Unsoul'd (20 page)

Sometimes having a best friend with a hero complex is a chore.

"Is this still the same book?" Tayvon asked, installing all manner of disapproval and angst into those two words. Afghanistan hadn't changed his opinion -- he didn't think it was worth my time and effort.

"Yeah, same book. When it's finished, you'll see. I'm right about it. People will dig it." I'd thought that even before the devil and the day of post-bagel intestinal distress. I thought it doubly now.

"I guess we'll see," he said doubtfully. "But you're looking for something special where it doesn't exist. It's gonna be a bummer."

"You've read my books -- they're
all
bummers."

"I mean a bummer to
you
, man."

"I don't think so."

"You're wrong."

"If you say so. Take care of yourself over there."

"You, too."

I promised him I would and then -- feeling guilty for my lie -- found a less-noisy corner of the airport to set up my laptop and starting tapping away. I had an hour before my flight and convinced myself that I could get a few hundred words in.

Within a matter of minutes, though, I became aware of the devil's presence, his lurking, lingering insouciant malice. I had neither seen nor sensed him since before I'd left on tour and had become so accustomed to life without him that his sudden reappearance left me fumbling for words.

"How's it going?" the devil asked, slouching next to me with the air of a weary traveler. He wore a jaunty yellowish fedora with a black band, as well as a pair of Anti-Social jeans, the brand to which I knew only because the words "ANTI-SOCIAL" were stamped on them just above his ass.

"Where have you been?" I asked, pretending to care.

He gestured expansively. "Georgia. The state, not the country. Can you believe some kid tried to get out of giving me his soul by challenging me to a fiddle-playing contest? Of all things."

"And I suppose you play a mean fiddle."

"I do. I also cheat because I have a truly kick-ass back-up band. Hey, you gonna finish that?" At first I thought he meant the new book, but then I realized he meant the open bag of peanut M&Ms at my side.

"Probably."

"You won't miss a couple," he said with the air of a confidant, swiping a brown and a blue M&M. "Mmmmm," he moaned a bit too happily. "Peanuts, chocolate, hard candy shell..."

"Let me guess -- you invented
them
, too, along with oral sex and breast play."

"Your sarcasm ill suits you," he told me. "For your information, no -- I did not invent peanut M&Ms." He sniffed. "I invented
plain
M&Ms. The peanut addition was a human innovation and proof, BTW, that you little dust monkeys are a lot more clever than the Old Man gives you credit for. If it was up to him, you'd still be eating the natural fruits of the earth and all that crap."

"Wouldn't we be better off that way?"

"Why?" He seemed genuinely puzzled.

"Are you serious? Obesity. Heart disease. Diabetes."

"Weight Watchers. Lipitor. Insulin." He ticked them off on his fingers. "That's what I absolutely love about you people. Yeah, you fuck yourselves over, but then you fix your own problems, too. Look, yeah, you could live a life of monkish asceticism and live to a ripe old age. But what's the fun in that? You guys have figured out how to wallow in the sublime glory of fried Oreos and still make it out alive. Bravo for you. That's some ingenious shit there."

He took a yellow M&M.

"Come on."

"Keep writing," he said, and stood to go.

"Where are you going? And hey -- what's up with my soul now? Where is it? What are you doing with it?"
Or
to
it?
I wanted to ask, but didn't.

"I'm headed to Memphis. I love the blues and there's a great festival there this weekend. Have fun. Don't worry so much about your soul, Randall. You're supposed to be having the time of your life right now. Enjoy it! Enjoy
that
." He nodded to one side as he slipped away, and I realized he meant for me to look towards Sherrie, who was now coming my way.

Enjoy that
, he said. I was offended, then abashed at my own offense, then rallied to reinforce my original offense with righteous indignation. Had I done some things I wasn't proud of, back East? Had I cheated on Manda and helped Gym Girl cheat on her boyfriend, in her roommate's bed, no less? Yes. Yes, absolutely, I'd done those things. I had done them and I couldn't undo them, even if I wanted to.

Did
I want to? I couldn't tell. They were objectively wrong, I knew, but -- status of my soul notwithstanding -- I had done them of my free will. I had to "own them," a parlance that savored of pop psychology and reality TV, but echoed with truth nonetheless.

I suddenly and shiveringly felt that I now had an excellent idea of what the rest of my utterly soulless life would be. And maybe even a glimpse into my own personal hell.

Wherein I Talk to My Dad Again

Just before boarding, my phone rang. It was my father.

"How are you surviving out there without your girl?" he asked. "Managing to keep things well in hand? Get it?"

"Yeah, Dad, I got it."

"Because by 'things' I mean your Johnson and by 'in hand' I mean--"

"I said I got it, Dad. You can stop now."

"Just making sure you understand me."

"Even though I wish I didn't, I do."

"Why do you have to be like that?" he whined. "We're talking about a perfectly natural part of living. It's human nature. It's biology. If I asked how your blood pressure was, you wouldn't get all sniffy, would you? No. And speaking of which, there's scientific evidence that rubbing one out on a regular basis helps keep your blood pressure low. How do you like
that
?"

"My blood pressure is great, Dad." Or so I assumed. I couldn't remember the last time I'd had it checked. Would it be ironic or poetic for me to sell my soul and then stroke out in an airport?

"Well, that's good to know. High blood pressure means fewer boners."

"I'm aware."

"Look, just because you're a grown-up, big-shot, world-famous author doesn't mean you're not still my kid, Randall. I'm still concerned for you. Still worried about you."

I squeezed my eyes shut. I tried to remember the last time my dad had expressed concern for me. Tried to remember the last conversation we'd had that did not revolve around his twin loves.

