The Devil and the Details

 

Hank Dobson paced back and forth in the living room of his trailer house, taking nervous drags off his cigarette. Due the modest size of the house and the stacks of boxes, he made many turns in little time. The sixty two years of life etched deep in a face that flashed irritation and sometimes near panic. His hands were in constant motion along with the shaking of his head.

“You had no right to read that. No right at all. I don’t care how long we have been friends,” he told the younger man in the room.

Donny Claywell held a stack of papers in his hand. He also had a look of irritation but his was mixed with confusion. He replied to his friend.

“I know, you’re right, but I did. And this whole thing,” Donny waved his hand across the room, “makes no goddamned sense to me. How long have you been writing this stuff?”

Hank took another drag off his cigarette.

“Twice as long as I have known you.  Forty some years.”

Donny looked around at the dozens of boxes, all stuffed to the top with paper.  Boxes he had drug out of the trailer’s two small bedrooms.

“How much stuff is there?” Donny asked.

Hank gave brief eye contact.

“I would guess twenty odd novels, lord knows how many essays and twelve to fifteen hundred short stories.  The stuff you read is about average quality.”

Donny threw the manuscript in his hand into an open box. He shook his head.

“That was average? Christ all mighty, Hank. That stuff was fantastic. Why haven’t you tried to get this published?”

Hank quickened the pacing.

“You shouldn’t have read it. Nobody should read it. Nobody.”

Hank’s hands started to shake and his knees almost buckled. He leaned on his desk for support.

“I’m scared, Donny. I’m old and don’t know how many years I got left and I don’t want to die and spend eternity in Hell.”

Both men stared at each other in silence.

“I made a deal with the Devil.” Hank’s voice hit the room like a dead-blow hammer.

Another silence. Donny wasn’t sure he had heard his friend right. A scowl twisted his face. He opened his mouth to speak, closed it, and then opened it again.

“A deal with the Devil?”

Hank nodded.

“The Devil. Lucifer. Ol’ Scratch. As in ‘and Daniel Webster.’ Deal maker with Faust. Did he jump up on a hickory stump and say, ‘Hank, lemme tell you what,’?”

Hank glared as his younger friend.

“Don’t you dare talk to me like that. It is true. To damn true.”

Hank stared at a cigarette burn on the carpet.

“But I have a way out.”

Donny felt like a cow trying to calculate sales tax. In all the years they had been friends he had only known Hank as a rational man. Never in his wildest thoughts would he think Hank would have this kind of delusional thinking. Was he in early stages of dementia, Donny? But that couldn’t be the total answer, the actual writing had to have been going on as long as his friend claimed. This kind of output didn’t happen overnight.

Another thing, Hank thought, how had he managed to hide this all of these years?  The two friends spent so much time together and a good chunk of that here at Hank’s.  Between that and the older man having to make a living at a regular job, this amount of work seemed impossible. Did he ever sleep?

“Okay, okay. Then just explain it to me.”

Hank went his desk and sat down. For a moment he was still and then ran his hands through his grey hair, contemplating whether or not he should do what he was about to. He shook his head, clearing his mental cobwebs, and opened the bottom drawer.

From the drawer he produced a piece of parchment. Yellowed and roughly edged.  Donny could see calligraphy on the paper as Hank handed it to him. Holding it in in front of him, Donny felt like he was about to give a report to his sixth grade class. He began to read aloud.

“We the undersigned agree to the following: In exchange for his writing to become the most successful, both monetarily and critically, of a generation, Hank Dobson agrees to his immortal soul being in eternal service to the Lord of Hell, known by many names.”

Donny shook his head and handed it back to Hank.

“So, you seriously think this is for real?”

Hank nodded.

Donny shook his head again.

“There ain’t no devil, Hank. I don’t know where you got this, but there ain’t no devil.”

“Damn it. There is, there is, there is. And the only way I can keep from going to hell is to never let my writing see the light of day.”

Donny put his hand to his forehead, his irritation level starting to rise.

“Okay, fine. For arguments sake I’ll go with you. You make this deal with the devil and he gives you the talent to write this phenomenal stuff.”

“No, not the talent or the drive or any of that. That is all me. I just wanted a guarantee the rest of the world would acknowledge it. And I wanted the money.”

Hank’s pacing began to slow down as he gathered his thoughts.

“It was the arrogance and greed and pride of a young man. I have always had the compulsion to write and I was sure I was creating great art. And by God, I wanted everyone else to know it too.”

Donny sat down.

“And you did what, some kind of ceremony to conjure up Ol’ Scratch?”

