by Strand, Jeff
After a few days of relaxation, the swelling went down, and I could smile again.
* * *
I'm wiser now. When you think about it, this whole thing was a learning experience. I'm no longer that innocent guy breaking pots. I'm not saying I wouldn't rather have my arm back, but all things considered, I think this was good for me.
Again, people need to quit their bellyaching. The apocalypse ain't so bad.
THE BELL . . . FROM HELL!!!
I own a bell forged by Satan himself. With it, I can summon the Prince of Darkness to our plane of existence. I often think about doing it, but I fear my own power.
Some question the authenticity of the bell. "No way did Satan make that," they say. "If Satan made a bell, it would be, like, some big scary-looking thing made out of black iron with pentagrams carved into it and, I dunno, boiling blood dripping down the side and stuff. That's just a stupid little plastic bell. It still has the price tag on it."
Of them I ask, "Why would you assume that Lucifer is proficient in bell-making skills?" William Shakespeare may have been the most brilliant writer in human history, but did he know how to successfully milk a cow? Doubtful. Everybody has his or her own skill set. I don't see why Satan's bell must be an unholy spectacle to convince people of its origin. It was his first attempt. It's not going to be the Liberty Bell.
The price tag I can't explain. Some phenomena are beyond the understanding of mortal man, and should remain that way.
Sometimes my co-workers snatch the bell from my desk and ring it, just to tease and infuriate me. Wretched souls. "Uh-oh!" they say. "The devil's gonna be here any second! Everybody look busy!" I explain that the bell must be rung six hundred and sixty-six times for the summoning to take place. Fortunately, my co-workers do not have the patience for that much ringing.
No, I did not get the bell from Satan directly. It's ridiculous to think that I would have. I'm not so caught up in feelings of self-worth and ego to think that Satan would feel the need to deliver his gift to me personally, any more than the President of the United States has to hand-deliver a certificate of commendation for it to be a thoughtful gesture. One of his minions presented me with the bell three months ago.
This is where my frustration with my co-workers becomes almost unbearable. Yes, Satan's minion took human form. Because of this fact, my co-workers constantly insist that it was not a demon at all, but rather a homeless man selling junk he'd stolen from the Dollar Store. Logic eludes them. Why do they think that Satan would be stupid enough to send a red-skinned, scaly, sulfur-scented, prehensile-tail-wearing demon to wander the brightly lit streets? Of course the demon would have transformed itself into something passable as human. They simply don't understand this line of reasoning.
Oh, I guess I should point out that I'm not a devil worshipper. I can see where you might get the wrong idea. I'm actually a reasonably devout Christian, which is why it surprised me more than anybody when the minion sold me the bell for such a low price. I would've expected him to choose somebody who practices the dark arts, or listens to evil music, or at least reads Harry Potter. But, no, I was chosen.
I don't want to see Hell on earth or a thousand years of darkness or anything like that. If I do end up summoning Satan, it'll be to defeat him.
My co-workers have a great big laugh at that. I'm fully aware of how it sounds, but I wish they'd give me credit for not being a complete idiot. I'm not saying that I'm going to whip out my +3 vorpal sword and lop off Beelzebub's head for eight thousand experience points; I'm just saying that if I did use the bell, I could conceivably summon him under circumstances where his evil would be vanquished once and for all.
"Whatcha gonna do, trap him under a net?" asks Rick from Corporate Accounting, playing with the bell. I really shouldn't leave it sitting out on my desk.
"No," I say, trying not to let my impatience show. "I am not going to trap him under a net. His skin would burn right through it." How can he be so highly paid and yet so ignorant?
"Gonna use your martial arts skills on him?"
I sigh. "I don't have martial arts skills."
"Really? I thought you were, like, a ninja or something."
He's making my brain hurt. "I admire ninjas. I'm not one myself."
"Bummer."
"It's not a bummer. I have no interest in taking a human life."
"But you're trying to kill Satan."
