When the devil went down to the suburb of Tampa where my recently-ex-girlfriend and I rented a dingy studio, I wished I had put on a nicer shirt. Actually, I had been wishing that before he’d walked into the dive on the corner of my block – the stained Led Zeppelin T-shirt from three Old Navy Summer Sales and twenty pounds ago wasn’t what I’d pictured wearing for the occasion of saying “Yeah, you’re probably right” again and again to Monica as she broke up with me in my Ikea living room. But when she’d gotten into the Uber and left me silently standing out on the sidewalk, it hadn’t even occurred to me to go back upstairs and change before wandering down the street to Barry’s Saloon.
They’d had a band playing earlier, but it was almost eleven by now, so the group was starting to pack up. A girl idly picked at her guitar as the drummer took his time breaking down; I was a couple Miller Lites in and asked her if I could noodle around for a couple minutes. She probably wouldn’t have let me if the bartender hadn’t given her a look suggesting I could use a pity pick-me-up. I thanked her and started aimlessly strumming a few blues chords.
I was picking my way through a half-assed Stairway to Heaven when he sidled up to the stool next to me. It was a little awkward because I knew who he was, but he didn’t know who I was – the horns poking out of his bowler hat and tail snaking from his suit trousers made it pretty unambiguous.
He chatted me up, though. He said:
I ain’t from these parts, son, so if you’d be so kind I hope you’ll help me out, for I’m rather in a bind.
“Sure, man,” I said, “what’s the problem?”
I was headed down to Georgia, but it seems I figured wrong. Has this town a steed that’ll get me there by dawn?
“Sorry, dude, the Greyhound for Atlanta only leaves in the mornings.”
He puffed on his pipe and frowned.
My business yonder’s urgent, but it seems my fate is set. Methinks I’ll spend the night here, then tomorrow pay my debt.
“I mean, if you need, like, $20, I’m sure I could spot you –”
He let out a booming chuckle without a smile. The beer in my glass instantly froze.
Ah, my boy, the sum I owe is not that sort of toll. No currency of mortal man exchanges for a –
But I missed the end, because just then some drunk jackass bumped into the drum set, causing an enormous crash. “That’s rock and roll, baby!” he slurred. Then he noticed me. “Hey, you! Play ‘The Less I Know The Better’!”
I sighed. “I don’t know if that’s the mood.”
“What about Motion Sickness? By Phoebe Bridgers?”
I started speedrunning Wonderwall to shut him up.
He glanced at my companion, whose irises were like coal. “Hey! Aren’t you the guy from that Rolling Stones song?”
I turned to look at the Prince of Darkness again, who seemed to barely register that he was being addressed: his eerie gaze was now fully fixed on me. It traveled from my baleful face to my accelerating fingers to the unraveling threads at the bottom of my jeans.
Then he said to me,
Your hands move pretty quick, boy, and your song is like a dove But the woe in your demeanor tells me you’ve just lost a love.
“Oof,” I said, “you didn’t have to come for me like that.”
He went on,
I’ll offer you a deal, my sorry friend, if you’ll consent. Outplay me fair on your guitar, and I’ll pay her half of rent.
I thought for a moment. “What’s the catch?”
No tricks here: if you beat me, for this month I’ll make you whole. But if I get the best of you, I’ll leave here with your soul.
So this will sound emo, I know, but in that moment I really wasn’t feeling my soul that hard. To be honest, I hadn’t been for probably months at that point, to the point where I’d almost hoped Monica ripping off the bandaid might have actually made me feel better; but of course, in the thick of it, things mostly just sucked.
And anyway, I figured, I’d played in a band in high school.
I downed the last sip of my melted beer and said, “You’re on.”
As soon as he started to warm up, I regretted taking the bet. His fingers were nimble as lightning, playing with a fervor I’d never seen before – at least not from a human. The instrument reverberated with haunting tones that seemed to come from another realm. I realized with dismay that of course he must have had since the invention of the guitar in the thirteenth century or whatever to practice.
He handed it over to me. I started back at “Today is gonna be the day…”, screwed up the fingering under his unrelenting gaze, and sheepishly began over again.
I was just about to hand him the guitar back to get it over with when the girl who’d lent it to me walked up. “Hey, I’m gonna need that back now,” she said.
