Souls to Sell

I was digging through my computer and found this old story I wrote, oh, probably 7-8 months ago and forgot about. It's not complete, but here it is anyway in brilliant incompleteness.

Souls to Sell
By Michael J. Sherry

The first time Satan tried to sell souls to me it caught me off guard.
“What?” I asked, ridden with angst. “Isn’t this backwards?”
“No,” he replied, glancing anxiously about and scratching his left forearm with his right hand. “Look, I realize how this sounds, but do we have a deal?”
“No!” I shouted, recognizing the tactics of a strong-armer – a “do me this favor” type.
Instantly the Devil retreated in a plume of off-white smoke. Round One went to me.
But Satan is a shrewd operator. The next time he called I was sitting on the shitter in a McDonald’s restroom.
“Afternoon, Mr. Preston,” he said, ducking his head underneath the stall door. “I just wanted to follow up with you – I had spoken to you before about the possibility of selling you some souls?”
“Jesus Christ,” I said, half from terror, half from annoyance.
“Clever,” said the Devil.
“No, I meant … oh, nevermind. Look, why do you want to sell souls to me?”
“Decrease my inventory,” he said, fidgeting awkwardly.
“Wait a minute,” I said, reaching for the toilet paper. “Aren’t you supposed to be trying to buy my soul?”
“I buy and sell,” he said, snatching the roll before I could grab it. “I’ll throw in this roll of ass wipes.”
“You bastard,” I said, glaring down at him. “My answer is still no.”
Again he disappeared, taking the toilet paper with him. Round Two: draw.
This all was very strange to me. I didn’t believe in God. I didn’t believe in Satan. And even if they existed, I certainly didn’t believe one of them would appear to me and try to conduct some sort of business transaction.
Satan goes about four-eleven, maybe a buck fifteen. He has a scraggly gray/black beard, darting little black eyes, and a nervous twitch that causes his lips to peel suddenly away from his teeth and close just as quickly. He sports, of all things, a yellow and brown flannel shirt and black corduroy pants.
Then again, I am a businessman. A broker. Perhaps the stress of work – the constant phone calls and meetings and transactions – maybe it was all spilling over in the form of business hallucinations.
Because the third time Satan appeared to me was while I was on the phone in my cubicle trying to close a deal on a load of scrap automotive bumpers from accidents.
“Mr. Preston!”
“Holy shit!”
“Beg pardon?” came the shrill voice of James Martin through the phone.
“No, nothing. Sorry, James. Listen, where was I? The bumpers need to be on pallets if possible because my guy …
“Mr. Preson,” said Satan. “I wanted to run this by you in case there was any interest.”
“Because my guy…” I was trying to say.
“Yes?” came the impatient squeak of James Martin.
“My guy has to move them from …
“I can get you 1,000 pounds of souls by late next week and I’ll cover the cost of freight.”
“Only 1,000 pounds?” Oops. Instincts kicked in.
“What?” snapped James.
“No, sorry, I was talking to my secretary and …
“Mr. Preston, souls do not weigh very much. Why, 1,000 pounds of souls could be anywheres from five to seven full truck loads!”
“James,” I said, trying to shut the vision out.
“I’m here!”
“Those bumpers need to be on skids, they can’t be loose …
“You already told him that, Mr. Preston.”
“You already told me that, Jeff.”
“I know, but I’m trying to finish …
“Call him back.”
“I’m listening, Jeff.”
“On skids so that when I move them to my guy …
“1000 pounds, Mr. Preston!” Satan said, glancing out into the hallway as if concerned someone might overhear. “My price is three cents a pound.”
“Three hundred dollars?” I said.
“What are you talking about, Jeff?”
“That’s thirty dollars, Mr. Preston,” said Satan, glancing at his watch. “I got another call, let me know.”
The Devil disappeared once more into a plume of off-white smoke. Round Three: definitely Satan.

