably neither gained nor lost a pound. "How ya doin’, buddy?"
"How the hell do you think I’m doing?" Stan said as he led Bartholomew to the dining room table where the contract was.
"Mind if I have drink?"
"Sure. I’ve got vodka."
"I’ll take Cognac, thanks."
Stan went into the kitchen. "Since when did you stop drinking vodka? Have the last seventy years changed you that much?"
"I like to vary my cocktails once in a while," Bartholomew said as he sat down at the dining room table, the chair creaking under his weight. He set his briefcase on the polished oak and opened it up to pull out his copy of the contract. "Stan, what’s that smell?" he asked as he heard the clinking of ice cubes in a glass.
"It’s my evergreen-vanilla potpourri. You got a fuckin’ problem with it?"
"No. I don’t think I’ve ever smelled this combination. You’re the one who’s changed, my friend."
"I’m supposed to, asshole. I’m human."
"Swearing. Maybe you haven’t changed so much."
Stan tried in vain to keep his hand from shaking as he poured the Cognac. "Why the hell are you wearing sunglasses anyway? It’s the middle of the night. I know where you’re from. You don’t have to try to be spooky around me. And if you’re trying to be, you could use something a little less cliched than that."
Bartholomew reached up behind his shades and massaged his eyelids. "I am not trying to be spooky, Stan. The light hurts my eyes." He also wanted to add how tired he was and how much he wished they could just get down to business, but if the old man wanted to stretch his time on Earth by a few more minutes, maybe that was all right. Almost all of his clients did this, even though they were just delaying the inevitable.
Stan almost dropped the bottle of Cognac as he tittered. "Are you shitting me, Bartholomew? I never knew light hurt your eyes." He put the cap back on the bottle and put it back in the cabinet.
"They do not hurt my eyes normally. I just have a major hangover, okay? Now where’s my drink?"
"Keep your suspenders on," Stan said when he came back into the dining room with the Cognac. He turned the dimmer a bit to soften the sextet of lights hanging from the ceiling. "Does that help?"
Bartholomew clenched his jaws to keep his temper in check. "That’s fine. Thank you."
Stan grabbed a cocktail napkin, green and white with his country club’s armor insignia in the center, from the stack of them on the closed, dusty cherry clavier, which also displayed his family’s rogue’s gallery. He softened the lights further until the faces were unrecognizable. He handed the drink to Bartholomew.
"Thank you. And you don’t have to soften the lights any more. Really, I’ll be okay." Bartholomew was proud of his composure. "Now. Shall we get down to business?" He leafed through the contract.
Stan wasn’t sure why he was suddenly so hesitant to speak his mind as he slowly retook his seat. The sky blue cushion did not have any effect on his posture now. He was just as uncomfortable as if it weren’t there at all. He could feel his vocal chords trembling in tune with his hands. "Before you read the clauses to me, I just have a question or two."
Bartholomew rolled his eyes behind the shades. "Sure. Anything." He smiled. "I think I can accommodate one last wish."
"What is the meaning of all this?"
Bartholomew had the Cognac an inch from his lips when he stopped. "I’m sorry. What is the meaning of what?"
Stan waved his arms around, gesturing to nothing in particular. "Of this. Of this planet, of having to live on it. What’s the point?"
"Are you asking me what the meaning of life is?"
"Yeah, I guess I am," Stan said, regaining control of his voice.
Bartholomew dropped his head with a laugh. "Stanley, please tell me this is a joke."
"Don’t laugh at me, you fat fuck. I’m asking a serious question. I have been given the privilege of living three lifetimes on this God-forsaken planet. And I still don’t understand life. What’s the point? I just don’t understand it."
"What am I supposed to do if you don’t understand life?"
"What, you mean with all of your supernatural abilities and powers and wisdom, you can’t tell me the meaning of life?"
Bartholomew could feel the sweat break out on his forehead, but he tried as hard as he could not to betray his impatience. He took a sip of the drink, swallowed, put it back on the napkin, and cleared his throat. "Now Stanley, surely you can see my difficulty with that question. I’m not the one who’s been living on this planet. You are. My aim in life is so simple and solitary that it’s agonizing sometimes. I work to obtain people for the Big One Down Below. That’s it. I mean, that is it. That is all I do, Stanley, and it’s all I’ve ever done."
