Alas, I’m still sleeping under a tarp in Skidrow.
666
The best course of action moving forward is selling my soul. God is not helping, so what choice do I have? I’ve seen enough movies and heard enough stories to know that Satan is always in the market, and he usually pays well. Plus, with my business acumen I’m confident I can negotiate a great deal.
When night falls, and in the privacy of my hut, I draw a pentagram on the cardboard and kneel down in prayer and supplication to Lucifer:
“Dear Devil, I know there have been times in my life when perhaps I was not as evil as I could have been, and for those times I ask for your forgiveness. I come to you tonight as a humble believer seeking to sell my soul. As you are probably aware, I am a person of charisma and charm that has the potential of leading many followers into your flock. By way of payment for my soul, I only request that the rest of my life be filled with the wealth and happiness that existed before I was robbed of my fortune. I am not picky, and I will take any route to this prosperity that you deem fit. Beelzebub, please know that I am thankful for all you have done for me so far, and consider this an offer of my undying commitment to your cause for the remainder of my days. In the name of Jes—er, um. In your name. Satan. Amen.”
Then I wait. Surely a figure in a dark suit wearing a black fedora will enter my hut any second now. Satan is probably a man. A goat-man. He’ll probably be smoking a cigarette and have flames in his eyes. Red hair probably. Or black. Actually yeah, I bet it’s black hair, slicked back, with a black goatee. Either way, he’ll be well-dressed and have a contract in hand that he will want me to sign. I will review the terms and conditions, making any necessary annotations, then I will sign with a quill pen that Satan provides me. Perhaps we’d also shake hands just to seal the deal. His hand will be scaly and his grip will be tight but gentlemanly. I imagine that as soon as I’m done signing he will laugh in a frightening deep chortle with bobbing shoulders and disappear in a plume of smoke and fire. Then I will either hear voices in my head or just be inspired to make certain decisions that will restore my wealth. I’ll see the signs.
After a few minutes of waiting, I add another short prayer:
“Dear Devil, my hut is on the corner of San Pedro and 5th. It’s the one with the black tarp and the cardboard porch. It’s the only black tarp with a cardboard porch on the corner. In Satan’s name, Amen.”
Nothing happens. Not even a diabolical raven, black cat, or talking snake. What the Hell? In the Bible Satan was all over the place, invited or not. And now he won’t even show up to buy a soul? I thought this was his bread and butter. Maybe I did something wrong. Maybe he went out of business. First thing in the morning I will go to the library and see what I can find on selling one’s soul to Satan. I’m running out of options and I need this guy to pull through.
I crawl into my sleeping bag and lay awake for what seems like hours. The sounds of the night make sleeping on the streets tough. It’s not like the movies, there aren’t usually gunshots. But people talk and yell and cry. Sometimes people make sounds that sound like all three at the same time. Two or three times I hear people talking just outside my front “door.” Cars are always driving around, sometimes with loud music or exhaust pipes. The drone of traffic on the 10, 101, and 110 is ever-present. Bottles rattle and break. Cats fight. And of course there are sirens. There are always sirens. At some point I drift off.
The din of LA wakes me up with the sun. The noises outside grow louder as the sun peeks over the horizon behind the city. I break down my hut and pack it neatly into my backpack—which is one of those hiking packs with a metal frame. My tarp folds up nicely, and the ski poles I use for support slide into side pockets. My sleeping bag is strapped to the top of the pack. I fold up my cardboard and slide it between the frame and the bag. If I leave anything behind, even cardboard with a pentagram on it, it will be stolen.
The library won’t be open for a few hours, so I make my way to the soup kitchen on 6th for breakfast. A horrendously lengthy line circles the courtyard and extends down an alley. But it is breakfast, so I wait. The volunteers are always kind and the bread is usually decent. As an added bonus, we don’t have to listen to a sermon while we eat (most soup kitchens preach Jesus with urgency). Crowded, stinky, and dirty, this morning is the same as any other. The line moves steadily and eventually I’m inside. Donated art and potted plants dot the walls, and most surfaces have been recently scrubbed. I get my food (in a Styrofoam bowl and a tiny plastic cup) and look for a place to sit in the courtyard. I squeeze into an empty spot on a picnic table and eat in silence without taking off my backpack. Breakfast is some sort of warm vegetable stew with a stale roll and a cup of cider.