I didn’t think I was going crazy until the fourth time Satan appeared to me. It was Christmas morning and I was driving over to my mother’s house.
“Mr. Preston, good morning,” he said, materializing in the passenger seat of my 1997 green Ford Focus.
“The fuck!?” I shouted, jerking the wheel.
“It’s Satan from Hell again. Hey, did you get a chance to think over my offer?”
“This isn’t really happening. I know you’re not real. I don’t believe in you or God.”
“It’s Christmas, Mr. Preston,” said the Devil, holding his hands up to the heater and shivering. “Everyone believes in that stuff on Christmas.”
“Just for sentiment though, Satan. That doesn’t mean I’m a believer.”
“Well, look, what you believe is your own business. Do you got an answer for me about the eight truckloads of souls?”
“Eight?” I said, shouting now. “It was five before!”
“It was five to seven before,” Satan said, playing with the radio dial. “But I got an offer on an extra load in the past week. It’s good stuff mostly, but I just don’t have the floor space for any of it so I’ll throw it in with the other seven at the same price.”
He stopped on NPR.
“Look, this is nuts,” I said, stopping at a red light. “This isn’t right.”
“What, the price? Don’t worry about it. I’ll get you a sample if you need to check it out before you commit.”
“How can you afford the freight on three cents?”
“I got my own trucks. I’m fucking Satan.” He blew sharply into his hands, still apparently cold.
“Wait. That’s not what I meant. Look, your freaking me out here. I’ll be honest. You’re scaring the shit out of me. Just disappear and leave me alone.”
“Fine,” he said, reaching into his jean jacket and extracting what appeared to be a business card. “Look, I don’t have this offered out to anyone else at the moment, so you got some time to think about it. Give me a call if you need a sample – number’s on the card. 666. Or try my cell if there’s no answer, I always have it on me. 864-972-4803.”
He stuck his card in my shirt pocket and disappeared in a plume of smoke. I rolled down the windows, coughing profusely. Round Four, I think, was a draw.
That’s when Jesus appeared. He was wearing a red bow-tie and a suit.
“Are you Jeff Preston?” he said.
“Yes, who are you.”
“I’m Jesus Christ. I’m with Heaven. Look, I wanted to talk to you because I’m trying to track down a few thousand pounds of souls and I got a tip on a good deal.”
“You gotta be kidding me.”
“The problem is Satan owns the trucks right now and he’s not picking up my phone calls. Now my guy tells me Satan’s calling you.”
I sat there in silence. This was too much and I wasn’t going to give into the delusion.
“At any rate, I could really use those souls. My inventory is getting a little low and I’m willing to speculate on what he’s got. I’ll make it worth your while if you put me in touch with him.”
Silence.
“Mr. Preston?”
I began humming the melody to Mary Jane’s Last Dance.
“I can see why Satan’s trying to get up and running with you.” He paused. “You’re his type.”
“She moved down here, the age of eighteen, she blew the boys away, was more then they’d seen!”
“That’s a good song,” Jesus said. “When Petty sings it.”
“She said I dig ya baby, but I got to keep movin’.”
“Here, take my card.”
“On.”
“Call me next time Satan gets ahold of you.”
“Keep movin’ on.”
He left the card on the passenger seat, rolled down the window, and jumped out. I watched him take off running down the street in my rearview mirror.

“We’re all-deal makers,” Satan was saying as we pushed a couple of ticket scalpers out of our way. “Everyone of us.” We were there to see the New York Islanders play the Chicago Blackhawks, but really we were there to try and work on these eight loads of souls. Jesus was going to meet us at our seats.
“Everyone wants to buy low and sell high. Not just brokers. We don’t even realize half the deals we make. Now they have websites like eBay so that everyone can be a trader. It’s a planet full of bargains and trade-ups and secondary markets and profit margins and nobody ever stops and asks why. Nobody even notices.”
Inside the stadium an usher asked me to open my jacket, which I did. He gave me a quick glance up and down and pushed me through. Satan fidgeted nervously as the crowd around us grew thicker.
“Well I’ll tell you why. Did you ever think it just seemed a little too easy? A little too natural? A little too universal? This desire to spread margins and compete and make offers and try to get that crucial piece without giving away the whole show? It’s our nature. It’s in our very being. But why?”
“How come?” I wanted some peanuts, but five dollars for a bag seemed a little excessive.
“Because that’s the cosmic makeup of a swirling creation spat from the printer of a god/president. All the universe is a memo outlining an elaborate deal that God was pursuing. We’re a sales order. That’s why we’re always thinking buy and sell, win and lose, give and take. Because we’re the individual letters on an acknowledgement from God to this particular dimension.”
“And this Satan fellow, he’s a hell of a deal-maker,” said Jesus, walking quickly up behind us and smiling.
“Ah, Jesus,” Satan said, barely turning around. “Thought you’d be up at your seat.”
“I came out here for a beer and saw you guys passing by. Either of you want a beer?”
“No thanks,” Satan said.
“It’s on me, you sure? Jeff?”
“That’s alright, Jesus. Thanks.”
Jesus looked sharp tonight. He had on a light-blue pair of jeans and a black shirt. His hair was short and slicked up at odd angles and his leather jacket looked expensive. Satan, on the other hand, was wearing an orange and black flannel and hadn’t shaved in what must have been a week or more.
“How’s are our seats, Jesus?” he asked.
“Not bad at all. We’re pretty high up, but we’re right over the center ice line.”
“I like being closer to the ice,” Satan spat. “Well, let’s head up.”


To be continued ...