“I know,” Ron
replied, trying to focus on the curvature of the line he was drawing. A bell
jingled. A customer from the parking lot entered the store and wandered through
the snack aisle before selecting a tin of potato chips and approaching the
counter.
“One ninety-six,”
Ron said, swiping the tin over the scanner.
“You take souls?”
the customer asked, smirking.
“No,” Ron
responded, “Just cash money.”
The customer
tugged on his hat and put down a fiver.
“That’s three
dollars and four cents change,” Ron said as he put down the dollars and cents.
“That ever get to
you?” Bill asked, still chewing as the customer exited, his gas and chips paid
for.
“No,” Ron
answered, but paused. He gestured to the pad of paper before him, and the
scrawl upon it. “Does this look like a face to you?”
“That?” Bill
replied. “That doesn’t look like anything to me.”
“Hmmm,” Ron
breathed as he picked up an eraser and wiped the page clean.
“That would bother
me,” Bill said. “All that ragging. It’s not your guy’s fault you’re here, is
it?” Bill chewed more thoughtfully. “Is it? I never did understand what went down.
You know, with The Merger and all. You guys were run out of Hell, right?”
Ron tried to focus
on the thought- The very idea of a human face. He traced a line with his
pencil. It didn’t look right.
“Ron, you with us?
Roooon?” Bill flicked a bit of water from the soda fountain at him and intoned,
“The power of Christ compels you!”
“Jesus,” Ron
replied, “I’m just trying to- Goddamn it, just piss off, alright?”
“Piss off?” Bill
whistled. “I didn’t know you knew such harsh language.”
“I spent some time
in England in the-” Ron gathered his breath. “Fine, fuck you, Bill. And since
you asked, I didn’t get kicked out of Hell. I chose to come here.”
“To work at a
fucking seven eleven?” Bill began to laugh hysterically.
“No,” Ron said,
beneath his breath, “I wanted to learn how to draw.”
* * * * *
* *
“It’s not right,”
Ron said, crumpling up his work. It didn’t look anything like what he had been
imagining.
His apartment was
small, and practically empty. A mattress on the floor, an empty bookshelf, a
pot and pan with a well washed set of cutlery. The only things of value he
owned were his tools: Pencils, watercolors, expensive sheets of paper, colored
markers, ink, styluses that were at least a century old. But there was no art.
Ron, who had once been known as Ronove, one of the Marquis of Hell, whose
talent for art, rhetoric, and language had once been unsurpassed, was now
bereft of skill. Even drawing a straight line was an ordeal for him.
He
picked up the Redbook he had borrowed from work and turned the page. The
picture perfect face of the pop star Lilith starred up at him from beneath the
glossy page, smiling eerily.
“No,”
he muttered. “It’s too unreal.”
He
thumbed through the rest of the magazine before putting it down. All the women
were done up in the classic Infernal Chic style. He didn’t want to draw an
ideal. He wanted . . . He didn’t know what he wanted.
Ron
sighed as he turned off the lights, scooping up his notebook as he left.
The
café was only a block away. “Hey, Ron,” one of the regular baristas said to
him, already making him his customary latte as he rummaged in his pocket for
cash.
“Slow
day?” There was no one else in the café. He tried to remember the baristas
name, but nothing came.
“Eh,
there’s a game on,” she replied. “Most folks are probably down at the Haunt.”
Ron
put down several dollars and the correct change, tossing a buck into the tip
jar as he accepted his cup.
“Thanks,”
she said, scanning her phone.
“Sure
thing,” he said and took up his customary seat across from the door.
He
didn’t actually drink his latte. Coffee tasted acrid to him, and reminded him
of his years in Hell. Instead he opened his notebook and took out his pencil.
For the better part of the next half hour he devoted his time to sketching the
table and chairs opposite him, and the window beyond. This may have been the
fifteenth hundred time he had done so. He had lost count some time ago. When he
was done he examined the results. It wasn’t terrible. He often found stationary
objects to be easier to conceive than living ones, and they usually didn’t
move. Still, the perspective was off. He turned the page and began again.
