Picking a starting point is kind of a silly exercise, isn’t it?
I mean, if you peer unblinking into any bellybutton long enough, nothing really has a beginning. The day you were born, for example, wasn’t actually your definitive genesis—you were conceived nine or so months beforehand, and even then, half of your core was encoded in your mother’s eggs, which were there the day she was born, you know, after she had been conceived nine months prior to that . . . and so back and so on, all through the generations to when homo sapiens first split off from the Neanderthal family sapling. Which, of course, evolved from a less upright carbon blob and its string of iterations, all of whom you can (hypothetically, anyway) track all the way back to the first spark of Life, which follows back to the formation of Earth, the solar system, the galaxy, and even the Universe, which had to have something from which to a-splode in the (literal) first place . . . .
Okay, okay.
Not fixing upon a specific beginning is a bit of a copout, almost as if I’m reluctant to take responsibility for the following events, the vast majority of which I’m somewhat to blame for.
That’s not much of a mea culpa, either, is it?
Right then.
Rather than taking this all the way back to those dark moments of regathering matter from the last Existence and the Enormous Kablooey! that launched this one—which is another story altogether, if you want to pull on the fabric of that cardigan at another point—let’s go with a moment that’s more germaine to this saga. Say about 15 years ago, when that damned girl first wandered onto the well-lit stage of my current personal narrative.
Back then, in my sportswriting days, I regularly had to eschew the sanctity and comfort of my cozy living room and beloved satellite dish to attend major sporting events in person. That included everything on the athletic spectrum, from rivalry games and championship contests to sponsored brand launches and law enforcement press conferences. All of which was fine, and on many occasions, entertaining.
For a reason that will have more clarity later, however, I was also drawn to less-consequential sporty happenings. Just try to keep me away from an insignificant late-season Major League Baseball game! Or a battle of ineptitude between two habitual NFL cellar-dwellers with nothing but the No. 1 draft pick on the line. Or a preseason exhibition in which the superstar players don’t even break a sweat, let alone get on the field, court, ice, or pitch. Give me a good ol’ “We gotta play it because it’s on the schedule” match-up, and I’d be there.
Why? Am I a masochist? Do I revel in misery? Didn’t I understand why people tended to give away their courtside seats when the early 2000s L.A. Clippers came to town?
If Infinity has taught me anything, it’s that in these boring, mundane, most ordinary of moments when the most extraordinary of events usually occur. As you shall see shortly.
I should also mention that on a professional level, those games exposed me to the hardcore fan base. I could get a better taste of hometown flavor, with an opportunity to sink my teeth into the red meat of a team’s ethos without the fixings of hype or spin, if I may paint an oddly cannibalistic metaphor.
Yes, for me, being at these glorious yawners during which the stands were half-filled with the true (and mostly drunk) athletic supporters was an opportunity to take the down-and-dirty pulse of the sports heart. By surrounding myself with diehards whose mental well-being was in direct harmony with their teams—the mascot-tattooed, face-painting fanatics who might drop dead from cardiac arrest simply from the stress of watching someone else engage in a competitive, physical activity—I was in touch with my people, my audience . . . my paycheck.
It’s all about the Benjamins, ain’t it? Or at that point in my career arc, the Hamiltons.
Plus, being so close to irrational mania was (and still is) a guilty little pleasure. Stay sane by soaking up someone else’s insanity, I say.
So on this particular warm and hazy Tuesday night, I found myself at just such a baseball competition between the New York Metropolitans and the somewhat unskilled Milwaukee Brewers at the old Shea Stadium in Flushing, Queens. With departing jets reverberating overhead at a steady interval (who in the name of Donny de Sade puts a 55,000-seat baseball facility in the flight path of a major international airport?), the game had degenerated into a 15-2 blowout. Unfortunately, despite all the root-root-rooting, the home team was on the losing side of the ledger. What hadn’t been a large crowd in the first place was already trickling toward a smattering. As was my attention.
To keep myself engaged, and perchance stumble upon a storyline more compelling than the iceberg wreck feebly sinking before me, the moment had come to abandon the press box.
A caveat: If I never ventured outside the cramped confines of the press box and limited myself to solely recounting the licentious habits and mating rituals of sportswriters and the extended media, that in itself would be a tale so lurid as to make the forthcoming story seem akin to a doctoral thesis on the banana slug. And that’s without even scratching the surface of depravity furnished by locker room politics, unsavory agents, and blustery owners. Not that I’d drop a dime on my brethren of the Fourth Estate, but there are numerous tales to astonish to be mined there.