While at breakfast I’m offered $30 for Bosco. He’s been a loyal dog, but I can always find another stray if I need one. Bosco will be happy with his new owner.
After breakfast I take the two-shoe express for several blocks on 5th over to the library. I don’t have a library card, so I have to wait in line to use one of the computers that are available for fifteen minutes at a time. When it’s my turn, I open Google Maps and type in “satanic synagogues.” Maybe I can get connected with people who worship Satan and they can give me instructions on how to sell my soul. Google Maps says there are no results. I search Google for “how to sell my soul to Satan” and get mixed results.
I jot down a couple of addresses on library stationery and set off in the direction of the nearest... church? I don’t know what they call them. Place of worship, maybe.
The nearest place of worship, Spectra’s, is across town. I walk. Hours later, I am standing in front of a black, windowless, one-story building. It is in need of a new paint job. The structure screams dingy. Which isn’t inspiring. If the prince of darkness can’t even afford adequate commercial real estate, what does that say about his ability to pay top dollar for my soul? But I walked all the way here, and I don’t have many options left, so I walk around the building until I find an entrance.
The doors are in the back of the building. Two large oak slabs with a relief of half-goat Satan carved into them. I try both handles, but they’re locked. I knock. Nothing. I check the info I wrote down at the library: open 10:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m. daily, closed Sundays. It’s about three-thirty. I stuff my paper back into my pocket and step forward to knock again, then see that a slot has opened in one of the doors and I’m being watched.
“Yes?” said the eyes on the other side of the door.
“Hi. You’re open, right?” I ask.
“Depends, what business do you have at Spectra’s?”
“Well, I’d be happy to discuss that inside, but aren’t you open to the public? Your website said so.”
The eye latch slides closed and I hear bolts and latches on the other side being unfastened. The door swings open and reveals the owner of the eyes.
I expected some black clothing, naturally. In hindsight I should have expected the black eyeliner. But the cape? And the black lipstick? The python draped around his neck? Is that really necessary? Not to mention his Nazi Death Head hat and black leather platforms. It all seems puerile in light of communing with the dark lord of the universe. Then again maybe Satan also dabs on eyeliner every morning, I still haven’t seen him yet. The Satan zealot/Hot Topic model introduces himself as Astaroth. I assume the name is made up and has some dark meaning. Probably lifted it from some Latin book about demons.
“Nice to meet you Astaroth. My name is Caish. Like your hat.” That’s the best conversation I can manage.
“Thank you,” Astaroth says. He invites me in, closes and locks the door behind me, then leads me down a tenebrous hall. “‘Tis an authentic Nazi General cap from 1941. ‘Twas worn in battle and used in Satanic rituals since the early fifties.”
“Wow,” I nod.
Astaroth leads me into a large room full of pews. This is probably the chapel. There is plenty of open space at the front of the room for rituals. There aren’t any torches, bats
, or alters that I can see. Bit of a disappointment there. Just the snake curled around Astaroth’s shoulders, tasting the air next to his face. Was that Satan? Was the snake about to talk?
We sit in the pews, Astaroth on a pew in front of me. He turns, arm over the back of the bench. “So what brings you to Spectra’s?”
“I have a soul for sale that I’d like to talk to the Devil about.” No time for small talk.
A stilted grin crosses Astaroth’s face. He looks like he is trying to make it look mighty evil. But he doesn’t say anything.
I prompt, “Have you ever brokered somethin’ like that before?”
“Oh, but of course. Yes. ‘Tis a common request. We can help. The members of our congregation will be delighted to hear we have another joining the ranks.”
“Well, I’m not really interested in joining the ranks, no offense, I just want to sell my soul.”
