They were clearly not friends, but they had been carrying on a spirited conversation. The bus was, as usual, late. The tall one was strictly California. Blond, clearly dyed. He wore white trousers and a denim jacket opened to reveal a sweat shirt. A leather thong around his neck held a strange object, plastic, clearly off the shelf thrift shop.
The other one was shorter, Hispanic in appearance, clearly a salesman, in a suit and tie, the jacket of which he held on his arm
He fingered the object around the taller man's neck. "What's this," he asked, "a mystical symbol, an Egyptian scarab, or a miniature Ark of the Covenant?"
The blond man peered at his companion with two very close set eyes, one of which was very red and bruised. I felt clearly that someone had punched him in the eye. I was becoming interested in the conversation.
"It's a stop watch," the tall man said, manipulating the controls. "Bought it at a garage sale for fifty cents." He rose, and looked towards Third Street. "It's coming, I can see it on the horizon."
The image of the bus went from a blur to a definitive, familiar rectangle. Third Street is a busy stop. It was a long time before it began to creep towards the now crowded station.
"I hate bus drivers," said the tall man, without preamble.
The other did not answer. I agreed with the comment. I am not too fond of bus drivers myself--and I include the passengers, also.
The driver halted short of the stop, allowed some passengers to dismount, then gunned the motor and sped past a muttering mob of discontents.
"They are inspired by the Devil." he added.
The smaller man looked at him quizzically--now keenly interested. "Why do you hate them?" he prompted.
The tirade continued--not in answer to the question, but rather as a continuation of his original statement.
"They threw me against the wall," he raged. " I made them apologize. The Transit Authority sent me a letter." The close set eyes were looking into a very distant place. "They are Devil motivated. I know the Bible.
"You believe in a Devil?" asked the little man.
"I know him. I have met him. I have spoken to him." A trinity, a little on the side of sacrilege.
"What does he look like?" asked the companion. It was hard to tell whether he was interested or just trying to provoke.
"He was like a man, except that he had the face of an elephant with a shortened trunk."
"What did he want of you?" the short man pursued.
"My soul," he answered, you know, Faust, the Devil and Daniel Webster."
As a non-involved eavesdropper, I felt there was a certain rationality here, knowledge of literature, opera. He sounded literate and well spoken.
"Were you on something," asked the little man, smiling archly.
"No," answered tall man, a reflective look coming into the close set eyes, that now looked crossed, and redder than before.
"Are you a college graduate?" came the next question of the little man.
"Yes,, science" said the bruised one.
"Are you working?" came the next question.
"No, but I was in telemarketing." This beaten man was, I thought, the last refuge of the almost destitute. I marveled at his patience in this dialogue. Others too were showing more interest, a needed diversion as the next bus was nowhere in sight. I wanted to hear more about his Devil. The salesman provided the push.
"Why did your devil come in such a disagreeable shape? You know, of course, that he does his best work dressed in Italian suits and Bruno Magli shoes. Besides, what did he offer in exchange for your soul?"
"Power, money, real estate--girls." came the answer. I thought that if he were to chose, it would not be girls, or women, either.
"What stopped you. . ." The salesman's question was aborted and answered immediately.
"The Bible," he said piously. "There is a hell and eternal damnation."
I sneaked a look at the sad tall man. His general condition mitigated against the possibility that he had made any deal at all. I waited for some finish to the story. The salesman obligated with a cue. "Do you think all souls weigh equally with the Devil? Would you value yours as weighty as that of Jesus? He was offered the same emoluments as you were.
"He is God, but all souls are alike."
"Then you ascribe only limited divinity to Jesus."
"I follow only the Bible."
The bus was finally approaching. The little man made one final salvo.
"He would have given you wealth, a panorama or real estate, power and women. Curiously not long life. He seems a rather impatient Devil, in your case. Perhaps he finds your soul curiously desirable. OF all the goodies he offered, which one would you prize above all others?"
"Power." The red of his injured eye seemed more inflamed than ever.
The one thing I rarely ever see in the stories that Dad wrote, is happiness, in any measure. He is cynical, and doubting, and I guess, in the bad mood I find myself in today as I write this small append I am reminded of how often we butted heads over his way of observing the world as if he were somehow not one of God's creations like the rest of us. I think of him as one of the haughty doubters, smug that only intellectuals like themselves have discovered the great secret, that God is the creation of less worthy beings than themselves. If Dad were here today, we'd be having a fight. Why did everything have to be dissected and parsed to the nth degree? Couldn't we just let things be? And live with just a little less pessimism? And posit maybe that the Devil isn't the big gun, but there is a God who is? Well, at least the story makes you think, eh?
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