Regardless, when sallying forth, I often lingered in the loge (which housed the press box and luxury suites), while other times I hiked up to the upper deck and the realm of the nosebleeds. I also would aimlessly wander the picnic pavilion or even take a lap around the parking lot, eavesdropping on disgruntled Mets fans as they ditched out early to beat the ceaseless heavy traffic patterns of western Long Island.
This enchanted evening I was feeling “field level,” so I descended from my perch down through the stadium, giving myself the ticket upgrade without much incident. Such seat finagling used to be more of an admired art way back in the day when my college buddies and I had to pay for admission. Being able to flash my media credentials was still showing off, albeit in a discreet, adult manner.
Now the only unusual thing this night was from the moment I arrived at the ballpark, I kept having these mini “brain seizures.” Okay, not quite early onset epilepsy; more akin to indiscriminate buzzing flashes through my head. A cerebral hummadruz (Google it, kids!), as if my consciousness was spinning the dial on a 1931 Philco Highboy.
At the time, I had dismissed it as exhaustion or dehydration, or maybe even an impending aneurysm. I wasn’t smelling burning toast, so who knew? Wiped out from staying up well past my already late bedtime the evening prior to cover the Yankees’ extra-inning game, I attributed it to exhaustion and overactive imagination working over an overtired cerebrum, and allocated nary an extra thought.
(Yes, that’s foreshadowing. Thanks for noticing my expert application of a literary device!)
Following the seventh-inning stretch, I made my way to the field level main gate. Richie, the stooped and bespectacled senior usher, was busy, so he gave me a nod and a quick wave. If he had caught my ear, I could’ve been trapped for hours and would’ve missed the whole sordid affair to follow, which would’ve been fine for my health but not so great for your entertainment. Yes, such a respite perhaps may have been charming at first as Richie was one of those colorful old-timers who had been at Shea since it opened in 1964 and could eagerly relate every Mets historic moment, from Ron Swoboda’s amazing catch in Game 4 of the ’69 World Series to Mike Piazza’s stirring homerun following 9/11, and all in excruciating detail that only Thomas Pynchon might appreciate.
Already exhausted, I quickly put distance between Richie and myself. I beelined for the concession stand, looking for a fast-and-greasy pick-me-up before I began the people-ogling portion of the evening. I was deliberating between the bargain $9 hamburger or the equally practical $10 chicken sandwich when she found me.
It took me a few increments of time to notice her, or her presence, to be more precise. I say “notice” except it wasn’t quite that clear—it was more as if she slid from my periphery to directly beside me without so much as a ripple. If you recall that Seinfeld episode, she sort of “sidled” up on me. I could practically feel her stare boring into the side of my keenly coiffured head.
Being a good city boy (yes, although nowhere near the proportion of the Big Apple, my beloved New Haven, despite being kept in Connecticut, is technically an urban environment), I didn’t dare look. If she was crazy—which I assumed, being in New Yawk—I certainly didn’t want to agitate her by doing something that might be interpreted as aggressive, such as making direct, or even indirect, eye contact.
As the seconds passed without any interaction or movement, I flirted with breaking out my best Brooklynesque ‘Whaddayoufreakinlookinat?’ I ultimately opted not to because, believe it or not, I’m not a fan of confrontation.
Check that, as it’s not exactly veracious. When I’m on my home turf and in charge, I’ll challenge anyone and not back down. Just ask Al, if you ever get the chance. Al and I have had a few nasty arguments, to put it mildly. The spat we had about Beauty was a dilly; eventually, we did compromise and pass the buck to the beholder.
As mild-mannered Nick Brooks, however, I try to be . . . mild-mannered. Go figure!
Playing it as cool as The Fonz in Antarctica, I ignored her and went on pretending to search the concession stand menu board for unexpected epicurean delights.
Then it started again, only stronger. That . . . damn . . . buzzing.
It wasn’t the buzz of the love bug, either. It was a bona fide sensation under my scalp, and there was no denying it.
Picture if you will, an entire hive of bees swarming on a single spring poppy, then cover it all in caramel. Make the poppy your brain and the caramel your cranium, leave the bees in there and that’s a place to start. It didn’t hurt as much as I thought my skull might burst open and bees were going to fly out. Except, somehow, it was like having the worst case of poison ivy scratched at the same time.
Then it was gone. Just like that. [For an interactive multimedia experience, snap your fingers *here*]
Attempting to downplay what I wasn’t even sure was happening, I did nary more than shake my head and blink.
She may have let out a small laugh. I was so fixated on maintaining my composure that I couldn’t turn to check despite every fiber of my corporeal being wanting to. What the blazes did she want?
“Isn’t that ironic?” I thought someone whispered. “Especially coming from you.”