“Oh, indeed, indeed. You needn’t dedicate your life to Lucifer in terms of attending service regularly with us. I but meant joining the ranks of the damned.”
I joined the ranks of the damned long ago. “Sure. So, how do I do it? Because I already tried praying to him, and didn’t get a response.”
With another attempt at an evil smirk, Astaroth stood and bade me follow him. We walk through a door at the side of the chapel and enter what is evidently Astaroth’s office. Black wallpaper, red shag carpet, black leather furniture, and plastic skulls on every shelf in the room. I sit across from his desk as he pulls a book off his shelf that looks to be from the early 1400s. Possibly carried across the Atlantic by Columbus. It is huge. Unabridged 1960s dictionary huge. It has a leather cover and worn pages. Just like in the movies. Finally we’re getting somewhere.
He set the book on his desk and began thumbing through the pages. “The ceremony is an ancient one,” Astaroth said, “dating back to the Salem witch trials, where we lost so many of our sisters.”
“Hm,” I say.
Settling on a page, and pleased with himself, Astaroth leans back in his chair, fingers interlocked, and asks, “So, before beginning the ceremony, I must query, would you be willing to make a contribution to the building of the Devil’s domain on earth?”
“What?”
“A donation, such that we can perform the ceremony.”
“I’m selling my soul, and you want me to pay for it? How about a commission. I’ll give you one percent of whatever I get for my soul.”
Astaroth laughed, startling himself and his snake. Then stopped when he saw that I wasn’t joking. “Oh, we can work out a commission, but of course. But mightn’t you be willing to make a small donation before then? Only to demonstrate your faith.”
“I’m broke. Homeless. Literally. Do you think I’d be in here if I had money to donate?”
“Oh, indeed. Okay, that’s fine. Let us forget the matter.”
“So when is the ceremony?”
“I must make a few phone calls, but why don’t we plan on tomorrow at noon?”
“Shouldn’t it be at nighttime? I always imagined something like this happening at night.”
“Understandable,” Astaroth says, “but many of our patrons have a hard time finding babysitters for their kids. Noon usually works best because they can come during their lunch breaks.”
Come during their lunch breaks? What was this, some fucking box social? I’m selling my goddamn soul here. I guess it’s a good sign this has become so mundane to Astaroth and the other patrons. This is a run-of-the-mill soul-selling. Nothing out of the ordinary.
“Okay, tomorrow at noon works for me.”
“Most excellent,” Astaroth stands and opens his office door. I follow him back through the chapel and down the hall.
“So, do ya have any clients that I’d know?” I ask.
“Pardon?”
“Who else have you brokered the sale their soul? Ryan Gosling, Elon Musk; any names I’d recognize?”
“Oh, indeed, there are names you’d recognize. But of course we keep their identities entirely confidential. You will receive the same amount of secrecy.”
Back on the street, I stay local for the evening. No use hoofing it back to Skidrow just to come back tomorrow. With the thirty bucks I got from selling Bosco, I walk to a gas station and buy dinner, two packs of cigarettes, and a lottery ticket. My total comes to $29.31—a sign that everything is going to work out.
A couple blocks down from Spectra’s there’s an alley with a comfortable nook. A low pipe between dumpsters gives my tarp something to hang on, and there’s extra cardboard for added lumbar support.
The next morning I’m back at Spectra’s at 11:55 a.m. I put on my best clothes and find a public bathroom in which to get cleaned up. Today is the most important day of my life. The sunrise on my long, dark night. The end of Hopelessness. The return of money. And cars, and sex, and cocaine, and beach houses, and vacations, and long hot showers, and expensive wine, and sushi, and on and on. Finally, I was making my comeback.
Astaroth does the same slot in the door routine as yesterday, then welcomes me in. After stowing my backpack in the coat closet, he leads me into the chapel. Fifteen to twenty people in black cloaks are seated on the front two rows of pews. Hoods on and humming. The room is lit only by the multitude of candles on the walls and in the front of the room. The bouquet of candles at the front of the room, in front of the dark wood lectern, is burning like a campfire. Center left of the front of the room is a large metal bowl elevated by three legs shaped like snakes. Center right is a massive upside-down crucifix that almost touches the ceiling. It looks like it’s made of marble. They probably stole it from a nearby catholic church.
