I WAS POSSESSED
Around 9:15 tonight, I talked on the phone with a chap who was interested in selling me something, which I happened to be interested in buying. The thing itself is not really germaine to the story I'm telling.
The guy's e-mail was devil@blahblah.com, and he answered the phone by annoncing his name - Del. Hence Devil. I talked to this very animated, if not altogether bugged out guy, and we made a plan to meet up at a bar on Folsom and 17th. During our conversation, he insisted that I drop in the bar for a drink, explaining that a great band new band was playing; who could be, in his words, the next Flying Burrito Brothers. I told him I'd see how things looked when I got there. We were appointed to meet at 9:50 outside, and I promised I would be punctual.
As I sat there at my desk trying to get off the phone with the guy, he asked how he would distinguish - in the middle of the crowded bar. I glanced over at the heavy red jacket I'd just worn on the motorcycle ride home.
"I'll be wearing a shimmering, sharkskin-like red jacket." I told him. "You won't miss it."
When I got off the phone, I considered washing a basket of dishes to pass the time before our meeting, but I was suddenly overcome with a great burst of physical energy. I stripped off my shirt and started doing push-ups on the rug in my diningroom. Then I began shadowboxing in front of the small vanity mirror in my bathroom. I was really getting into it, and my form looked tight. It was like - whack- whack - whackwhackwhack... Combinations of body hooks, and Thai uppercut elbows... Everything in the arsenal: Fop Fop Fop. Throwing long, staright jabs, with fingers extended outwards, to accentuate the form, and point it like a dart. It was really great.
I took a deep breath, and let my shoulders relax, the repose still feeling like fluid movement. I reached into my pocket to check up on the time before my appointment, and gasped when I realized I was supposed to meet Del - Devil - whatever THAT minute.
"Oh shit!" I said aloud. "Fucking late."
I grabbed the red jacket to put on over the white undershirt I was wearing, when I was suddenly seized with the impulse to run to the meeting at the bar. Instead of putting on the red jacket, I tied it around my waist.
"Baby, let's blow - we gotta go now." I said to my dog, as I hurriedly passed him, stretched out in the hallway.
The two of us jogged down the stairs, and when we landed on the sidewalk, there wasn't a car, or another soul to be seen. We took off running, crossing 21st st at a diagonal, and heading north on San Carlos. We were going pretty fast; it was between a jog and a run. The scenery of seedy white and off-white houses seemed to flow by like a kaleidoscope, as my lungs began borrowing oxygen from my brain, to supply the anaerobic thrust. Bay windows, cornices and fire-escapes cut against the dark clarity of the night like teeth on a saw-blade as it coasts to a stop. The blocks went by like they'd been reduced two-thirds in size.
At 18th, we cut east across Mission St., and into that other world, where tended yards are replaced by cars parked on the sidewalks. The few people we passed, seated on stoops, appeared cut short in the midst of forming an impression of us as we sped by; the air making a slight thwish sound against my wind pants.
When I reached the corner of 17th and Folsom, across the street from the bar where our meeting was to take place, I slowed and began to bounce back and forth on the balls of my feet like a boxer; left to right. With my fists up around my chin, I stepped in towards a lamppost and started throwing roundhouse kicks at it - but managing to slow the kick to nothing just before the point of impact - and my lower shin would bounce straight back to the point from which the kick was thrown - reset and BOOM off again - like a semi-automatic. I was rushing on every phermone, hormone, trombone and gall stone. I headed across the street to look for this Del inside the bar.
Inside the place was full: Every seat and stool occupied, and everyone riveted to a country trio on stage playing a sumptuous ballad. A blond-haired girl singing was fronting the band and she was a doll. From all the way across the bar our eyes made contact for a little more than a moment. I leaned against the door, as there was nowhere else to stand, and watched them play. I was amazed by how good they were.
I remembered the red jacket gag, and I untied it from my waist. I was sweating like a horse from the running and Drunken master workout session, and it felt like the air around me was 125 degrees. I realized I must have looked a fright, all pink-skinned and sweaty, but with the jacket on I felt ridiculous. Nevertheless I turned the collar up like the Fonz, and made a big deal out of smiling and nodding my head affirmatively at everyone in the place - as if to say - Yes, I'm THE guy...
The girl crooned on her sweet hillbilly number, but I had to keep pushing the door open to see if the dog was still there waiting for me. This drew a couple of the other patron's attention, but they seemed to avert their eyes from my friendly glance. Indeed, I looked a fright.
When the band finished their tune, the girl on stage asked the audience if she and her ensemble should do another one. There was applause and a few hoots: A guy off towards my right yelled back across the bar heartily: "Fuck yeah!". He was enthusiastic, and I could see he wanted to give the band some love, but his words didn't quite come from the diaphragm, and the words sounded a little false, like he'd checked his swing
There was a moment of quiet bar mumurt, in the wake of the guy's utterance, and I suddenly stepped forward ever so slightly - and filled it.
"IS THE DEVIL IN THIS HOUSE?" I yelled, very near the top of my lungs.
There was absolute quiet in the bar. As the saying goes, you could hear a pin drop.
I have an inherently deep voice, and the louder I go, the deeper it goes - and the gravel comes in - and the sand - I even heard a few nuts and bolts in there too. People have told me that when they heard me raise my volume, even without any intended anger, that it's scary sounding.
Almost everyone in the bar turned around to take in lobster-boy, sweating profusely in a red snowboarding jacket, who'd uttered the vaguely maniacal yell: I enquired about the devil, like I'd come in there to kick his ass.
"YEAH, I'M OVER HERE." Yelled back a guy I couldn't see. He was around behind some people gathered at the bar itself.
I felt a slight gratification that I'd gotten an answer. I could sense that most people in the bar had written me off as an obnoxious, possibly insane heckler. The thing had become a curious little event, and I enjoyed the center-stage moment. As my teacher Chris Bayes once confided to me: Clowns are not always there to make us laugh.

But then it turns out the guy who answered to the name Devil - is the wrong guy. He had no idea What I was or Who I was talking about. I got the wrong Devil. What is the probability of that?
"You're the wrong Devil." I said, turning to walk away. "I'm sorry for the inconvenience."
When I reached the door, I stopped before pushing it open, and turned to the angel singing on stage. I knew she'd look at anyone leaving in the middle of her song. Our eyes made contact, and I bowed slightly, like a Thai, my hands pressed together before my face. I slipped out the door in the smallest way I could.