I’m not a doctor, nor have I ever played one on TV, yet I’m pretty sure my human heart skipped a few beats. Against my better judgment, and without giving up my place in line, I turned to peek.
Now I know most of you have never seen a young Cleopatra in the flesh, but this fantastic, less melanin-infused creature standing next to me in the bowels of Shea Stadium in Queens exceeded the Queen of the Nile’s pulchritude—and trust me, that’s something. [Historical fact: Human men don’t destroy empires over “cute” chicks. More on that later.] It wasn’t a pure or virtuous beauty that I found myself in the presence of, either, I would venture; there was an impenetrable allure, a crackling electricity like a humid July dusk beckoning a thunderstorm.
She stood a wiry five foot, seven inches, and couldn’t have weighed more than eight stone dripping wet. She had on a black muscle tank top and gray camouflage pants, a pair of battered combat boots, and her dark brown hair was cropped short. Her lips and nose were both on the thin side, which worked surprisingly well with her wide, triangular face. A simple tribal tattoo ringed her taut left bicep. If you’re vibing Fairuza Balk in American History X minus the nose ring and mascara, you wouldn’t be all that far off. Maybe a touch less angry. Maybe not.
Then there were her eyes.
What can I say without sounding utterly stupid? Physically, they were a pure cool blue, bright and clear, except there was a . . . gleam, I suppose. A tinge, a hint of . . . I’m a professional writer and even I can’t manifest the proper word. Something. Call it fire, or contempt. Maybe defiance? Animation? Possibly all of that. I can’t even find an apt adjective in German, and they have a word for everything! Although maybe teuflisch is close (or closer than I want to admit). In the time since that initial meeting, I’ve heard people say she has the eyes of an angel, although no one can decide in which deity’s army.
A smile that I’d later learn to dread slowly curled up her lips. Her teeth were slightly snaggled but Colgate white.
I found my voice. “Do I know you?” I asked, acknowledging to myself that in all my existence, I had never encountered her before.
“Sure you do,” she said, her voice lower than I expected. “I bet you and Al have talked about me—or someone like me—once or twice.”
“Al? Al who?”
“Oh you know,” she said, rolling her eyes Heaven-ward. “Big Al.”
I stuck with “playing” dumb (or being dumbstruck—whatever works for you, gentle reader). I glanced up at the concrete-and-steel stadium around us. “Al, the press box assistant?” I asked. “He’s got a bit of a beer gut, but at five-five, he’s hardly what I’d call ‘big.’”
“Ooh funny,” she smirked. “I thought you were supposed to be more clever. Or cunning. Like, isn’t that the word?”
“You mean witty? Well, I try,” I said, sensing the blood rising in my chest. “That’s what they pay me for.”
“Really?” she said, unblinking. “Not for being the Lord of Darkness?”
My stomach dropped like a feather in a vacuum. I stared at her for a full three seconds, yet she only continued to stare back. “Excuse me?” I mustered.
“You know, the Lord of Darkness? You’re him, right?”
“You mean . . . Ozzy?”
“Mmm . . . no,” she said, gritting her teeth, then whispering. “I mean . . . Satan.”
Before I obviously could deny it, she stepped past me and up to the concession counter. She nodded to the red-haired woman waiting impatiently behind it. “We’ll have three hot dogs, two large fries, a large Coke, a pretzel, a box of popcorn, and—” She turned to me.
“Uh, another large Coke?” I said with a shrug.
She turned back to the counter. “And another large Coke.”
As the culinary engineer dragged herself off to procure our order, I kept my eyes locked on my new acquaintance, who went about gathering straws and napkins as if packing for a Sunday picnic down by the old mill stream.
“Satan?” I forced out through a tight laugh and under my breath. “That’s sort of a harsh assessment for a guy you just met, don’t you think? Really. I mean, come on. You haven’t even seen me play a fiddle yet.”
“Uh-huh,” she said. “I don’t need to see a skunk to smell the stink.”
“Wow. Burn. And why am I even talking to you?”
“Because you’re fascinated by me.”
“Oh yeah. Riiight.”
“That and the fact that in all your existence you’ve never encountered anything like me,” she added. She smiled that smile again.
Apparently, keeping my tongue in check (and cheek) every time she opened her mouth was going to be an issue. The true me inside wasn’t helping much either, drooling like a half-starved dingo over the possibility of the extraordinary. Outwardly, I threw an insincere nod in her direction.
The benighted concessions employee returned with our order. My new friend/foe (frenemy?) took the cardboard carrier piled high with artery-clogging refreshments and handed it to me. She then opened the popcorn box and shoved a fistful into her mouth. “Now pay the lady,” she said through stuffed cheeks, and grabbed the drinks. “And don’t forget my pretzel.”