Stan suddenly saw the stupidity in asking this man. Bartholomew was right. He was the last person who would understand the meaning of life. He could see the sweat glistening on his forehead and wanted to apologize. But he couldn’t bring himself to it. The last thing he wanted to say to this man was, "I’m sorry." He could see that Bartholomew was trying to suppress another titter. "What’s so fucking funny?"
"I just find it hard to believe. I’ve sold this three-lifetime deal to so many people over the millennia, and you are the first person who’s come out on the other side complaining that you don’t understand life. Are you trying to tell me that, if I asked you, you wouldn’t be able to tell me one thing about human life?"
"Sure I could," Stan said. "It’s nothing but problems."
"Problems? I find that hard to believe. You’ve led some pretty big lives over these past two centuries. You helped found a territory and held a significant seat in the government in the first. By being an oil magnate you became one of the richest men in the world in the second. And do I need to tell you about the life ending right now? One of the leading physicians in the country."
Stan wanted to laugh. He was a highly praised orthopedic surgeon who couldn’t cure his own back pain. Of course Bartholomew couldn’t have known that life was really just a collection of complications, most little, but some major, like losing his wife to dysentery in the first life, or losing his parents when he was only eight years old in the second, or all the patients he couldn’t cure during the third life. And now he was at a loss to explain it all. "I just don’t understand it."
"Was that why you entered into this deal? You wanted to understand life?"
"I was sure three would be enough. But here I am right back with the same problem I started with."
Bartholomew sat back in amusement at this cranky old fool. He tried not to smile too widely. "I’m sorry, Stan."
"Stop smiling. I can’t believe I asked you this."
Bartholomew took another sip and smacked his lips. "So life is just a bunch of problems and–"
"And I want to know why. I want to know what the point is. But if you can’t help me, then forget it. Let’s just get on with this bullshit."
Bartholomew finished his drink and placed it on the napkin with an eager firmness. "Right, then." He paused and looked carefully at Stan, who was averting his eyes and rubbing his hands. "Are you scared?" He always felt obligated to ask that. He didn’t know why.
Of course he was scared, Stan thought. He was about to be sent to a place about which he’d heard countless horrific myths and fables over the last two hundred years. He was actually going to see it with his own eyes and experience it for the rest of time. His heart felt like it wanted to leap from his chest into the fat man’s face. He was suddenly sweltering under his sky blue button sweater and the tan and brown checkered shirt beneath it. Just an hour ago those layers were just enough to keep him from shivering. "I’ve been ready for a long time. Let’s get it over with, okay?"
Bartholomew sat forward with renewed energy. "You got it. You have your contract, I have mine. Please follow along as I read." Just as he was about to start, he looked up at him. "I’m sorry, could you please turn off the music?"
"I don’t fuckin’ believe this," Stan said as he got up. This abrupt delay made his stomach nauseous and a chilly sweat break out on his forehead, face, and palms.
"And no, I don’t have a grudge against Mozart because I couldn’t get him. I didn’t even like the man."
Like I give a shit, Stan thought as he turned off the music. He went back to the table and sat down, keeping his eyes on the red and green branches, vines, and flowers which decorated the salmon background of the dining room rug. Bartholomew spit out the ice cube he was playing with in his mouth.
"Stan?"
"I would like to have a word with your boss when we’re through," he said dryly, all of the pretentious aggression suddenly drained away. "Just a few words, if that’s okay."
This time Bartholomew couldn’t hold in the laugh. "I’m sorry, old man. That would be quite impossible. The Master’s very busy, as you can imagine. Well maybe you can’t. Many people aren’t able to imagine someone like that. But take my word for it."
"I don’t care. I want to speak to him. He can work while I’m speaking to him for all I give a shit."
Bartholomew sighed. His temples throbbed. This was taking too much energy. "All right, I’ll add that in as a new clause. Conversation with Master." Stan looked at his contract and saw the words appear as if white dust had just been blown off the paper. "Okay. Now can we get started?"
Through tight, chapped lips, Stan said, "Sure."
After the reading of the contract, Stan had a heart attack and died. Bartholomew escorted his soul to Hell. It wasn’t as dramatic a journey as Stan thought it would be. They left the house and got into Bartholomew’s black Lincoln as if they were going to the mall (another kind of hell for Stan), leaving behind the two-story mansion and all the memories (and the corpse) it contained. His wife had passed away two years ago. He wouldn’t have to worry about her grieving. His three kids, however, were a different story. They would never know his true fate. In his first lifetime he hadn’t had any kids, and he only had one in his second life, a daughter. He never did find out what happened to her, never had the time.