He struggled not to mock Hank with the tone of the question.

Hank shot a glare across the room. Donny put his hands up in an “alright, alright” gesture.

“He came to me, okay? Well, it wasn’t him, but a representative of some kind. I had been writing for a while and getting nowhere, not getting things published. My frustration level was getting higher and higher and when I was this close,” Hank held up his hand and brought his thumb and forefinger close together, “to giving up, there was a knock at my door.”

Hank thought back to the neater and newer living room of forty years before, the twenty-something version of himself getting up from his desk and opening the front door. Standing before him was a handsome man in a sharp three-piece suit and an ever sharper smile.

“The man, agent, whatever he was, didn’t introduce himself but he knew my name and described my current situation. He said he could help. I was confused and skeptical but intrigued enough to let him inside.

“The offer didn’t come right away. First he told me how sympathetic he was to my problems and understood how hard the artistic process was and I ate that up with a spoon. If there would have been anything sexual about it, I would have called it a seduction. My ego was primed and ready to do anything to get my stuff out there. And he knew it.”

Hank held up the piece of parchment and read it over like he did all those years ago. He grinned and a laugh passed through his lips.

“My rational brain thought it was a joke. But there was a part of me that that knew it was real. I understood the consequences and didn’t care. I wanted what he had to offer. I wanted it more than anything, so goddamned bad I felt pain. Gut-wrenching kind of stuff. So I decided to condemn my soul.”

He thought of how he signed the contract and how the smile that had been present the entire time on the agent’s face faded into sorrow as he stood and extended his hand to Hank. Hank had risen and grasped the hand of his visitor, when he did, Hank had dropped to his knees in agony. He curled up on the floor and shook with pain as the agent walked out the door.

The old man Hank continued.

“For days I tried to grasp the enormity of my situation. I hardly slept and when I did, nightmares came in waves. I would stare at the contract for hours on end. Then I saw a way out.”

Hank remembered smiling to himself until he looked at the stack of manuscripts on his desk and then the sadness that crept into his body. He had reached his hand out to touch the mounds of paper but drew back quickly like he had touched a glowing stovetop. He felt his strings cut and fell back into his chair.

Current day Hank sat in the same chair like his younger self. He looked up at the smoke stained ceiling and drew in a deep breath.

“So, no matter what I did. I had to pay a price for this mistake. And the price I decided to pay was to never let my work out. If it never saw the light of day, the contract would not be fulfilled and my soul would be mine to keep.”

He heard Donny stir in his chair. The look on Donny’s face didn’t seem to show he had bought the story.

Donny drew in his own deep breath.

“And there just happened to be a loophole? I would think the Devil would have good enough lawyers to prevent that from happening.”

“Yeah, you might think that,” Hank chuckled, “but I think it was put in there on purpose. I think the contracts are made to cause suffering no matter what. If my soul can’t be tortured for all eternity, he can at least torture it for the length of my life. Think about it. What if you were given the chance to get your wife back in exchange for your soul? If you signed the contract you would then have a choice, take her back for however long you have to live and then suffer the rest of forever in Hell, or save your immortal soul and endure the one lifetime you’ve got in the pain of not having the thing you love the most back in your life. And with the knowledge that you could have had her back.”

A bloom of red appeared on the younger man’s neck and face. He glared at Hank.

“Well, that is already what I have to live with, isn’t it? Any other wounds of mine you would like to salt to make a point?”

“I’m sorry, Donny. Ah, Jesus, I’m sorry.”

Donny got to his feet and started his own pacing, obvious floods of emotion played out on his face and in his body language.

“Why don’t you just try to publish under a pseudonym? You wouldn’t become famous so, no problem, your soul would be safe.”

Hank shook his head.

“No, no, no. You have to read the contract. It says ‘writing,’ not me. You have to look at what it says. As long as what I have written doesn’t become successful I am okay.”

“How convenient,” Donny snarled. “You know what? Yeah, obviously you are afraid of something but this is bullshit. You’re not afraid of going to hell, you are scared of yourself. Too damn chicken shit of what? Success? Failure? Screw you, Hank.”

Donny grabbed the back of his chair. It threatened to break it as he pushed down.

“Jesus Christ, Hank. You have this gift, this incredible talent, and you let it rot all these years.”

Donny’s voice filtered though gritted teeth.

“My whole damn life I wanted to have something like this. And I have tried, you know I have. You more than almost anyone. But I wasn’t a coward like you. I gave it a shot. Over and over again.”

The younger man took hard back and forth strides.