“Thirty-nine, seventy-five,” offered the woman, holding out a salt-encrusted wad of dough.
“Now I know why I eat in the press box,” I muttered, taking the last of the heat-lamp-baked treats and handing over two twenties, or what seemed like the better part of a day’s pay (after taxes). “Keep the change,” I graciously suggested, scurrying after that girl before she disappeared into the summer night.
“Oh, I won’t lose you,” she called over her shoulder, heading toward the less-populated right-field box seats. “Not when you got my dinner.”
“Thanks,” I said when I drew even with her. “Good to know I have some use, at least as a pack mule.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Oh, I’ll try not to be an ass about it.”
She stopped, and looked me up and down. “The Dark Lord is quite a punny guy, ain’t he?”
“Do you like limericks?” I said. “There once was a girl who was really rude; She came along and took my food . . . .’”
Sighing, she just shook her head. We resumed walking.
“What?” I asked. “You prefer ‘Yo momma’ jokes?”
“I’d prefer not finding you, like at all,” she said without looking over.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said, furrowing my brow. “Tell me, hungry stranger, when exactly did I intrude on your life and ask you to harass me?”
Rather than answer, she turned into the entrance for field boxes 143-169 and started down the tunnel. I slowed for a moment before she glanced back over her shoulder and gave a “Come on, already!” head bob.
I followed her. (As if free choice really exists!) By the time I got to the end of the portal, she was already making her way over to an abandoned set of orange box seats, well away from the thinning crowd.
I toyed with making a smart-alecky comment about not having tickets, but instead caught up with her again, and with nothing more than a nod, we sat down together. She took two hot dogs, both orders of fries, and the pretzel, handing me one drink in exchange. And a straw.
“This isn’t easy, you know,” she started, taking a chomp at one of the hot dogs that would put a velociraptor to shame. She swallowed it, possibly without chewing. “Oh, so freaking good!” She took another bite. “Okay. So first off, I didn’t think I’d be meeting you, or something like you, till muuuch later, if at all. I was sorta banking—hoping—for your non-existence. Or that maybe you’d never notice me. Man! This is absolutely insane! And kinda scary. I mean . . . damn!”
“You’re afraid of little ol’ me? Why I—”
“Look, Nick, I know being you may be old hat for you, but for me, talking to you is like beyond intimidating. For reals. Just finding out that you exist is just mind-blowing and disturbing in itself. If it wasn’t for the shock, I don’t think I’d be able to talk at all right now.”
“You don’t seem to be at a loss for words,” I said, then arched an eyebrow. “Back up a sec. Did you say ‘old hat’? Gosh, I didn’t think anyone used that any more. You don’t think I’m, like, the bee’s knees or a hep cat, do you?”
She sighed. “Why did I picture ultimate evil a lot less annoying?”
“See? No loss for words. And why do you persist in thinking that I’m ultimate evil?” I asked, my face getting warm. I took a big gulp of my Coke, letting the cold fizz of it spread against the back of my throat. “So does this usually work for you, finding random people and telling them they’re the Devil?”
She tossed the last piece of the first hot dog down her gullet and reached for the next one. “To quote Popeye: You ams what you ams.”
“Has it occurred to you that you ams crazy?”
“Yeah, but it’s not about that today,” she said, glancing over at me, then around the stadium. “Like, I understand—more than most—how you would want to keep a low profile and such, but why are we dancing this dance, and not even in the pale moonlight?”
“Because you’re leading?”
“Am I? Or are you letting me think I’m leading?”
“I suppose that would be the ‘cunning’ thing to do, wouldn’t it?”
“Yeah,” she nodded, shoving a half dozen fries into her maw. “That it would be.”
Taking another long pull of Coke, I glanced up at the jumbo video screen beyond left-centerfield. It occurred to me that although I was looking right at it, I suddenly couldn’t tell you who was playing or what the score now was. (Neither is important here, anyway.) With a shrug, I turned back to my dance partner, who had polished off the second hot dog and was inhaling more fries.
“Geez, that ain’t right,” I said, shaking my head. “Okay, let’s try this from a different angle. You apparently already know I’m Nick Brooks. So you are . . . .”
“Not that easy,” she laughed through a full mouth, batting her short eyelashes at me.
I smiled. “Call me names, take my food, abuse me, and still I gotta work for this?” I fidgeted with my collar. “Wow. Tough crowd.”
“Sarah,” she said, swallowing. “As if you didn’t know.”
“I didn’t.”
“Right.”
“So, Sarah, why don’t you believe me?”
With exaggerated effort, she turned and looked over each shoulder, then leaned close to me. “Because you’re the Devil,” she whispered.