Sometime
later the door to the café opened, letting in a chill blast of wind. Ron
shivered and looked up.
The
new customer was probably a grad student at the nearby college, young but not
immature. She had auburn hair with a single thread of gold in it. It was
clearly artificial but subtle. She wore a long pea coat and a gray woven hat
and scarf, and tall black boots. Centuries upon centuries of studying and
overseeing the torments of humans had made Ron a certain judge of human
character that, while nothing compared to the skills of Minos or Radamanthus,
allowed him to see all manner of things in the simplest gesture, the faintest
change of facial features.
Sincerity, that was the word that leaped
at him as the woman briefly met eyes with him before walking to the counter. A lack of artifice, save for the vanity in
her hair.
“Can
I have a tall?” she asked the barista.
“That’s
one eighty five.”
The
woman paid, then tipped a dollar even though the barista’s back was turned. She
glanced towards Ron, who realized he was staring, and set his gaze firmly on
his notebook.
The
woman sat at a distance, and took out a book from the satchel she’d brought in
with her. It was a dog-eared copy of ‘Why the Sea is Salt’ by Alice Fager. Ron
had read it a few years back, but had a hard time remembering it, other than
that it had been clever, and that there was a twist ending. He struggled to
call up the reveal, but he’d spent so much effort drawing the table and chairs
that nothing would come.
The
woman turned the book and bit reflexively at her lower lip. A moment later she
swept a bit of her hair out of her face and took a sip of coffee.
Ron
turned to the next page of his notebook and, placing his pencil against the
paper, began to draw.
When
he stopped he looked at the clock above the mirror behind the counter. It had
only been seven minutes. Before him, on the page, was the woman, biting at her
lip, her hand, her hand, he had never
been able to draw a hand that was anything more than a stick figure, turning
the page. It was black and white but it was her, almost photo-like in its
perfection.
“Hey,”
the woman’s voice brought him out of his reverie. “Hey, you, Hell-Guy, are you
drawing me?”
“Uh,”
Ron let out as he moved to close the notebook but it was too late. She was
already looming over him.
“Well,
let me see it at least, Hell-Guy.”
“My
name is Ron,” he mumbled as he turned the notebook around.
She
stared at it blankly for a while and then, “Wow. I mean. Wow. You’re really
good.”
“Thanks.”
He felt a bead of sweat coming on in spite of the snow falling outside.
“I
mean, it’s weird, you doing that, but, can I . . . I mean, can I see some of your notebook? Do you, like,
make art? Like, are you an artist?”
“I-”
Ron put his hand over the notebook. “It’s not very good. I mean, the rest of
it. I just thought that you- Uh.”
“Man,
you’re bad at this. Are you, uh,” she looked to his still full, cold coffee
cup, “You done with that?”
“Yeah,
I guess I am.”
“You
want to get a drink or something?”
“Yes.”
“I’m
Emma.”
“I’m
Ron.”
“You
said that already.”
“Right,”
Ron said.
As
they left the Barista flashed Ron a thumbs up. Briggite Ron suddenly remembered. That’s her name. Brigitte.
* * * * * *
*
Ron
held up a finger, his ear pressed against the convenience store’s only pay
phone. “Just, hold on, I’m just waiting to- Uh, hello?”
“Mr.
Ronove?” Said a voice on the other end of the line. “Is this Mr. Ronove?”
“Yes!
Yes. Is this Ms. Nichols?”
“Yes,
but you can call me Linsday.”
“I’m, uh, I’m so glad to hear from
you Ms., uh, Lindsay.”
“Well,
I’m glad to speak to you too, Mr. Ronove. Do you prefer Ronove?”
“I
guess,” Ron answered. “Yes?”
“Well,
I have some good news for you, Mr. Ronove,” the agent sprawled on. “There’s
been some serious interest in your work. Serious
interest. I’m certain that you are aware that your style of art is hot right
now. There’s so much demonic or, uh, what is the word, Infernal? Anyhow, your
work is . . . What can I say? It’s just so genuine. Sincere. It’s classic.
