Bob Meets the Devil

DISCLAIMER: CONTENT MAY BE DEEMED INAPPROPRIATE BY SOME READERS

Bob was surprised when he first met the Devil. He looked shy, almost timid, as he stood at the foot of the bed. Wire-framed glasses pasted firmly on his nose, his short sleeve shirt hung clumsily on his thin frame. He reminded Bob of his third grade teacher.

Now there was a nice guy, Bob thought, although he remembered a rather shameful social studies lesson involving costumes from around the world. He was assigned Tanzania. Bob thought his teacher said Tasmania and came to school dressed as the cartoon character. His grade reflected his embarrassment.

At first, Bob didn’t think his visitor was the Devil, though he didn’t think he was from his elementary school either. It wasn’t until the Devil began listing off numerous sins chronologically that he considered the possibility. As he neared the teenage years of Bob’s transgressions, he chose to accept his identity.

"So, why are you here?" he asked as he sat upright in bed.

"I have come to take you to Hell," the Devil announced, though once again, not as Bob would have expected. There was no echo chamber, no deep stereo-chorused voice booming damnation, more like an insurance agent, stating that a car payment was past due. Not too disturbing, but not great news either.

"Why?"

"Do I have to start the list over again?" the Devil asked.

"No, no. What’s the major reason?"

"There is no major reason. Just a bunch of little ones."

When young Bob was in Sunday school, his teacher said that God puts all your sins on a chalkboard. The only way to remove them was to pray. Bob kept a list of sins in a notebook so he could have them erased, but after three weeks, lost interest in salvation. He was eight.

Bob was tempted to ask the Devil whether his prepubescent lack of spiritual motivation had any real impact on his present situation.

"So am I dead?"

The Devil pushed his glasses against his face with his index finger. "I don’t know…are you?" he said with a chuckle. "That’s one of my favorite lines in this whole spiel."

Bob became a bit frustrated with the vagueness of the Devil’s presentation. He looked at the digital clock on the bedside table. "So, when am I going?" he asked impatiently. "I mean if it’s not now, I’ve really got to get some sleep."

The Devil smirked. "Alright, alright," he said, waving his hands like a third-rate magician. "There. You are in Hell. Now, good night."

And with that, the Devil disappeared. Actually, he didn’t disappear; he just walked into the other room. As Bob lay back down, he swore he heard his front door close. He fell quickly back to sleep as the television continued to give the room an ominous glow.

The next morning, Bob stumbled into the bathroom. He glanced at himself sideways in the mirror and checked his hairline for any gray. While washing, Bob though about the Devil and what he had dismissed as a dream. It really wasn’t a nightmare, he thought. Nightmares typically are much scarier, with better special effects and the occasional monster.

As he dried off with a fluffy towel, Bob stepped on the scale. He noted he had lost three pounds and proudly marked it on his daily weight chart.

Throwing a tie over his shoulders, he headed out for work. Traffic wasn’t too bad as drove downtown. Walking into his office, the receptionist announced that the boss was not going to be in. Bob smiled as he strolled to his desk, where he proceeded to play computer solitaire all morning.

Around lunchtime, Bob went to the cafeteria across the street. He took a seat at the counter, ordering a double cheeseburger with mayonnaise. As he waited for his food, a stunning blonde entered the restaurant and took the seat next to Bob. After ordering a salad, she turned her attention to him.

Bob was intrigued, yet puzzled, by the interest and pretended not to notice. He made it through lunch, sure that she saw him spill burger juice down the front of his shirt. After paying for his meal, Bob stopped in the men’s restroom. Amazingly, so did she.

Cornering Bob against the towel dispenser, the woman announced, "I wanted to give you something," and lowered to her knees. Bob watched as the woman gave him an enormously gratifying blowjob. He fully expected to be charged, or feel teeth, or to see a dick pop out from underneath her skirt. But none of those things happened. Instead, she finished, smiled, and left without saying a word.

Later, as Bob sat on a lawn chair in the middle of his living room, he thought about his day. That night, the Devil came back, smirking with an eponymous-like grin. Unlike the previous encounter, he didn’t say anything, which worked out nicely because Bob didn’t ask anything. They both stared at one another for a moment before the Devil walked into the other room. From the bedroom, Bob saw the refrigerator light pop on. He went back to sleep, but not as quickly.

The next morning, his boss was still gone and his frig still had some beer. Two weeks later, Bob stopped going to work. The receptionist had announced the boss has typhoid, or anthrax, or Malaysia or something, so Bob chose to enjoy the opportunity. His co-workers continued working.