Despite my heart skipping a beat, I shook my head. “Why do you keep on saying that?”
“Why do you keep on denying it? Look, I’m not gonna tell anyone. Who would believe me anyway?”
“The very nice people at the wonderfully padded place you’ve clearly escaped from?”
“I don’t think so,” Sarah said, leaning back. “Not after the way I killed them all and blew out of there.” She bobbed her head side to side. “All right, all right. I didn’t kill everyone. Just Dr. Callaway, Jacobs, and that stupid fucking therapist Mark. Yeah, and how right is that—therapist, the-rapist? He was all hands, that ass-suckin’ jerk.”
“Mark?”
“Yeah,” she said, shaking her head. “He claimed he had ‘an incurable clinical obsession with small breasts.’ Nice, huh?”
“Uh, the comment or . . . um . . . ?”
“Both, obviously,” she grinned, taking a deep breath and easing her shoulders back. She slowly exhaled and started again at the fries. “Well, it wasn’t a real loony bin, per se.”
“Per se.”
“And then again, they’ll never be able to pin it on me anyway, so why are we even discussing it?”
“Uhhh,” I shrugged. “Because you brought it up?”
“Fair point. So back to the big question: Why is Satan at a Mets game on a beautiful late summer night like this?”
“I’m here because it’s my job. Why is Sarah here on a beautiful late summer night like this?”
“Cause it’s my job,” she said. “No. Sorry. I forgot you’re pretending to be like a sportswriter, so I guess you have to say it’s your job. Whatever. I guess I’m here with a friend.”
“You guess?”
“Well, she doesn’t exactly know I’m here yet.”
“Ohh . . . it’s a surprise.”
“Only if she sees me,” she said, swallowing. She turned her head, peering up at mezzanine momentarily, then went to work on what was left of the defenseless fries.
“Ohh . . . so you’re stalking her.”
“No, no. I’m just keeping an eye on her. Watching. From a distance. Without her knowledge of it.”
“But not stalking.”
“No.”
“Spying?”
“Technically, I suppose. Yes.”
“Well as long as we have that clear,” I said, daring to grin. “What I’m not clear on is what you want from me.”
“To be honest,” she said in between bites, “I’m not sure, either. Answers? Approval? Verification? Or maybe it’s just a good idea to say ‘Hi’ to Lucifer Incarnate when you see him.”
“I’m not—” I stopped and took a deep breath. “Look, I don’t know how you’ve gotten this crazy notion into your head that I’m . . . who you think I am, however—”
“Look, yourself,” she said, again leaning close to me and lowering her voice. “We’ve both had enough of this two-step. Please stop. I know you understand this somewhere in there, probably because you’re one of the few people . . . things . . . beings . . . whatevers that may know what I am, that can like comprehend the reality of what I can do. So please, really. We can stop doing this now. I’m seriously asking for help here. I don’t know how or why I can do the things I can—”
“Things?”
“Please! Come on. Stop toying with me. You know what I mean.”
“I’m not toying. What things?”
“A demonstration, is that what you need?” she asked. She glanced around, then motioned to the video screen beyond the outfield wall. “Look up there.”
“What for?”
“This.”
She took a deep breath, then closed her eyes. After a long moment, she leaned forward. The screen, which had been displaying some player’s statistics, suddenly went blank.
“Yeah,” I started. “That’s—”
“Shhh!” she hissed. “Watch.”
The screen flickered back to life, except rather than the stats that had been displayed previously, there was a two-word message in six-foot-high glowing white letters:
“HI NICK!”
I slowly turned to her. Her eyes were still pinched shut, but clearly she was pleased with herself.
I looked back to the board. The “HI” turned to “BYE” for a few seconds, which then erupted into a burst of static before the board went black again. A moment later, it flickered and the player stats reappeared.
“Whaddya think?” she said, opening her eyes and turning to me.
I pondered what I’d just seen. “A lucky coincidence,” I offered.
Sarah nodded. “Sure. I thought you might say that. How ’bout this then?”
She leaned back and closed her eyes again. Before I could blink, that damn buzzing had returned, rippling through my noggin. It shuffled about, like an eccentric professor searching for a lost volume amid the haphazard stacks of paper in his office. After a few seconds, it stopped.
“Yikes!” she exhaled, opening her eyes and shaking her head. She shifted to the far edge of her seat, away from me, and shivered. “I don’t . . . Wow! Damn. I mean, sorry. I mean I didn’t dare dig too deep but I saw enough, more than enough. You. really. are. REAL! Holy craa—uh, yikes!”
I tipped my head ever-so-slightly toward her.