"I never said I was trying to kill Satan. All I've said is that if I can figure out a way to trap him, I might summon him with the bell. That's a pretty big 'if.' I'm not trying to pass myself off as some mighty devil hunter — I'm just saying that if I figured out a workable plan, I might try to rid the world of him. Give me a frickin' break."
Rick jiggles the bell. "It doesn't even really ring. It just sort of clacks around."
"Well, gee, perhaps a fallen angel has better hearing than you do. Did you ever think of that?" His stupidity is beyond belief.
"I've gotta tell you, Howie, I'm not quite buying the whole devil bell thing."
I've never claimed to be perfect. Sometimes I suffer from the sin of pride. And on that day, I simply couldn't take the ridicule anymore. I snatched the bell out of Rick's hand and began to ring.
I rang it ten times.
Twenty.
Thirty.
Rick stood there, a smirk on his face. Oh, how I would enjoy seeing that smirk ripped off and boiled in bile by Lucifer himself.
I continued to shake the bell, counting each tinkle. Forty-six, forty-seven, forty-eight . . .
"I've gotta go," said Rick.
"You're not going anywhere," I told him. "You don't believe me? I'll prove it to you, once and for all."
Fifty-three, fifty-four, fifty-five . . .
"How many rings does it take?"
"Six hundred and sixty-six."
"Is it cumulative?"
"What do you mean?"
"Do my rings count?"
"No. One person in one session."
"What are you up to?"
"Ninety."
Sarah, who sits three cubicles behind me, approaches with a cup of coffee. "What's going on?"
"Howie's summoning Satan."
Sarah smiles. "You figured out how to vanquish him?"
I shake my head and keep ringing. "I'm just teaching Rick a lesson."
"Pretty harsh lesson if Satan does show up."
"I'm teaching all of you a lesson," I announce. "You never believed me. You all think I wasted my $1.50. Well, when I reach the six-hundred and sixty-sixth ring you'll find out just who wasted what."
"How many rings is that now?" Rick asks.
"One hundred and forty-one."
"Can you call me when you're at six-hundred?"
His condescending tone makes me want to watch his eternal torment even more. I ring harder and faster.
In the back of my mind, I question the wisdom of summoning Satan without an escape plan, but I'm far too annoyed to worry about that. Whatever happens, happens.
A crowd begins to gather. They all look amused. I can't wait to see the amusement on their faces transform into a distinct lack of amusement.
I've sort of lost count of the number of rings at this point — I think I'm around three hundred — but the summoning doesn't require me to stop at exactly six-hundred and sixty-six rings, so if I go over I won't mess things up. I just need to keep track enough that I know when to duck and cover.
"Shouldn't we make Satan a welcome banner or something?" asks Mike, who is also from Corporate Accounting. The others acknowledge that it's a good idea (though I doubt their sincerity) but nobody goes to make one. They won't have time, anyway.
Patricia, who is also from Corporate Accounting, (their area is right next to mine) looks at me sadly. She's always been nice to me and I harbor a secret crush on her, despite her being thirty-two years my senior. "C'mon, Howie, knock it off. You don't have to prove anything."
If I could have taken her statement to mean "Because
I believe you," that would've been good enough and I would have ceased ringing the bell. Unfortunately, she clearly means, "Because nothing will happen and you'll look like an idiot," and so I must continue.
Tinkle tinkle tinkle tinkle tinkle tinkle tinkle.
My hand is starting to get tired. See? Even with it being a miniscule plastic bell, the ringing process is tiring. That is why I was provided with this particular bell and not some giant black iron behemoth that would be impossible to ring a sufficient number of times without collapsing from exhaustion. Everything makes sense when you apply simple logic.
"Was that six hundred and sixty-six?" Rick asks.
"No. We're just over five hundred," I inform him.
"This all seems kind of inconvenient."
"Oh, sure, because it makes sooooo much sense that the process of summoning the devil should be so convenient that you can do it just by grabbing the bell from my desk and shaking it a couple of times," I say, making no effort to hide the sarcasm in my voice. "Think about what you're saying, Rick!" I don't have to treat him with respect any longer. You can't respect somebody who is moments away from being skewered by a flaming pitchfork.
