The other day when I came home from work The Devil was in my kitchen. She had her head stuck halfway in the fridge (maybe she came straight from Hell), and was tapping one of her hooves impatiently on the floor. With a burst of sulphur and a hiss of steam she slammed the door shut and turned on me.
“Why isn’t there ever any food in this house?”
“Wh-wh-what do you mean, Your Evilness?” I stammered. “There’s some tortillas, and-and-and, some b-b-eans . . .” (Suddenly I remembered the sulphur smell, and back-tracked) “. . . I mean, and some cheese. You like cheese crisps. . .”
“WE’RE OUT OF CHEESE! I HATE this house! There’s NEVER anything to eat! Or to DO! Why can’t we live somewhere ELSE?!” And then, tossing out exclamation points like pitchforks, she was gone, to spread her sunshine elsewhere.
“Whew,” I said. Just then I noticed my husband leaning against the kitchen counter–I must have missed him while I was dodging thunderbolts.
“Welcome home,” he said. “How was work?”
“In retrospect, much too short,” I replied. “What’s up with Beelzebub?”
“The usual. Got up on the wrong side of the Lake of Fire.”
We both glanced into the living room, where we could hear the screams of a tormented soul (A.K.A., The Devil’s little brother, Clyde) echoing off the walls.
“Run, Clyde!” we shouted. He didn’t have to be told twice; in a heartbeat he was out the door and headed for the park. Of course, this meant that we once again became the subject of the Devil’s scrutiny. Slowly the Eye of Sauron rotated and fixed its fiery gaze on us.
“So,” the Devil said, “Are we doing anything today?”
I glanced at the calendar, and saw with relief that The Devil had a Young Jammers workshop from one to three. (The Devil, appropriately enough, plays bass.) It was only noon, but I figured that if I drove really slow, maybe I could make the mile and a half drive last . . .ten minutes. I sighed, and resigned myself to joining the ranks of the Eternal Damned–or at least the Temporarily Damned–for the next thirty minutes.
Finally it was time to go; gathering up all of the little pieces of excoriated skin that had been flayed off of me by The Devil’s sharp tongue, I dropped The Devil at the Center for the Arts and proceeded to enjoy my two hours of bliss. (Sir Thomas More says that to qualify as true bliss, something must be more then the mere cessation of pain, but I disagree. And if he had to live with The Devil, he would, too.)
Driving back to pick her up I felt just like one of the minor characters in a horror movie–the ones you always scream at when they go back into the blood-soaked cabin. But what choice did I have? The Devil hates to wait.
As I put The Devil’s bass in the car her teacher came up to me and said, “I just want to tell you how much I enjoy your daughter; she’s wonderful.” And no: she wasn’t being sarcastic (I can tell–it’s one of the perks of writing a humor column).
I looked over at The Devil then, and I saw that it was true–she had pulled her horns in and tucked her pointy tail up under her hoodie. In fact, I could almost see the faint glow of a halo hovering somewhere above her head.
It lasted until we were back on the road, and then, with a whiff of brimstone, The Devil was back.
“So. Are we doing anything ELSE today?”