“You want to talk about paying a price? I’ve paid plenty and I’m still paying. Some friendship we have. It’s like you have been mocking me all of this time.”

Hank got up from his chair and went towards his friend. He put his hand on Donny’s shoulder but it was shrugged off.

Hank was on the verge of tears.

“No, Donny, no. I never thought that way. You are my best friend. The only family I have. Please, please, don’t feel this way. I wish I had burned this stuff years ago.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

The older man looked around at the boxes full of paper.

“Just trying to cling to what could have been, I suppose. I don’t know.”

“Well, guess what?” Donny bellowed as he picked up one of the boxes. “We are going to find out.”

Hank grabbed both of Donny’s upper arms.

“I can’t let you do that to me, please.” Hank’s voice cracked.

Donny looked at the ceiling and then back to his friend.

“You don’t even have to know what happens with it. It’ll be under a different names, different titles, whatever. That way you don’t have to have your little fantasy shattered.”

The old man struck Donny in the face with an open hand. The younger man’s eyes widened and his eyebrows rose.

“You will not do this to me!”

The box hit the floor as both men stared at each other. Hank opened his mouth to speak when Donny’s fist crashed into his friend’s face. Hank hit the floor hard. Donny picked up the box and lurched for the door.

Outside the trailer house, Donny yelled over his shoulder to Hank.

“I’m taking this box to town and as many others as I can fit in my truck. This stuff deserves to be seen by the world.”

Hank staggered out of the doorway just in time to see the box being thrown in the back of Donny’s SUV. His eyes were wide open and his panic made him move like a small animal being chased by a cat. Donny spun and drove his heels in the ground and went back to the house. As they met, Donny shoved the old man aside. Hank stumbled but regained his footing enough to grab a near-by shovel.

“Please, please, please, Donny. I’m begging you, for God’s sake.”

His voice oscillated between fear to anger.

He swung the shovel in a clumsy arc and hit Donny in the middle of his back. Before he could get turned around, Donny felt the sting of a blow to the side of his head. Despite his blurred vision he grabbed the shovel out of Hank’s hands and threw it into the middle of the yard. Hank threw a punch at Donny that landed squarely on his nose. Before he realized what he was doing, Donny’s fingers wrapped around his friend’s throat and he threw the smaller man against the side of the house over and over again.  The old man collapsed but Donny refused to give up his grip as they fell. Donny’s hands tightened as he watched the life drain out of his dearest friend in the world. Breathing heavier and heavier, he poured every last bit of energy he had into his closing hands.

Finally he fell to the side, sobbing and gasping for breath.

“No, no, no, aw no, no, no.” Donny got on all fours and started punching the ground. “What did I do, what did I do?”

Streams of tears and snot fell to the ground. He began to throw up until nothing was left in his belly. He dry heaved.

The convulsions stopped and he sat in the dirt.

Hours later he raised is head, still sitting in the same spot. The tears had at last stopped as he stood and looked at his friend. With all the gentleness in him, he lifted Hank’s body and carried him into the house then came back out with two more boxes in his hands.

The sun was going down as Donny shoved the last box into his vehicle. He stood for a moment, looking through the open SUV door at the thousands of pages now in his possession. He eased the door shut and walked back to the trailer house.

Hank’s body sat in the easy chair Donny had been in a few hours before, a blanket covering his body.  Donny grabbed the bottle of high-proof whisky off of Hank’s desk and the older man’s pack of cigarettes. He opened the bottle and took a big swig. Tasted like hell, but he didn’t much care. Walking over to the body of his friend, he emptied the bottle into Hank’s lap, letting the booze soak into the blanket. Slowly he pulled a cigarette out of the pack and lit it, drawing a long breath in to get the cherry bright and hot. He put it to the blanket, igniting a blue and orange flame. He walked out the door.

Flickering light could be seen in the windows of the house as Donny made his way to his truck. Tears ran down his face as he stared again at the boxes full of Hank’s writing. A loud whoosh sound came from behind him and he could feel an intense heat. He climbed in and headed down the driveway to the gravel that led back into town. He would never travel that road again.

 

Twenty years later, an older and more than twenty years rougher looking Donny sat at a desk in an upscale home office. Deep wrinkles crossed his face and his hair was completely gray. A glass of whiskey was in his hand as he looked at the young lady sitting across his desk with a small recorder.

“What do you find most satisfying, the critical praise, the reader’s praise or the huge paydays?” she asked.

Donny took a sip of the amber liquid.

“Oh, the awards and things are nice,” he motioned to a book shelf full of various trophies and accolades, “but I’m happy enough with the stuff getting out there. I want it to be read. And as far as the coin goes, I only keep enough to live off.”