“I was hoping I was wrong or it was a trick or an illusion or . . . wow. Damn.” She glanced again at me, rubbing her arms. “Ooh—I mean, ‘Golly.’”
I kept my stare unwavering.
She lowered her eyes slightly. “What? Come on. Please don’t be mad. It was your idea.”
I continued to sit there in silence.
“All right, maybe not exactly. But I get it. Sor-ry. I wasn’t totally sure because it’s just so freaking nuts. I had to really check. Anyone would, right? How could I not?”
I didn’t so much as blink.
“Okay, you don’t have to say anything. Seriously. Like I only scanned the shallow pulp of your melon. I definitely now know who, or—and—what, you are. Don’t need to go deeper. Trust me when I say I truly really don’t wanna piss you off. I’m about scared shitless right now.”
I raised one eyebrow.
“Hey, I didn’t come looking or try to find you. It was like a total accident. Come on! I’m sorry. Please. Stop it. Say something. You’re freaking me out.”
“An accident?” I asked quietly.
“Really, it was!” she said, offering up her hands as if I had a weapon pointed at her. “I don’t profess to know much about the universe and everything. I can’t even account for what the hell I do. I mean, the heck. Heck! Heck! Not hell. Heck.”
She put her hands on her mouth, then gradually lowered them when she seemed to think she wasn’t about to be smited. “So what I was going to say is that one of the things I do know for sure in this world is that every single person I’ve ever seen has an aura or whatever around them, like a gray shadow of life-energy that trails them. Except for you.”
“Except for me?”
“Yeah. As you undoubtedly know, uh, you, are different. Way different. Crazy different. You’re surrounded by . . . it’s like a big black blazing conflagration, like a dark supernova. It’s weird and amazing and bonkers and unlike anything else I’ve ever seen. Somehow your . . . radiance practically blinded me from across the stadium! Hard to ignore that.”
“You detected my aura from across the stadium. Is that what you said? Over everything and everyone else?”
Sarah smiled. “Yeah, that’s just one of my ‘things.’ Believe me when I tell you I’d rather not be doing this.”
“Then why did you?”
“Because, as they say, ‘With great power comes great responsibility.’”
I genuinely LOL’ed (as the kids say), only stopping when I noticed she wasn’t laughing along. “Wait, you’re serious?” I said more than asked. “You confronted someone who you think is Satan himself, the Lord of Darkness, King of Lies, Master of Evil, potentially risking life, limb, and your eternal soul, because of . . . Spider-Man?” I shook my head, not even attempting to conceal my amusement.
“Hey, what else could I do? If you had my abilities, what would you have done?”
Continuing to smirk, I could only shrug.
“That’s right,” Sarah said, leaning forward. “So I saw the Devil at a Mets game, went right up to him and had him buy me dinner. Gotta count for something, right?”
“It would in my book,” I said. (See the irony there? Neat, huh?)
“There you go then,” she nodded.
“There I go then,” I agreed, taking a long sip of my soda. I glanced around the stadium, noting on some level of my frothy brain that the game was still progressing, fans were rooting, disinterested business men were networking, kids were eating Cracker Jack, and the Earth was continuing to revolve and rotate. “Now what?” I asked.
She locked her eyes to mine. “Now you please tell me what’s going on.”
“Going on with—”
“Daa—rn it!” she exclaimed, punching her knee. “Why do you insist on being so obstinate?”
“I don’t know,” I said, punching my knee. “Because you keep insisting I’m the Devil!”
Sarah shook her head. “Nope, this ain’t right. Not at all. You do know what’s going on, and you’re gonna make me do this anyway, aren’t you?”
“Do what?”
“Fine. Just don’t hold it against my eternal soul.”
Before I could open my mouth, the buzzing was back again. Rather than a quick zip or faint probing, it was different this time, almost as if there were physical fingers picking around the inside of my skull.
“All righty,” I heard her say clearly, “What exactly do we have here?”
The issue here was that she wasn’t moving her lips. She also didn’t strike me as a ventriloquist.
The presence in my head started massaging and stroking my brain in places, involuntarily forcing memories and moments across my mind’s eye as if it was squeezing ketchup—or if you prefer, catsup—onto an unadorned burger.
“Okaaay,” her voice continued to echo in my head while her mouth remained still. “After frolicking as a white-sided dolphin in the North Pacific about 30 years ago, that incarnation was over so you decided to free form bounce around Everything for a bit. You then came back to this Existence since it’s one of your favorites, had a chat with Al—not the press box assistant, but—”
She put her hands on her temples for a moment, massaging slowly and taking a deep breath. The voice continued in my head.
“You had a chat with Al—GOD! . . . . The God. Oh, and in Las Vegas while watching Don Rickles, which is absolutely beyond bonkers except it isn’t in the context of all this.”