Astaroth has me stand in the front of the room, then walks behind the lectern. “Followers of our great and dark lord and king, today we have before us a soul willing to enter eternal servitude. Caish Calloway stands before you, the disciples of Satan, wishing to exchange eternal salvation for earthly, material gain. Today, Caish Calloway joins the army of the damned!”
“Hail Him, the Lord of Darkness!” the cloaked patrons chant.
“Let us make haste and begin the ceremony,” Astaroth says, stepping out from behind the podium, “remove your earthly clothing, Caish.”
“What?”
“Remove your earthly clothing. You must make yourself bare before the Devil and his witnesses.”
I should have known this would get strange. Whatever. What do I have to lose? My dignity? As I strip naked, one of the cloaked patrons stands and takes my clothes. Naked, I turn toward Astaroth, who is rummaging through a trunk next to the metal bowl. He pulls out a bag and tube that looks like it belongs in a hospital.
“Let your arms fall to your sides, Caish, you must present yourself to Satan and His witnesses. Be not ashamed nor fearful.”
I let my arms drop.
“Now, face the witnesses.”
I turn toward the witnesses. After I stand naked in front of a small crowd of cloaked strangers for a few minutes and hear rearranging behind me, Astaroth stands at my side. “Caish Calloway, do you wish to sell your eternal soul to Lucifer, the god of darkness and ruler over all that is evil and wicked?”
“Yes.”
Astaroth tilts his head back, closes his eyes, and mumbles to himself for what must be two full minutes. All the while, I stand naked in front of a small crowd of humming, hooded strangers.
“Lucifer, Satan the Devil, accepts your offer,” Astaroth says, tilting his head forward, “now, lay on the sacred tiles upon which you presently stand.”
“Lay down?” I ask.
“Yes, lay down.”
“Well, before I do, what did Satan say? What is he offering?”
“To purchase your eternal salvation, of course.”
“But what are the terms? How much is he buying it for?”
Astaroth paused, as if he forgot to hammer out the details and now had to make something up. Then said, “Caish, Satan does not deal in dollar amounts, Satan deals in wealth. In tr
ue and everlasting power. You will be rewarded with wealth beyond your imagination so long as you shall live on this earth.”
“But Satan didn’t give you any numbers? No ballpark?”
“No, Caish, Satan doesn’t operate like us earthly beings. Now, lay yourself, let us continue the ceremony.”
The dark gray tile was cold on my bare feet and is just as cold on my bare backside. As I lay in the center of a large circled pentagram, the patrons stand and light candles. They place the candles on the circle around the pentagram and stand shoulder to shoulder looking down at me. Still humming. Now swaying.
Astaroth brings the tube and bag over to me. “We need your lifeblood to demonstrate your willingness to sacrifice for the Devil.”
“What? I’m sacrificing my soul, why would you need my blood?”
“Satan wishes to see that you are committed. Your lifeblood is a necessary part of the ritual. It is so written.”
Fucking hell. This is some serious bullshit. “K. Fine. Take my blood.” Goddamn vampires.
One of the cloaks crouches down to my arm and finds a vein quicker than I’ve ever been able to. And in such low light. My dark red blood slides down the tube and fills the plastic bag. Satisfied, Astaroth removes the needle. Blood trickles out of my arm. I reach over to plug the bleeding, but Astaroth stops me. “Let your lifeblood spill into the pentagram.” I watch my arm drain blood around my elbow and onto the tile. These people are lucky I’m not a hemophiliac. They’d have a serious lawsuit on their hands if I were. Then again, I guess not. I’d just die and be forgotten. Nobody would bring a wrongful death case. They’d just dump my body off a pier and the world would forget about me. The small puddle of my blood tickles my ribs.
Astaroth flicks a switch on the side of the bowl and flames climb out of the coals.
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