The Devil Likes to Sing. Thomas J. Davis

what?” I asked, beginning now to feel a huge let-down after the little scene in the restaurant.

      “What you were thinking before,” the devil said. “Use this. Don’t waste your writer’s eye, and don’t waste your experience.” As if reminding me ever so gently of things Jill had said, he exhorted, “Grow, Timothy, grow. Put this to good use. Remember the images from the restaurant, the ones that spurred you to do something you’ve never done in your whole Milquetoast life.” I started to object, but he simply threw up a hand and, rather gently, said, “Grow.”

      And so I sat down at the computer. This time, I decided to give my writing more of a story form, complete with a title.

      “The Slow Death of Nice People”

      My fingers flew. The story opened with a clear-eyed analysis of a recent slight. I had been in McDonald’s, waiting forever for service. The line was six deep when I first walked in; after five minutes, it was still five deep. After fifteen minutes, one person still stood in front of me. I watched as every move of the server played as if in a slow-motion movie. I had an appointment, and now I was going to be very close to being late—I hated being late. And the entire McDonald’s staff acted as if intent on keeping me in their restaurant as long as possible.

      Finally, another server came up and keyed in to the register. I started to step over, finally ready to give my order, when someone from behind me, who had just come in, sped around me to the register, rattling off his order before he had even taken his last step or two up to the counter.

      I used all the pent-up anger I had writing the scene. A coherent story took shape. I barely realized the devil was there. He must have turned on the TV; at some point, I thought he must be watching some soap opera, because I heard about a guy who had just come home from losing his job, and before he could even explain to his wife what had happened and how unfair it had been, she scooped up their baby and left. Sounded like for good. But that’s all I caught. Too caught up by the muses.

      As I typed the last word, I heard a familiar guitar riff, a sound from my past. I turned and saw the devil, guitar in hand, step up to the mike that now stood in the middle of my living room. Colored spotlights swirled about him as he sang “Taking care of business.” His hair had gone all permed, just like ol’ Turner used to wear it, and he played through the whole chorus, sounding for the world like Bachman Turner Overdrive coming over the radio.

      For a moment, I remembered something from St. Augustine. He believed the devil had no real substance of his own—it was all borrowed, stolen, taken. And, for just a second, that insight flashed into my head, like a revelation. The devil can never really be anything more than an imitator. He’s an aper, pure and simple.

      But then the devil gave a sweep of his hand and a bow, my moment of insight disappeared like a bad magic trick, and he said, “Good for you, Timothy, good for you.” The devil had effectively and quickly pulled my attention back to myself. “Put it down, these feelings, the reality of these feelings. It’s a start. Keep working at it. You’ve practiced long enough. Make a good short story out of this. From the way it sounded, you’ve already got the first draft.”