She exhaled.
“Okay, so for reasons neither of you can explain, you both find him amusing. You then told Al that you were going to deposit yourself into your current situation, only revealing your true nature to yourself a few years ago. You now remember everything, literally Everything, except you’re not quite omniscient or omnipotent. Al—freaking GOD—thinks you’re deranged. But that’s how the two of you work, and Al expects that by now. In fact, if a moment came when it looked as if you were sane, Al would question the integrity of the very fabric of Existence. You laughed, at that, and at Rickles, and then launched yourself into the birth of Nick Brooks.”
“And here we are.” Sarah looked over and shook her head. “Shall I continue, or is that enough of an exposition dump?” she asked without speaking.
I leaned back and took a deep breath. I let it out slowly.
Sarah casually took the lid off her soda, tipped the cup back, and shook a few ice chips into her mouth. She crunched the ice, wrinkling her brow at me while she did. Her hands were trembling, however, ever so slightly.
“I don’t know what it is that makes Don Rickles funny,” I finally said, biting my lower lip. “His act is dated. It’s wrong, it’s offensive, but somehow he just makes it work. Talk about beyond bonkers.”
The buzzing hand politely left my head.
“Maybe it’s your appreciation of the politically incorrect?” she offered. “Sort of sticks out better when you’ve seen it all.”
“Maybe,” I said, mulling it over. “You’d be surprised how boring ‘it all’ gets.”
“I understand,” she said with a nod.
“No, you don’t. Even despite everything you just . . . said? . . . now, you really don’t. Not even remotely close. You haven’t even cracked the outer shell of the rotten egg that’s crammed in here.” I tapped my forehead. “But you gotta say something, right?” I shrugged.
“I guess. Better than peeing myself in abject terror.”
“True,” I nodded. “So, I’m not admitting to anything, but a term you may be looking for is electramorph.”
“Electra-what-now?”
“Electramorph. A rare being that has evolved through Nature with an inborn ability to perceive and control electron flow. Telepathy, telekinesis—all those Jedi mind trick sort of skills—are the usual by-products. To be technical, a mutation of homo sapiens with the potential for some ninja-like ass-kicking mental abilities.”
Sarah leaned back in her seat. “Electramorph,” she said, more to herself than to me.
“You probably won’t find it in Webster’s,” I offered. “Let’s just say there hasn’t been enough of them to warrant a listing. Yet.”
“Yet?”
“Yeah. For some reason they don’t reproduce very well. Something to do with the short life span, I suppose.”
“Short life span?”
“Well, it’s hard to tell,” I said, leaning back and shaking my soda cup. “There’s not exactly a lot of research data available, as it were. Most don’t live out any sort of normal life. Usually once their abilities manifest, it goes downhill quick. They’re either ostracized or burned as witches, or exterminated by those who want to control them and can’t. Or they just go crazy and kill themselves. Sort of sad, really.”
Sarah sat still for a long while, studying the scoreboard. On the field, there was a far-off crack of a bat, followed by a half-hearted cheer from the crowd. She took no note of any of it.
After a while, she nodded then turned to me. “So you’re saying I’m a mutant freak with like a short fuse burning against me?”
“I can neither confirm or deny that,” I said. “I’m simply throwing something out there you might be interested in. It’s a small cohort, so all you need is two or three bad apples to skew the results.”
“So there’s hope.”
“Of course there’s hope. Every morning you wake up there’s hope. Hope you’re gonna make it through another day, hope this species doesn’t destroy itself with its own technology, hope that OJ finds the real killer––”
“Did he do it?” she asked, blue eyes wide.
I shrugged. “How the hell would I know?”
“I don’t know. I guess I just figured if anyone would know, you would.”
“Cute.”
Sarah scratched the back of her head. “Well, what you said, if it’s true—and who knows, considering the source—it would explain a bunch. I shouldn’t be surprised that I’m a rare and evolved being.”
“For the record, I don’t think that’s exactly what I said.”
“Close enough.”
Simultaneously, we let out long breaths. I looked over to her. “So as it’s sinking in, all your preconceptions and beliefs are falling like dominoes and shattering into a bajillion pieces, aren’t they?” I asked. “It’s okay. I can see it. It’s a lot. You’re confused, enlightened, terrified. Everything is suddenly possible and impossible, but also upside down. Cattywampus, chaotic, and discombobulated. And then, the hardest part to accept is that despite all the manic and wild implications suddenly spinning around in your head, you like me, don’t you?”
She glanced over. A tiny smile creased the corners of her mouth. “What’s not to like?”
“My point exactly.”