“One more thing you don’t talk about, your philanthropy. Why not?” She smiled, hopping the gesture might get more out of him.

He took another sip.

“I don’t want to make it about me. Never did want to. Isn’t my place.”

“We’re just about done here, it looks like. Thank you so much for doing this, I know you don’t do many interviews.”

Another drink taken. An unconvincing smile.

“Yeah, I guess some people aren’t satisfied just reading the work.”

“That brings up another question,” the interviewer continued. “Why don’t you talk about the meaning of your writing?”

Another drink. Another fake smile.

“I don’t want to muddy the waters. People need to get out of it what they get out of it. They don’t need me for that. And if you don’t see anything other than what is on the surface, maybe that is all there is to it.” He brought the glass back to his lips and mumbled into the container, “Plus I didn’t write the stuff anyway.”

The interviewer cocked her head with a quizzical look on her face.

“I’m sorry, I missed that last part.”

Donny stared blankly into the corner of the office. There was a slight pause before he brought his attention back to the young lady.

“Oh, nothing. I just tend to mumble when I’m half in the bag. Living up to the drunken writer cliché and all that.”

He held his glass up and shook it a bit. Donny noted the look on her face being one of a person who wasn’t buying it.

“Okay,” she drew the word out a bit. “One last question that I know you have been asked a million times and never really answered but I have to give it a shot. You dedicate every book to someone named Hank. Who is he?”

Donny had no smile for her this time, only a dead look.

“He was my friend.” His tone was as cold as the expression on his face.

A moment of uncomfortable silence followed.

Finally the interviewer spoke.

“Alright, I think that’s it. Thank you again.”

“You bet. Glad to do it.”

Donny didn’t even try to sound convincing.

Both rose from their chairs and made their way to the door.  Drink in his left hand, Donny extended his right. They shook hands and the interviewer made her way out. Donny shut the door and leaned against it.

“Never again,” he said.

He walked over to the shelf under the window that held his considerable collection of alcohol. He filled his near empty glass, downed it and filled it again. He mindlessly gazed out the window as a look of someone about to have a total breakdown fell across his face. He made and unsteady way back to his chair and plopped down. Again he emptied his glass and closed his eyes in an attempt to keep from crying.

“Asshole.”

Once again he got up and made his way over to the booze. As he resumed his blank stare out the window.

A voice unheard for twenty years came from behind him.

“Woo, wee! Look at alla them awards.” the voice exclaimed.

Donny jumped at the noise. He turned to see a man leaning down by the bookshelf to get a better look at the trophies.

It was Hank.

The newcomer straightened himself out and turned to face Donny. Donny dropped his glass.

“Hey ya, buddy.” Hanks voice was cheerful.

Donny reeled. The room seemed to tilt as he fell backwards against the wall and slid to the floor. Hank walked over to him and offered a hand up. Donny just stared at him.

Hank spoke again.

“Yeah, I suppose you were not expecting your day to go like this, huh?”

“How… where… how are you here?”

“Come on, lemme help you up, then we can talk a little.”

Donny looked at the hand extended towards him and raised his own to grip it. He half expected his hand to pass through the palm of the dead man. Hank helped him to his feet, the smile of someone genuinely glad to see an old friend was spread across Hank’s face. Donny on the other hand stood there with a slack jaw, not knowing what to think. They sized each other up briefly before the dead man embraced Donny. He froze for a moment before returning the embrace and allowing his emotions to well up and show on his face.  Both men sported huge grins and tears ran down their cheeks.

Donny exclaimed, “You’re okay. You’re okay.”

“After a fashion, yep,” Hank replied.

The men separated and looked each other up and down.

“So, what the hell, huh?” Hank asked.

“Yeah, what the hell?”

Hank gestured to the desk and both men sat.

Donny looked at his friend and swallowed.

“Before you even start,” he began, “I’m so sorry, Hank. I can’t even tell you. Jesus Christ.” He heard a sob cut in somewhere.

Hank smiled. “I know, I know. But I’ve had my time to hate you and now it is nothing but forgiveness.”

“No shit?”

“No shit.” Hank nodded. “The next question must be the how, eh?”

Donny’s cue to smile and nod.

“Turns out you were wrong, my friend. Not only is there a Devil, but a Hell and his agent’s and binding contracts for immortal souls. And a contract that is in full action with this,” Hank waved his hand at the awards and all the books in the adjacent shelf, “and with this.”

Hank moved his hand up and down his fancy suit. Donny wrinkled his brow.