When the familiar surroundings of the neighborhood went black, he told himself to stop worrying about things beyond his control. Before he knew it they were in a parking garage. Bartholomew told him to get out and follow him. They went through a series of narrow, dimly lit corridors with grimy green walls. Their footsteps echoed.
They finally reached a small cubical room where a heavily made-up, black-haired, pale-skinned woman sat at a computer pecking away. The room had the same ugly green walls and metal floor. "What is it, Bart?" she asked without looking away from the screen. Her accent reminded Stan of New York City.
"Someone’s here to see the Master. He won’t take long. I’ll catch up with you later, Stan." Bartholomew left and closed the door before Stan could say anything. Contrary to before, he now felt very uncomfortable separated from Bartholomew.
"Whatdya want, hon? I’m busy." Her typing never slowed for a second.
"I’m here to see...um...the Man."
"What man?"
"Whatever you call him. The devil. Satan. I always preferred Satan. I don’t know why."
"Well then you’ll use Satan. Now whatdya want?"
"Are you....uh....Satan’s secretary?"
This made her stop typing and turn to him. Her eyes were black marbles. "Just ‘cause I’m a woman makes me a secretary? Sexist bastuhd. Well, I guess that’s why you’re here."
"No, I’m here because I sold my soul."
"Whatevuh. I am, as you say, Satan. Now whatdya want?"
Stan’s head hurt. None of this made any sense. "I thought Satan was a man."
"I’m whatevuh I wanna be." While her two hands danced on the keyboard, a third arm reached up and scratched her shrubbery hair. He looked hard through the murk and could now see not one but two more pairs of arms. Of the three arms still under the desk, one of them seemed to be doing something frantically. "Get whatevuh it is off ya chest or else I’ll kick your ass out."
"I just wanted to ask you......about life."
"Life?" she said, turning to him. "What about life?"
"I just finished a contract which permitted me three lifetimes, or two hundred ten years, on Earth. And I still don’t get it."
"Don’t get what, hon?"
"What life is for. I don’t understand what the purpose of it is. Why do we have to go through it? Why can’t we just......start here or in Heaven?"
Satan turned back to the millions of names zipping by on her screen, two of her hands typing frantically to make sure the flow was uninterrupted. It wasn’t as easy as she was sure people thought it was to type and talk at the same time. It actually gave her a migraine every day without fail. The only thing that made it bearable was the third hand she used to masturbate, and the fourth and fifth hands she used to massage her quads, which were sore almost every day from running up and down escalators with boxes of contracts. She couldn’t let Bartholomew do all the work. She was using her sixth hand to pick out some itchy skin flakes from deep within the forest on her head while this newest client was asking her about life. She laughed. "Hon, how in Hell am I supposed to know, huh?"
"You’re a major player behind the scenes of life. I thought you’d know."
"Hon, I don’t know the first thing about what life is for. You should ask my ex-boss."
"I can’t. I’m stuck here."
"Life sucks, doesn’t it?"
"That makes me believe you and your rival are sadists or something. You stick us on the planet with apparently no purpose, let us experience all the problems life has to offer, and then off we go, up or down."
"Or neithuh. Limbo does exist, ya know."
"So is it like a test then? To see where we’ll end up?"
"Hon, I dunno. Really. It could be a test or it could be nothin’."
"Jesus, Satan!" He threw up his arms. "Could you be any less helpful?"
Her quads ached even more. "Look, I dunno why you’re askin’ me this stuff. I’m not a sage or nothin’. I’m the devil. I take souls from Gawd. We duke it out on Earth by seein’ who gets the most souls. That’s my purpose, hon, if ya wanna call it that. To win the most souls."
"But that will never end."
"No one said it was goin’ to be easy."
He felt his spirit drooping. "So then I guess I’ll never...I’ll never understand life. I’ll never understand the meaning of it."
"You’re breakin’ my heart, hon. Are ya done now?"
"Is there anyone else I can talk to?"
"Not if you’re just gonna ask that question. And if you have a question I can’t answuh, you’re outta luck. Sorry."
As if on cue, Bartholomew walked in. "Ready to go to your room, Stan?"
He didn’t want to give up, not now. But Satan had a point. If she couldn’t help him understand life, then no one down here could. And now he was about to resign himself to an eternity of solitude. He wouldn’t be totally solitary, the more he thought about it. He’d have this question to keep him company. "Sure."