In that time, two other women had given themselves to Bob, traffic lights were often in his favor, and his landlord was hit by a bus. All in all, time could not have been better spent. He enjoyed sleeping until noon and eating corn flakes leisurely in his underwear. Bob cut twenty pounds in two weeks, stabilizing at a trim 175 pounds, and even detected some muscle tone. He was happy and life was good.

One morning, Bob decided to visit a neighborhood diner he liked for its Flo-style service. Folks were quietly chewing their food thirty times before swallowing, expect one man, who wasn’t eating at all.

The man sat at the counter next to Bob, long stringy hair, matted in clumps, stuck to his head. Tattered clothes appeared torn in ten different directions. Unshaven for weeks, the man nursed his glass of water, eyeing Bob.

As he contemplated switching his seat with another in the restaurant, the man spoke.

"Do you feel the suffering?" the man remarked.

"What?" Bob asked without looking at the man.

"You will never escape this," the man exclaimed, hiding his face. "You’ve must come to terms with it." Bob noticed dried blood on his hands.

"Uh-huh," Bob replied flatly, immediately paying his check and making his exit.

The following day, Bob was at the supermarket shopping the fruit. As he passed the grapes, a shrill whine of a young boy ripped through the store.

"Mommy, I wanna go," he wailed. "Mommmmmy!"

Bob turned to see a woman, overweight, wearing flip-flops and an Epcot T-shirt, being drug down the aisle by an eight-year-old terror. In contrast, the little boy’s clothes looked new, sporting the latest in thug tyke fashion. The mother grimaced apologetically at the other customers as the boy continued his unabated tirade.

As the pair passed by, the shrieking became too much for Bob to bear. He stared at the boy, wishing he would just shut up. And instantly, the boy did. Mid-sentence. Bob smiled at the perceived coincidence and returned to selecting lettuce.

On the drive home, Bob began to note the streetlights. It seemed whenever he merely approached the light, he had about a 50-50 chance of it being green. But when he actively wished for green, he was rewarded every time. Every single time. He took the long way home to continue to test his theory, but it didn’t matter how far out of his way he went, Bob still made great time.

As he flopped on his couch, Bob’s thoughts had focused on the lights, the blowjobs, and the Devil. As an experiment, Bob tried to open the refrigerator door with his mind, something he was convinced he could not do. He couldn’t, and for some reason, this failure gave Bob solace.

"Super powers," Bob mumbled and he put his head on the arm of the sofa. He forced a chuckle and then watched the Lakers/Bulls games. He had $20 on Chicago.

They won.

But Bob could not deny that he had influence over his environment. It took him nearly two months to fully recognize that he could indeed will most anything to happen. As soon as he believed in it, he was able to levitate all the beer he wanted from the fridge. But crossing this barrier no longer frightened him. He began to enjoy his powers.

He pictured himself a do-gooder, a superhero of sorts that walked the streets making the world better on the sly. He stuck to smaller things, rescuing lost kittens or willing sandwiches for the homeless, though once he did stop a fire that had consumed his favorite supermarket.

He still questioned why he had been given this gift. Had the Devil made a mistake, doling out reward instead of punishment? As the days passed, he grew less concerned about the reasons why as more focused on changing the world at hand.

But after a while, Bob became bored with small feats. He was also tired of the anonymity. The problem with his good deeds is that he felt he deserved recognition. He found it harder to wake up every day and find people to help. With all of this hard work, Bob figured the least he was entitled to was a ‘thank you.’ So Bob devised a plan to get a little notoriety. He couldn’t just announce that he had supernatural abilities without facing universal ridicule and possible institutionalization. He knew he had to rely on others to spread the good news.

Bob had always been popular, a combination of his approachability and good looks. He had kept up with most of his high school friends and regularly met up with them over poker nights and golf games. So he called a meeting in garage, and after a few drinks, he told his buddies the whole story.

No one believed him. "Prove it," they shouted and Bob did. Starting with glorified magic tricks, Bob moved objects around the room. The presentation quickly progressed to reading people’s minds, though also not impressive as everyone’s main thought was that it was all bullshit. But when he began to command the weather, calling for rain and punctuating every thunderous crack like an orchestra conductor, the guys got the message.

The Q&A was predictable. What was the Devil like? (Nerdy.) Did he have a red tail? (He was wearing pants.) Bob reassured them that he, in fact, wasn’t a deity, only a guy who hit the supernatural lottery.

As hoped, word spread quickly about Bob’s gift. At first, he did command performances of his presentation for others to witness, but soon grew annoyed by the display and choose to end the shows. If they want to know about my power, he figured, they are just going to have to believe what the others have already witnessed.