Those paintings, those prints,” she took an audible drag on a cigarette, “It’s
like something from another century. I mean, I suppose that shouldn’t be that
surprising-“
“Um,
hold on,” Ron said, as Mr. Karras entered the store, already red in the face.
“You,”
Ron’s manager said, “Get off of that phone!”
“Do
any of them want to make an offer?” Ron asked.
“Hang
up the goddamn phone!” Mr. Karras urged. He was a foot shorter than Ron, but
far more frightening.
“They
do,” Lindsay said. “How high do you want to go?”
“Uh,”
Ron held the phone at a distance. “Uh, one hundred and forty?”
“For
just one of the prints?”
“GET
OFF OF THE FUCKING PHONE,” Mr. Karras roared. Ron hung up the phone.
“Clean
up the coolers,” Mr. Karras said, moving towards the rear of the Seven Eleven.
Ron shuffled over and began to re-organize the coolers, moving items that would
expire sooner to the front and turning items around to be more attractive.
While he did so the phone rang. Bill picked it up and said, “Yo, Ron, it’s your
agent. You sure about that price?”
“Uh,
yes.”
“You
want to go higher?”
“I,
uh,” Ron said as Mr. Karras poked his head out of his back office. “Yep. Tell
them not to call back until they, uh-”
Bill
replied into the receiver and hung up the phone.
Ron
was redisplaying the novelties when the bell jingled. Emma walked through the
front door and Ron felt . . . It was hard to define. The sea at night. Two
dozen birds flying at wing. A beehive. The feeling of an embrace. The last
breath of an enemy. Her blond lock seemed to catch the light.
“My
haunting,” Ron said, walking over to the phone and redialing the agent’s
number.
“Ron
Swan-song,” she replied with her half smile.
“That’s
sad, don’t say that.”
“Is
that weirder than calling me ‘My Haunting?’”
“It’s
a joke. Remember our first date?”
She
waved the comment off. “When are you growing a moustache?”
“I
can’t-“
All
of a sudden Ron was aware that he had grown a very thick moustache, And that his
hair had become as thick and rich as Nick Offerman’s. Emma snickered.
“You
going to get all libertarian on me?”
“No,”
Ron said, “I mean, I don’t know.”
The
strange thing was that he suddenly realized that he could cut wood, craft a
canoe, build a log cabin, appreciate whiskey, and every other superficial thing
that the fictional character from Parks & Rec could accomplish. And . . .
Why did the government need his money?
“Shit,
don’t do that!” he said, pretending to listen closer to the silence on the
other end of the telephone.
“Do
what? Give you an awesome moustache?”
“No,”
Ron said, “It’s just, it’s free will, right? I mean, I should get to choose
how-“
“Jesus,”
Emma said, “Lighten up, Hell-Guy. What are they talking? Seriously? You hear
from the agent?”
“Oh,
they, uh-“
“Ron!”
Mr. Karras said, emerging from the back room. “Now is not the time for romance!
Lady friend must leave.”
Emma
took a moment to look Ron in the eyes. Will
you fight for me?
Ron
took a breath. “She’s not bothering anyone. The place is empty, Mr. Karras.”
“She
comes and buys nothing. This is a place of business not a Tinder Date.”
Emma
snorted. “No one uses fucking Tinder anymore.”
“You,”
Mr. Karras said, “Out.”
Emma
didn’t move. Mr. Karras moved a step closer, somehow managing to make his
paunch threatening.
“She
stays,” Ron said, surprising himself. The phone rang. Bill picked up the phone.
“It’s
the agent lady,” Bill said, pausing. Mr. Karras breathed in and out, his
nostrils flaring. “She says someone is asking two hundred thousand.”
“I
quit,” Ron said, beginning to unbutton his shirt.
* * * * *
* *
“I
like the use of the color blue,” one of the attendees said, gesturing towards
‘The Rusalka.’ “It’s subtle.”