Going back a few years, I could remember him calling once to bitch and moan about my first stepmother not returning his phone calls after my second stepmother's death. I hadn't gotten along with either of them -- dead for real or dead to him, it made no difference to me.

And what was I supposed to do with the concern -- much less the advice -- of a man who'd chased away two women and driven a third to an early grave? He was a cautionary tale made flesh.

It would have bothered me, once, thinking those things. But now I had no soul. And one of the benefits of having no soul was that I didn't care.

"Look, I really have to go, Dad. They're about to tell us to shut down our phones." I wasn't even on the plane yet.

"Just take care of yourself, all right?"

"I will, Dad."

"By which I mean--"

"Bye, Dad."

Wherein I Swear Not To

On the plane, they told us to power down our cellphones and electronic devices. (For real, this time.) Next to me, Sherrie dutifully shut down her phone and slipped her laptop into the seatback pocket.

She crossed her legs. She was twenty-three. I was thirty-five. Jesus. She had the body only the young have, the body designed by evolution to make us want to fuck as much as humanly possible. Or maybe designed by God. I don't know. The devil, if asked, would probably claim credit, and who was I to gainsay him?

I sighed heavily.

"Are you OK?" Sherrie asked. "Do you need anything?"

I couldn't tell her that the sight of her legs had initiated the sigh. "I just need some sleep, I guess," and then felt immediately abashed. Sherrie was on the same punishing schedule as I, only she had the additional task of taking care of me, waking at least an hour earlier and going to bed an hour later.

"Once we take off, you can get some sleep," she said.

"I can't sleep on planes."

"Maybe I can help," she said, and my perverted brain immediately flashed a tableau: Sherrie efficiently handjobbing me under a rust-red American Airlines blanket, the orgasmic release ferrying me off to a gentle sleep...

No, no, wait -- even better -- Sherrie contorted into a kneeling position in the plane's bathroom, my cock -- my tumescent cock; I love the word "tumescent" for some reason -- in her mouth.

But wait. An airplane bathroom floor was pretty disgusting. I didn't want to imagine Sherrie's lovely knees on that floor. Gross.

"...might help you sleep," she said, holding out a blister-packet of pills. Strictly over-the-counter. Allergy medicine. "And even if it doesn't, it'll chase away the sniffles." She smiled an adorably dimpled smile with the mouth that -- moments ago, fantastically speaking -- had been servicing me.

"I'll be OK," I told her.

She tucked the pills back in her bag and slid it under the seat in front of her. "Do you need anything else?" she asked, then yawned, her shirt pressed tight, molding to her body. I saw at least two things I needed.

"No. I'm fine. Get some sleep if you can."

"I'm all right," she assured me, and was asleep before take-off, affording me the opportunity to clap my eyes to her.

No
, I told myself.
Not her. She's a fucking
kid
, for God's sake. She's right out of college. She works for your publisher. Don't be that guy.

After take-off, the guy in front of me immediately reclined his seat all the way back. My knees touched the back of the seat. I hate that. Why do people do that?

I got up to go to the bathroom and shot a dirty look at the guy in front of me, then recoiled when I realized it was -- of course -- the devil.

"What the fuck?" I whispered to him. All around us, most of our fellow travelers were asleep, but the devil was plugged into a headset, fixedly gazing at the in-flight movie.

"Watching a movie here..." He waved me away.

I yanked his plug out. "I thought you were going to Memphis. This plane's going to--"

"Connecting flight," he whispered, grabbing back his cord. "Do you have any idea how expensive the direct flight was? Ridiculous. You'd think
I
was in charge of air travel in this country."

"Do you have to lean back all the way? My knees are in my fucking gut."

"It's comfortable."

"You're killing me."

"Don't be so melodramatic. If you need more room, lean your own seat back."

"That'll just fuck over the guy behind me."

"So then
he
leans
his
seat back. And so on. It's the way of the world. It works for everyone."

I shot a quick look down the aisle. "But then you get to that guy at the very end, against the bulkhead. He can't lean back at all."

The devil grinned lazily. "Well, all right then -- it works for
almost
everyone."

"That's--"

"Don't you have more pressing issues to consider?" he asked, indicating Sherrie with a movement of his head. "It won't take much, you know."

"I'm not going to do that."

"
That
? She's a human being! She's a her, Randall."

"I didn't mean... Jesus. I mean I'm not going there."

"Interesting. So that's where you draw the line." The devil shrugged and jacked back in and nothing I said or did could persuade him out of his reverie.

I retreated to the bathroom, stunned to find I was hard. I waited for my erection to subside so that I could piss, but kept lingering on the fantasy of Sherrie blowing me. Suddenly I was no longer concerned with the grime on her knees. The plane was quiet -- I considered jerking off, but thought of my father telling me to keep things in hand.

The erection was no longer a problem. I pissed.

Wherein I Eat Part of a Bag of Peanuts
 

I was one of the few passengers awake when the flight attendants wheeled the cart into the aisle. I was pecking away at my laptop, noodling around with the book. I took a hot tea and a packet of peanuts.

The devil reached back and snagged half of the peanuts before I could stop him.

Wherein I Hollywood
 

PDX was a blur. We were in town for something like twelve hours, I believe, and I didn't even remember signing books. Sherrie assured me I did.

I barely remembered landing at LAX. It was after midnight, I know, and I'm sure we took a cab to the hotel. I dreamt so powerfully of sleeping with Sherrie that I woke up convinced she was next to me in bed. When she wasn't, I padded into the bathroom, certain she would be there.

She wasn't. Nor was the devil. I crawled back into bed, relieved that I'd kept my word to myself.