Bob would later admit he hadn’t thought this whole fame thing through. He knew he would get mobbed by paparazzi, but was not prepared for the overwhelming reaction. Nobody brings their sick children to Paris Hilton for healing. But scores of people flocked to Bob’s home, hoping a glimpse or kind word would bring happiness to their bleak lives. Bob no longer received mail as the crowds would take it and rub themselves with the pieces. The day he saw an elderly woman feverishly wiping her forehead with his bank statement, he knew he had to move.

In his newly secluded apartment, Bob contemplated his options. He hadn’t been able to take his morning walks anymore due to his popularity, thus he hadn’t performed any good deeds since he let his friends know. Mobs of people wanted Bob to make their lives better, which often meant more healthy and lucrative. He had never attempted exerting his power in this manner, so he arranged a test with a young woman named Gale who had been diagnosed with Leukemia.

"Now I’m not making any promises here," he warned. Bob clutched the woman’s hand firmly and willed her to recover. After releasing his grasp, Gale swore she felt better than she could remember. Bob was skeptical and waited in his apartment for the results. She called the following week, overjoyed to exclaim that she has indeed recovered from her illness.

Given this newfound information, Bob was filled with a sense of obligation. If he indeed had the power to heal, then it would be morally wrong to deny people of his gift. But he could hardly perform his services on the streets. The mob would be overwhelming. Bob knew he needed someone to organize a place, possibly a convention center or stadium, to meet with people in a secure environment. So Bob hired a PR firm.

The largest firm in town did not care about Bob’s abilities or his good intentions. They wanted cash for the venue, staff, promotions, and everything else that came along with it. Bob was against charging attendees money, as financial difficulty was a common denominator among his followers. So the PR firm brokered a deal with a broadcasting station to televise the event in exchange for funds to cover their expenses.

When Bob signed the deal, he waived all rights over the promotion of the show, which had changed from "Helping Hands" to the more eye-catching "Faith Healer: Hoax or Hosanna." Bob wasn’t happy about the name, nor the fact that Snicker’s had bought ad space directly behind his stage. He initially wanted to back out, but convinced himself it was still the right thing to do.

The show aired live and Bob battled everything from tornadoes to Tuberculosis. Most of the cures were unverifiable without a doctor’s exam, although everyone expressed a feeling of wellness the moment he laid hands on them. Bob went home and feeling he had accomplished something miraculous.

The next morning, Bob woke to an urgent banging on the door. Several of his friends had gathered to give him the news. It seems that the broadcasting company had hired an investigative reporter to do a "gotcha" piece on Bob, the same guy that made his name exposing kiddie rapists. His report followed a young man who came to Bob’s show looking to be cured of his brain tumor. The camera followed him to the show, up on stage, and to the doctor’s office the following day, where he learned that his condition remains unchanged. The man was still dying.

Bob watched the footage in silence and then dismissed his friends. Why didn’t it work, he thought. What happened to my powers? Bob called Gale to see if she was still cured of her Leukemia. "I have felt fantastic every day since seeing you," Gale reassured him. "I knew you could heal me."

"That’s it," Bob thought as he hung up the phone. "I have the answer."

Bob called his agent who called a press conference, and by mid-afternoon, stations from across the country had assembled to hear his explanation.

"The answer is simple," he told the reporters. "You’ve simply got to believe." The cameras flashed as Bob readjusted his seat for effect. "Listen, if I am convinced that something is impossible, then it is. Those who come to me for help, they must believe in me. The man on the video expressed doubt in my abilities, planted there by a television program that called the show ‘Hoax or Hosanna.’ They didn’t want to believe, so there was no cure. But those who believed in me that day felt the healing power."

Bob felt pleased with his speech as he fought his way through the crowd to his limo. As the car pulled out, he caught a glimpse of the disheveled man from restaurant, staring back at him with a vacant gaze.

Indeed there were a large number who reported amazing recoveries from a myriad of ailments. The Internet was filled with websites and bloggers extolling Bob’s good deeds. But with the increased news coverage came naysayers, with their claims that he was a charlatan. Crowds began to separate into factions, each fervently passionate about their opinions. Subsequent appearances were met with equal parts protesters and proclaimers, and Bob found himself having to continually remind his followers their healing was directly related to their faith. He continued his outreach, traveling around the country, and his popularity, both positive and negative, grew exponentially.

He was performing at an arena in Utah when he got the news. Gale has succumbed to Leukemia. Through her brother, he found out that she never saw a doctor after meeting with Bob, merely convincing herself that she had been released from the disease. She just wanted to believe.