I switch the bell to my left hand and continue ringing.
Six hundred (approximately).
I want to cackle with maniacal laughter about what is to occur, but I have to remember that we're still in a place of business, and professional conduct is expected. I can't stop myself from grinning, though.
I ring so fast that my hand tingles.
And finally I reach the Ring of the Beast. I ring ten more times just in case.
I give a satisfied nod to my doomed antagonists . . . but then my grin vanishes.
What have I done?
Oh, God, what have I done?
To prove a point to my co-workers, I have brought Hell to the offices of Tyler & Bettin Inc. How can I call myself a Christian when I would so selfishly summon Lucifer himself for no reason but to make Rick from Corporate Accounting look foolish?
Satan may not have arrived yet, but there is still an evil presence in this room, and it is I.
I am so displeased with myself that I want to scream. Rivers of blood will flow over our keyboards and mice. Our printers will melt and sizzle in the hellfire. My co-workers ridiculed me, but did they really deserve this eternal overtime of misery?
What can I do to stop this?
Though I'd said that a net couldn't hold Satan, that had merely been an educated guess. If we have one around, it is certainly worth a shot. I want to shout for my co-workers to try to find one, but I am so terrified and appalled by my own behavior that I can't speak. I gesticulate frantically, while they stand around my desk, still looking amused.
"Hello? Satan?" Rick calls out, unaware that he is almost certainly making himself the first target.
I have to stop this! But what can I do? What could ward off the Prince of Darkness? What does he hate most in the world?
And then I realize the answer.
Love.
The power of love can stop the Beast from invading our plane of existence. A kiss, true and pure. Upon sensing the expression of human love, the devil will be so repulsed that he might — might — return to his hellish plane and leave us alone.
I gaze at Patricia.
She turns and sadly walks away from my desk.
I think I can hear a rumbling sound in the distance. It reminds me of the ventilation system, but I am in no condition to accurately judge sounds and know there is no time to spare. I have to express pure love now.
I stand up, whisper "I love you," then pull Rick toward me and kiss him on the lips. I don't really love him, but perhaps Satan will be fooled.
The chaos is so great that for a moment I think Satan has arrived. But, no, they are merely reacting to my act of redemption. Not in a positive way. Still, they can judge me all they want as long as I've staved off the effects of that accursed bell.
Satan does not show up in the offices of Tyler & Bettin that morning. The kiss worked.
I destroy the bell by stomping on it with my foot. It is too much responsibility for one man.
I spend some time down in Human Resources, explaining my actions. I am written up for unprofessional conduct and told that it will negatively impact my raise, but that's okay. I had succumbed to the sin of pride, and my punishment is just.
And I learned an important lesson. Love conquers all . . . but in a pinch, you can fake it.
WORK/LIFE BALANCE
On my nineteenth anniversary with the company, Mr. Swanson called everybody into meeting room 4D. He seemed to be in a cheerful mood, so I didn't think this was a "Guess what? You're all fired!" kind of meeting. In fact, I suspected that he might be summoning us in there for cake, even though nineteen wasn't exactly a monumental anniversary.
The dozen of us sat around the mahogany table in our suits and ties (dresses for the ladies) and waited expectantly. I didn't see a cake, which made me mildly sad.
Mr. Swanson smiled. "Don't worry, this is going to be quick because I know you're all busy. I just wanted to let you know that from now on, you have the choice of taking the usual one-hour lunch, or you can take a forty-five minute lunch, in which case you can leave fifteen minutes early."
A murmur of pleasant surprise went around the table. I never really needed the full hour anyway, and leaving fifteen minutes early would help me miss some of the traffic. As much as I enjoyed corporate-sponsored cake, I enjoyed receiving this news even more.
"I could have just sent this as an e-mail, but I thought it would be nice to bring everybody together. This is part of our new commitment to employee work/life balance. If you could all be so kind as to send me a note saying whether you've selected the one-hour option or the forty-five minute option, I'll mark it on the sign-in sheet."