The devil protested,
But wait now, my good madam, you mustn’t be so cruel This fellow here and I were just about to play a duel.
She gave his pointy horns the same look she’d given my T-shirt earlier. “Sorry, you’re the literal Beast incarnate. And I have to return some videotapes.”
“Shame,” I said as she walked off. “Well, good luck catching your bus.” I scooted very quickly off my stool in the direction of the exit. But he stood too.
Bid me not farewell, for if our deal is not seen through, A host of ancient curses will await both me and you.
Would I have to haggle with him until the ancient curses relented, or wait till Guitar Center opened in the morning, I wondered? It was looking increasingly clear that I would neither manage to smoke a bowl nor play any League of Legends before bed that night. The streak had to end somewhere, I thought to myself, as I gazed wistfully at the huddle of well-worn arcade games in the corner: Pac Man, Big Buck Hunter, Dance Dance Revolution, …
“I’ve got an idea,” I said.
So that’s how I found myself sitting transfixed at the front of a group of barflies, yielding to the mysterious urge to tap my foot in spite of myself, as my fellow onlookers clapped and swayed watching the devil’s fingers fly up and down a Guitar Hero controller. He’d launched into Expert Mode without hesitation, his skill on the real instrument still visible now. And oh, how the cunning trickster beguiled the gathered crowd! He played them high and he played them low, he played them fast and, well, he mostly just played them fast.
He got to the solo and his eyes began to glow and shoot sparks. The bartender’s pour stopped midair. Somewhere outside, a wolf howled. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed that the girl from the band had paused halfway out the door to listen.
Then he hit the final chord and there was a hush. The spell did not lift. It was my turn.
I felt kind of awkward with all those people looking at me, so I waved my arms feebly to create some sort of, I don’t know, effect? Then I dropped them back to my sides because I felt silly. The crowd didn’t seem to react, although the girl by the door, who still had not left, muffled a giggle. I squinted a little, hoping sparks would shoot out of my eyes, too, but nothing happened.
So I walked up to the machine, took the plastic guitar from the devil, and, gulping and praying that this was the same version I had at home, keyed in from muscle memory a secret code.
The screen changed. I had entered Super Expert Mode.
The super expert notes of the super secret song began to flow, and with a super rush of adrenaline, I banged them out just as quick as they came. Was an angel guiding my hands that night? Were my small motor skills firing on all cylinders for the mad hope of not having to pick up a week of overtime at my retail job to cover rent? Or had I played the super secret song fifty million times until my girlfriend I mean ex-girlfriend threatened to yank out the cord until I got a real job or at least played a different game? Only those present at Barry’s that fateful night will ever know for sure.
At the time, though, those present at Barry’s were not in the best state to remember the whole business later, because they had just seen the screen display my score, which matched the devil’s, but all gathered knew that Super Expert beat Expert, because it was more super, and now the trance was broken, and now they were hooting and hollering, and now they lifted me on their shoulders and carried me around the bar until the bouncer muttered something about insurance. It felt euphoric until some sweaty elbow brushed my shoulder in just the way Monica’s hand used to, but had not for some time, and would probably not ever again, even though I told her I would have stopped getting high and playing League every night if she’d just asked me to.
I wasn’t the only one looking tense. The devil nodded curtly, tipped his hat, and handed me his Venmo to scan. Then he stepped to the side to take a call – I overheard something about collateral and liquidation. I didn’t want to look like I was eavesdropping, so I turned to the person standing next to me, who happened to be the girl from earlier.
“So, uh, do you have any fun hobbies?” I asked.
“Well, I like music a lot,” she said.
“Oh, right.”
The devil came back looking like he had something new up his sleeve. Before he could begin, I quickly said, “That’s it for me tonight, thanks. No more deals.”
But he said:
Put that soul back on the line, and I’ll give a fine reward Another month of rent, plus I’ll fix that damn Accord.
It had been months that I’d been dragging my feet on taking my car into the shop. These days I regarded a new light on the dash as just another whimsical decoration. Anyway, I supposed, how much could a soul that couldn’t even get it together enough to make a couple of phone calls really be worth?
“Fine. What’s the contest?”
It seemed that he had forgotten to think about that part. He took a long puff on his pipe and rifled through his pockets, which did not appear to contain any more instruments. Examining their contents and frowning, he finally said:
A thousand implements comprise the noble arts of men. But since tonight I have but few, let’s see you spin a pen.