Bob cancelled the rest of the tour and retreated to his apartment. He was racked with guilt and a suffocating sense of dread. His body shook violently as he buried himself beneath the covers of his bed. That night, the Devil made his final visit.

"So how’s it going," the Devil asked with a sneer. "Save anybody today?"

"Has this all been a lie?" Bob exclaimed. "Did I ever really have powers?"

"Well yes and no," the Devil said, leaning casually against the bedpost. "In the beginning, when you were convincing yourself, I had to facilitate a few tricks. The floating objects, the weather storm show. You know, the usual."

Bob stared blankly at him.

"You don’t think you are the first one to fall for this trick, are you? It’s a classic. Soon, the public will brandish you a heretic and exact some painful street justice. There’s a lot of angry people because of you."

"But why? Why me?"

"This was a test, and you failed. Boy, did you fail. When I first appeared to you, I didn’t send you to Hell. I merely gave you the tools to do it to yourself. You started out virtuously, with your daily treks to anonymously help others. But it was the desire for prestige that brought you down. God and I had a bet on you and I win once again."

"Are you telling me God had a hand in this?"

"Yep. You actually saw him a few times." Bob instantly knew where.

The Devil laughed. "Oh man, the part where you told your congregation to believe in you or else they were not worthy of salvation, that shit was funny! And it really pissed God off, too."
Panic took hold of Bob as he began twitching erratically. "So what? What can I do?"

"Oh, you’ve done it, my man. The only thing to do now is wait for your death tomorrow and then your eternal reward with me."

The Devil turned once more before exiting, "Oh, and you might not recognize me when you get down there. I don’t make a habit of looking like your grade school teacher in front of everybody."
Bob left his bed quickly and drove into the night, searching for God.

He returned to the restaurant where he first saw the disheveled man. Bob found him in a corner booth fast asleep. He sat down opposite and cleared his throat. God sat up.

"Oh hey. I was wondering when I was going to see you. Big day tomorrow, eh?"

The waitress approached the table. "Hey, aren’t you that guy?" Bob looked down sheepishly. "You are an evil, evil man!" she exclaimed as she walked away. Bob threw his hands on the table and bowed his head.

"Oh God, I beg of you, please…"

"Okay stop right there. Ground rules. One: I hate begging."
Bob paused. "But I need your help."

"Two: I hate when people want me to fix their lives. Not my job. I gave everyone the capacity to think for themselves. So you fuck it up, you fix it."

"I don’t want to die," Bob cried.

God leaned over the table. "My boy, you don’t want to live. Do you have any idea how many lives you fucked up with your false hope? People that had come to terms with some pretty hardcore shit. All the sickness. All the pain and abuse. They had come to terms with it their problems and were managing on their own. Then you start in preaching how people must believe in you?"

"I don’t want to go to Hell."

"Hell is easy. It’s the same shit day after day after day. Dealing with Earth is far more difficult. You don’t want to spend a lifetime having to explain yourself to every person you screwed over."

"Yes I would, God. I really would. And I didn’t set out to screw them. I wanted to be appreciated, that’s all. I just wanted some recognition."

"Oh, you are recognized, alright," he said, pointing to the mob forming in the parking lot. "Friends of our waitress, no doubt. Trust me, you’ll do fine in Hell."

Bob fell silent as he acknowledged his fate. "Well, I guess I should go. Don’t want to keep them waiting. It was nice meeting you."

"Likewise," said God as he settled back down in the booth for a nap.

Bob stopped halfway to the door. "And God… I’m sorry."

"What?"

"I said I’m sorry."

God stood up and walked over to Bob. "You know, I don’t hear that enough. I hear lots of ‘forgive me’ and ‘I’m not worthy’, all ‘me me me’ shit, but nobody ever says a simple ‘I’m sorry.’"
"Well, I am."

God smiled. "Just so you know, I would have also accepted ‘My bad’ or ‘Screwed the pooch on that one.’"

"Really?"

"For some reason, I always thought that phrase was funny. Anyway, tell you what…. if you are willing to go out there and sincerely apologize to that mob and every mob you encounter, I will let you stay."

Bob throws his arms around God. "Oh thank you, thank you, thank you!"

"Rule 3: No hugging. And remember, every single person you screwed over. And if I sense that you are not being sincere, I’m running you over with a bus. "

"Deal."

"And there is no guarantee you still won’t end up in Hell."
"Got it."

"Alright then. Off you go. And by the way, this particular mob was going to kick the shit out of you either way. Just so you know."
"I know," Bob said as he turned toward the door, and walked into the biggest ass-kicking of his life…until the following week… and two weeks after that.