“Wait, wait, wait. So all the accolades, all the copies sold and all the money made. That was the Devil upholding his end of the deal?”

The dead man slowly nodded his head as an even bigger grin spread across his face.

“Then did I send you to Hell because of all this?” There was concern in Donny’s voice.

“That is where I got it wrong. Remember what I told you? It is all about the wording of the contract. The details. It said ‘eternal service,’ not anything about spending the afterlife burning in a pit of fire, or whatever happens down there. Turns out, Satan doesn’t need people to sell their souls so he can send them to Hell. He needs them to help him out with the multitudes of souls that condemn themselves. All the sin and whatnot. And, not being as powerful as the big guy upstairs, the Devil needs help. So, no everlasting torment for me.”

“And now you are what, one of his agents?” Donny asked.

“No, more of a gopher. I would guess that, compared to Heaven, this gig sucks but is sure beats the other thing.”

Donny stood and walked around the room, trying to take it all in.

“How often do you get to be here,” Donny wondered, “on this… plane of existence?”

“First time I have been back, actually.”

“Damn, seeing you, this is the first time since that day I have even come close to feeling good.”

Hank got to his feet and walked over to Donny, putting his hand on his shoulder.

“It’s just been one long steep in self-loathing. I tried to do right by your work though. Most of the money has gone to help people, I mean, really help. Ton of good, man. Ton of good.”

Tears welled up in Donny’s eyes again. He shook it off and sat on the edge of the desk.

“That means a hell of a lot to me, Donny. Seriously, it’s all fantastic.”

Donny smiled at his old friend.

“So what kinda shit jobs do these supernatural types have you doing?”

Hank started a familiar pacing around the room. His posture and look on his face turned.

“Like I said, this gig sucks. The Devil is still the Devil, you know? Even if I’m not in hell, he still throws in a big hurt when he can. I really hate this. Really hate it.”

Donny’s head tilted. The pain of his friend’s voice had quickly changed the tone of their reunion.

“Hate what?”

“It all comes back to the deal I made.” Hank waved his hand at the books and awards again. “And all this. Contracts have to be fulfilled.”

“I don’t get it, I thought you said it had been settled?”

Hank stepped over to Donny and looked him square in the eye.

“I have to hold up my end of the bargain. You sent my stuff out and this is what happened. If I hadn’t signed that accursed paper, I wouldn’t have to do this.”

Donny stared back at his friend.

“Jesus, Hank. Do what?”

Hank had to turn away. Pain etched in his face and tears rolled down his cheeks.

“I’m here to take you to Hell. To send your soul to be tortured until the end of time.”

Donny stood, confused.

“The damned contract. Why did I sign that son of a bitch?”

“Wait, wait,” Donny stammered, “I’m not part of the contract. I didn’t make any deal. I’m not even dead!”

“Sorry, Donny, but you are.”

He pointed toward Donny’s desk. Donny turned to see himself, head down, eyes wide open, not breathing. The shock of seeing his own corpse was more than the one of seeing his dead friend. Suddenly he felt a sledgehammer hit his chest and fell to the floor. The pain subsided and Hank helped him to his feet.

“Apologies, Donny. Most don’t remember the pain of their death unless it is pointed out to them. That must have hurt.”

Dazed and having trouble staying on his feet, Donny dropped into the empty chair in front of the desk, Hank guiding him down. He took a few moments to compose himself and then stood and turned back toward his friend.

“What do you mean you have to take me to Hell because of the contract?” Donny’s voice cracked. “I wasn’t part of the deal. I saw the document, Hank. I had nothing to do with it.”

“You’re right. You are not in the contract, but you are, I hate to say, wrapped up in the deal. And now you can feel the fear I felt on that last day. As much as I hate it, I have to follow the contract and if I hadn’t signed it, I wouldn’t have to take you to Hell.”

Anger boiled up in Donny. He grabbed the empty chair and flung it across the room.

“I wasn’t part of the contract!”

“You misunderstand, my dear, dear friend. I’m am holding up my end of the contract by taking you to Hell. You are going to Hell because you murdered me.”

Donny’s expression slide from rage to disarray to grief. Hank once again put his hand on Donny’s shoulder. Looking up at his friend, his victim and now his hangman, tears once again fell down Donny’s face. Tears began to flow from Hank as well. Donny’s expression again changed, this time to one of resignation and he gave Hank a tiny nod.

Both men walked toward the door, Hank opened it for Donny. As they walked through, Hank put his hand on Donny’s back. Not to guide. Or to push. But to comfort.

Hank shut the door behind them.

 

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