Again he went first, and those lithe, bony fingers could spin a pen just as fast as they could play a guitar. He delivered an impressive performance. But despite having tormented humanity since the beginning of time, one thing was certain: he had never spent a full year trying each of his high school teachers’ last nerve until they sent him down to the guidance counselor to get diagnosed with ADHD.
I whooped him.
He took another call. Even more tense this time. Something about a broker and an account – a long period of listening, then the phone was jammed violently back in his pocket. He came back to me and sweetened the pot.
He challenged me to roll the better joint. I rose to the occasion. We played the Kevin Bacon game. I cited the director’s cut of a ten-percent-on-Rotten-Tomatoes buddy comedy he’d never even heard of. He stacked empty beer cans twenty high. I licked the bottoms and stacked twenty-one. By that point I had secured not only the remainder of the lease and the car repair but also a promise to do my taxes, a stack of Chipotle BOGOs, and information leading to the recovery of the missing mate to my favorite sock.
As the devil signed off on the paperwork, he told me in a low tone:
You’ve beat me fair and square, but still I’m sad that I must go. You see, you nearly solved a matter that’s been troubling me so.
“Could you elaborate?” I asked.
It seems your soul’s appreciated nicely after all. Now, mark-to-market, it’s enough to make my margin call.
He winked, turned to leave, and then turned back to me. In an even lower voice, he said, glancing over at the girl from the band:
One last thing I’ll say to you, before you leave my sight: She’s stayed here for an hour – bet she’d dance with you all night.
“Yeah, sure, I’ll bet,” I chuckled, rolling my eyes.
He dapped me up on his way out.
I gave my most winning smile-and-nod combo, fully intending to skedaddle as soon as he was gone. But no sooner had I closed my tab than a thunderclap rattled the glass and a bolt of lightning appeared through the window, even though it wasn’t raining. When I turned toward the noise, I saw a menacing silhouette looming back in the doorway.
AHAHAHAHAHA! came a booming cackle. The devil strode back up to me, eyes glittering anew. My stool felt as though a jolt of electricity had crackled through it; there was a sound like a snake hissing.
He said,
You shook my hand, a bet’s a bet, let’s test your newfound spine. Unless you really dance all night with her, your soul is mine.
I thought back. There’d been a fist bump, a clap on the back… ah, yes, and he’d clasped my hand.
“Is that binding?” I started to protest, but at once there was another thunderclap and bolt of lightning. Yeah, it was binding.
“What would I get if I did it?”
The T&C’s standard amount: my golden guitar to you.
I opened my mouth to ask another question, but he seemed to read my mind.
But she mustn’t know the deal: she has to actually want to.
I couldn’t remember having seen either of those parts of the Bible before, but the devil’s tail was twitching menacingly, so I didn’t push it.
I looked around Barry’s Saloon glumly. It was just not that kind of bar. The song playing was something by Bad Bunny that sounded like elevator music. There wasn’t even a real dance floor – instead, a couple of seedy-looking characters were grinding in the shadows. To add insult to injury, I wasn’t good enough at the real guitar to particularly need a golden one.
“Yeah, that’s not gonna happen. It’s 2022, man. I, uh, respect women.”
He smiled and stalked toward me. I tried to picture how he’d extract my soul – maybe he’d clamp a medieval device onto my head, or suck it out through my throat. Then I pictured myself lamely imitating some TikTok choreo, which was about the extent of my dance knowledge, waving my arms as pathetically at this girl as I’d done before the Guitar Hero competition. I wasn’t sure which image was worse. Someone else wandered up to the machine and dropped in a couple quarters. The sound hit like a taunt, reminding me that all my success tonight was about to spiral down the drain…
…and then suddenly I had one more idea.
“All night, you said?” I confirmed.
The devil gave a nod. My watch read 11:54: technically, six minutes till morning. He whipped out a flaming scroll, scanned it, and frowned.
I strode up to the girl and pointed at the Dance Dance Revolution machine. “Play a round of DDR with me – best of three? Winner gets a golden guitar.”
She whooped me. We’ve got plans to catch a show tomorrow. But I’m driving the long way around the Greyhound station, just in case.