“Thank
you,” Ron said, reflexively pressing down his lapel. He hadn’t worn a modern
suit before tonight. The last formal human garb he had worn had been a gambeson
and a suit of full plate drenched with blood. There was too much starch in his
collar.
“Where
do you get your inspiration?” the guest asked.
Ron
glanced over at Emma. She was grinning like a cat, half laughing at some story
Zero was telling her. Her hair fell out of place, and she brushed it backwards.
“Life,”
Ron answered.
Ron
wandered through the exhibition, wishing that his shoes were not so uncomfortable.
People murmured at him. He sipped on a glass of champagne.
Ms. Nichols approached him, shimmering in a
dress peacock green.
“A certain party has made an offer on
‘Samizdat.’ It’s a sizeable-“
“Sell it,” Ron said. Lindsay nodded, and
sauntered off.
Ron looked around. So many people. So much
wealth. Human wealth, but still. He took another sip of champagne, then put
down the glass.
“Ronove?” a voice said. “Is that you?”
Ron turned. What appeared to be a man smiled at
him, his hair slicked, a white tuxedo making him look like a 1940’s nightclub
singer.
“Apologies,” the man said, “I don’t look myself
very often. But you remember old Pazuzu, don’t you? What was it, Mesopotamia?”
Ron laughed. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t- It’s been a
long time, right.”
“Right,” Pazuzu flashed pearly white teeth.
“Quite the show you’ve got here. Getting in on the art scene. Not bad. Lot of
scratch to be made from these fools.”
“You don’t like the art?” Ron felt a bit white
hot anger flushing his cheeks.
“The art? The art is amazing. You must have-”
Pazuzu scanned the room. “Oh, is that her? The one with the dyed hair? No
wonder.”
“No wonder what?” Ron asked.
Pazuzu regarded him with his eyes, green with a
bit of gold in them. “Oh. Ohhh,” he said. “You don’t get it, do you?” He
laughed.
“What?”
Pazuzu poked him lightly with his finger. “You
think this is you, don’t you? You think you could draw a damn square without
inspiration? Without little miss gold in her hair? I can see why you like her.
You’re lucky. You know I had to possess three different people to get the
Exorcist franchise into the big time?”
“I don’t know what-“
“Ronove,” Pazuzu said, lifting a champagne
flute from a passing tray, “By Lucifer, I hate to say it, but if you think it’s
you making these paintings . . . I’m sorry, Marquis, it’s not you, it’s her.”
“I’m not a Marquis anymore.”
“Well, you’re not an artist, either,” Pazuzu
said. “Sorry, but them’s the breaks. Just try it. Without her. Sorry.”
Pazuzu excused himself and mingled with a
nearby crowd, asking them if they could sew socks in Hell to predictable
laughter. Ron sipped on his champagne.
* * * * *
* *
“I just don’t understand why you-“ Emma broke
off, and grabbed her coat.
“Don’t leave,” Ron said.
“I need to go out.” The door opened and closed.
The canvas before him was empty, save for a
single incomplete line. He knew he could draw . . . Anything. Anything if he
thought of her. Sunrise above the desert. A jungle cat speckled with light. A
soldier of an ancient war, noble and resolute. Skeletal whales beneath the sea.
A beautiful woman, with a golden strand of hair, laughing. Happy.
But that was not him.
A single
line. Just a single, perfect line.
The line was jagged.
The phone rang. He ignored it.
* * * * *
* *
The pencil danced somewhat as he pressed it
against the page.
“Ron,”
Mr. Karras said, frowning. “The cooler.”
“On
it,” Ron said, and moved over to reorganize the contents within. “Milk is
expired,” he said. “Should I toss it?”
Mr.
Karras grunted affirmation.
When
he returned from the rear of the store he saw that Bill was thumbing through
his notebook. The old him would have been irritated, but he merely sighed as he
returned to the counter.
“Your
drawings still suck,” Bill said.
“I
know,” Ron said, staring down at the sketch of the human face on the last page
of the notebook. It was crude.
But I’m
getting better.
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