A Devilish Reflection

It was our first official introduction, the Devil and I. The date was April 5, 1985, Good Friday. There was a party. I did not know the house, but as things go with young people I seemed to know everyone in it, or at least everyone seemed familiar to me. They were like me in age and temperament, so that I was comfortable among them. All but one, least-wise, and that one was quite different.

Actually, I should say there were two in attendance who were different, as even though the others felt familiar to me I was undoubtedly strange to them, even though they tried very hard to fit me into their shenanigans. As was my custom at these events, I poured my beer, found a chair away from the laughing, raucous throngs and opened my book. Periodically, I would look up at a chapter’s end to survey the goings-on, but in truth it was usually pretty tame fun for everyone, myself included. As always, there were the usual drinking games and the exaggerated “lover’s tiffs” brought on by excessive drinking, but all in all, this party, like most of them, was a rather quiet night to this point, the point when the entertainment arrived.

Now before I go on about that entertainment, I would like to address my “strange” behavior. I am a bit of a loner. I have few friends, they are more like acquaintances really, people whom I know by name, but not through familiarity. The friends I do have are always the wildest ones, the ones who throw the keg parties and the ones who light the bonfires, or who know where to find them. I am drawn to those types, as they are the ones who know where the fun in life lies. The thing that is peculiar about me though is that I do not show for the fun, and I don’t attend for the booze, although I will partake. I am not even after the girls, although if one offers herself (which they often do), I am not above borrowing her for the evening, but I don’t care to keep her.

No, the reason I am invited to these parties, and the reason I attend, is that I am the enforcer. When trouble starts, I stop it. These weekend nights that everyone loves so much, the nights that allow them to unwind and let loose also afford me the opportunity to do what I love. We all must have a passion. I am no exception to that rule. My fun just comes in a different manner than most others. What those parties give to me is the occaisional chance to kick some ass. The would-be toughs who I have crossed paths with previously know me now. They see me there in my corner with my book, so they tread lightly by. They rein themselves back so that I will stay in that corner. They want me to stay in that corner. Strangers, the ones whom I have not yet met, the big ones who believe that causing trouble is fun quickly learn that it is not, not when I am present. They learn that it does not pay to start trouble when I am in my corner. Let the man read his book, and drink his beer, and have the occasional girlfriend sit in his lap.

I am a fighter. I like it. I live for it. Fists, blades, guns, pick your poison. I find nothing so thrilling as to see that fury in your eyes turn to fear. I love to be hit. I love the smoky taste of blood... mine or yours. I love the numbness after a blow. I love the fog that seeps into my head after, but mostly I love pushing all of that to the side and stomping, stomping, stomping! There it is, in a nutshell. We all have our purpose in this world. You now know mine.

The entertainment on this night turned out to be mushrooms. Hallucinagenic ones. The baggy-full was passed around. I chewed mine with a beer and retreated to my corner chair to read and watch the fun.

And it was fun! There was never more laughter, never more dancing, never more drinking, as the ’shrooms created a cartoon world of carefree fun for everyone who partook. Everything was great right up until he arrived, the other one who was different, that is.

How was he different, you might be wondering? Well, he was different in every way. He was very tall and very thin, with hollow cheeks and eyes. Despite the urban setting he was dressed like a farmer, or more like a poor man just down from the mountain. He wore a colorless gray coat, with colorless brown pants, and a wide-brimmed, black planter’s hat that shadowed his face, hiding him in plain sight.

It is funny, I stood face-to-face with him, but I cannot recall his features, only that they were angular, and shifting. They seemed to change with your viewpoint, chameleon-like with the background. I chalked that peculiarity up to the ’shrooms. He seemed harmless enough, passing through the crowds of laughing kids, obviously unknown to any of them. He was tall enough that I could see him from my seat, from my corner. My eyes followed him through the room. He moved quickly without seeming to hurry, his eyes never making contact with any particular person, as though he was a wolf trotting around the herd, slinking on the edges, patient. The problem was, this was my herd... my flock.

I bent my page down and stood. Knowing what was to happen next, the murmur in the room died. From across the room I watched his head turn toward me. The crowd between us parted, the tension between us obvious. Our eyes locked. His seemed familiar, their lustre bright.

I started towards him, my boot-heels loud in the sudden silence. “What business have you here?” My question rang across the room, my voice echoing off of wood, plaster and glass. “You were not invited here, and you are not wanted here.” The corners of my eyes saw kids ducking from the room, smart kids.

Thin lips drew into what might have been a smile. I was close enough now to see the stains on his teeth, to feel the warmth of his breath, and to smell the age in his clothes and the clay on his boots. He reached up a large hand, an unusually large hand with an unusually wide wrist and used it to tip his hat to me. Up close he was not so thin, but was sinewy, and solid. He was speaking, but I heard nothing over the angry blood rushing through my ears. I put an index finger on his chest and pushed him backward with it. His eyes widened with surprise at the strength in me. “You will leave now. You do not belong here.” My words were not shouted, but were of a firm tone, a matter of fact tone.

”Who are you to tell me where I belong, and where I can be?”

“I am the one who will make you go.”

”No man can make me go.”

”I can... and I will.” My finger touched on his chest again, and again he was pushed back. The surprise on his face was obvious.

”I will go,” he whispered. “But we will meet again.”

It was my turn to smile. “No doubt.”

I returned to my corner, and to my book. The line at the tap grew. The music resumed. Nervous talk was followed by nervous laughter as wasted kids fought to process what they had witnessed, chalking it up to the ’shrooms as the easiest and most logical of answers. Surely it could not have been the ageless battle of “Good vs. Evil” that they had just witnessed, although it was Good Friday and it had been a frightening confrontation. There was a lot of discussion, away from my corner, as to who might have won if it had come to blows. Most who had seen me fight were adamantly on my side, but there was something indomitable about the stranger, and there were many debates, just as there would be many individual, internal debates among these youngsters for years to come concering just what it was they had witnessed on this Good Friday, 1985?

Me? The angry blood rushing through my ears receded as some kind soul offered me a beer. I opened my book and faded into my dark corner. The party started up again in earnest. I was young, but I was smart enough to know that, if it had, in fact, been a contest of Good vs. Evil, then there had been no sure winner, and I was left to wonder... in this most recent battle, which side had won? Which side laid claim to this flock? Which side was I fighting for, and which side against?