She shook her head. “I still don’t believe this though. It’s crazy. Pure batshit crazy. Even after I’ve dipped into your brain and know it’s the freaking absolute truth and who—what—you are, it just doesn’t seem plausible. It’s just nuts. Insanity. Amazing. Have I mentioned ‘beyond bonkers’? Do you know what this all means?”
“Pat Buchanan is a complete fraud?”
“No! I mean, yes! But more importantly, that . . . you . . . you’re . . . uh . . . .”
“A Mets fan? Well, in my line of work, I am supposed to stay objective, but ever since I was a kid—”
“No! Stop that!” she implored, reaching over and grabbing my arm. “Please stop that. Dammit! I mean, not dammit! Sorry! You really don’t make things easy.”
“Should I?”
“I don’t know,” she sighed, letting go of my arm. “I really don’t know.”
“Me neither,” I offered. “Although for the record, it’s funny that you think random cursing might upset me somehow. Words are just agreed-upon sounds that represent ideas. It’s hard to get offended by any of them. It’s the thought that counts. But look at who I’m telling that to. You know all about thoughts, right?”
“Uh, right. Ha.”
“Have I broken you?” I asked.
Sarah was quiet for a second, then shook her head. “What? Yes. No. I don’t think so. Not yet. Check with me in a bit, though.”
“Okay,” I laughed. “Remember, you brought this unbidden upon yourself. I was minding my own mind.”
“True, unfortunately. No offense.”
“None taken. So, where do you want to go from here?”
“Well, it’d probably make sense to . . . .” She leaned forward in her seat, and very slowly, cocked her head to one side. “. . . to . . . .”
Rather than finish, she sort of leaned one ear forward as if she was trying to eavesdrop at a party, except there was no one within 60 feet of us. She remained frozen for what had to be at least eight seconds.
“Make sense to . . . what?” I asked.
Blinking furiously out of her semi-trance, she turned to me. “Make sense to go now. Adios, diablo!”
Before I could ask where, however, I felt a slight tingle under my scalp.
And then she was gone.
And it was just like that, too. No puff of smoke, no blink of the eyes, no twitch of the nose—just gone. (I have to ask Al later how she does it.) I was left sitting there, gourd mildly spinning, the empty hot dog wrappers in the seat next to me the only evidence that the prior conversation (and she) hadn’t been a hallucination. I must’ve been still shaking my head when they came up to me.
“Yeah, she has that effect, doesn’t she?”
I turned. A tall man in a nattily tailored gray Armani suit, sunglasses, and gumdrop yellow tie was standing there, smiling down at me. His teeth were perfect, as was his posture, goatee, and shaved head. If I were the betting sort, I’d wager that he regularly talked to a picture of Samuel L. Jackson that had been carefully tacked to his bedroom mirror. On the long ring finger of his left hand was a shiny gold wedding band.
Standing next to him was a woman, who—if I was still gambling—would have been even money that she had no inkling that she was a live ringer for Helen of Troy.
Seriously! Aside from the jagged, crescent-shaped scar that ran from just below the outer corner of her left eye socket down and along her straight jaw line, curving up and stopping just short of her wide, happy-looking mouth, her face was positively identical to that of the former wife of the King of Sparta. Projecting the same effortless grace and beauty, she even had Helen’s unremarkable nose, strong chin, high forehead, and poreless skin. Her dark pantsuit was buttoned close to her athletic-looking frame, and what looked to be quite curly black hair was braided back tight into a pair of short ponytails. Her full eyebrows arched over her emerald green eyes, which were scanning the seats above us.
“Excuse me?” I asked as I collected myself.
“Your friend there,” the man said, nodding to the vacant seat next to me. “She’ll get you scratching your head, won’t she?”
Since I really didn’t have any kind of intelligent response, all I could do was stare at him. He stared back, continuing to grin.
I glanced again at the woman. She was now engrossed in surveying the stadium’s lower seats, seemingly oblivious to us, so I turned back to the man. “Do I know either of you?” I asked.
The man stepped by me and, like a constipated hen settling down on an egg, lowered himself into the seat in which Sarah had been sitting. “No, you probably don’t,” he said, coughing into his hand. He crossed one long leg over the other, stretched out his arms, and leaned back. “But if it’s any consolation, we don’t know you, either. You follow?”
That, and my entire Earthly experience, was about to change.
You see, I, the entity affectionately referred to as “Satan”—who indeed had inserted myself into the human being Nick Brooks at his birth with no knowledge of my true nature when I first entered this life, none of my powers as one of the two primary entities of this Universe, and who still can’t bail out until my mortal death—was about to tumble into what could only be unequivocally and unavoidably called “Love.”
Again.