We all left the meeting quite pleased. Even my five co-workers who were going to stick with the hour-long lunch plan and whose lives were thus unchanged were happy to at least be given the option.
A week passed, and the new lunch length worked out quite well, saving me nearly seven minutes in traffic each evening. But when Mr. Swanson called another impromptu meeting, my first reaction (after "Oh no! We're all going to get fired!") was that maybe the new plan hadn't worked out so well, and he was about to rescind it. My precious seven minutes were about to be taken away from me, and we'd only just met.
"Good news," said Mr. Swanson. "We're instituting a new policy of Business Casual Fridays. That means that on Fridays, suits and ties are no longer required. You may wear a much more casual shirt; for example, a polo shirt would be completely acceptable. No tee shirts and nothing with logos or phrases on it, unless it's our own, but feel free to dress down a bit on Fridays. You've all earned it."
Gerald raised his hand.
"Yes, Gerald?"
"But today is Friday."
"Obviously this new policy takes effect next week."
"Oh. Good. Thank you."
Well, to say that I was excited was an understatement; to say that I was very excited would be much more accurate. Business Casual Fridays! I'd heard that such a thing existed at other companies, but I'd never imagined that it would make its way into my own workplace!
The following Friday, I came to work in a tasteful but slightly playful sweater, and though I can't honestly say that it was the best day of my life, it was a definite improvement over wearing an itchy, strangling tie.
And then, three business days later, we got an e-mail with the most shocking development yet: flexible starting times.
The amount of time we were to work each day had not shortened or lengthened. It was still eight hours, plus the forty-five or sixty-minute lunch. But now we could start any time we wanted between the hours of seven o'clock and nine o'clock.
For example, if I chose to arrive at seven, I would then proceed to work until three forty-five. Somebody who chose to arrive at nine would work until five forty-five, unless they'd previously selected the ho
ur-long lunch option, in which case they would work until six. But I could start at seven-thirty, eight-fifteen, eight-thirty . . . the options were limitless! Well, perhaps not limitless, but they certainly made my mind boggle!
Though I ended up sticking with the eight o'clock arrival time I'd had for the past nineteen years, I truly appreciated this new flexibility.
And over the next few weeks it was as if a floodgate of freedom opened for us. Business Casual Fridays turned into Business Casual Mondays and Fridays, and then, on one amazing day, it became a permanent change. No more suits! No more ties! (Unless, of course, you had to meet with an important client, but that was understandable.)
In another meeting, we all gaped at Mr. Swanson in slack-jawed astonishment as he described the new procedure for a compressed workweek, where we could work ten hours a day, four days a week. And we could pick the flex day! Monday! Tuesday! Wednesday! Thursday! Or, yes, even Friday! Yes, there were restrictions (after all, you couldn't have the entire department gone every Friday), but I still felt myself tearing up and almost had to ask to be excused from the meeting.
I picked Wednesdays. Wednesdays were now my favorite day of the week. Tuesdays now carried the excitement of a Friday. Admittedly, Thursdays now had something of a Monday feel, but it was worth it.
We all chattered excitedly in the break room each morning, wondering what might be next.
Casual Fridays! We could now wear jeans. At work. Not jeans with tears or smudges or rhinestones, but still . . . jeans! The comfort was almost unimaginable. And tee shirts! We could wear tee shirts! Again, they had to be in excellent condition and could not contain text or images inappropriate for a professional environment. As an example of a shirt that would not be acceptable, we were shown a photograph of somebody wearing a Hooters shirt. (Not the uniform worn by waitresses, but rather a gentleman wearing a shirt advertising the restaurant.)
Their commitment to our work/life balance didn't end there. Exactly six months after we were given flexibility in our lunch lengths, Mr. Swanson announced the new work-from-home program, where once a week we would be allowed to do our job from the comfort of our own home! On many occasions, my co-workers and I had discussed how so much of our jobs involved sitting in front of our computers, and how we could basically do them anywhere, but we never imagined that this option would actually be presented to us!