The Bargain with Lucifer

"I'm Luke," he said, touching his thin mustache with his index finger. "And I know why you're here?"

"You do?" Paul asked then continued, "I don't know why I'm here. In fact I don't even know where I am. I just took off a few hours ago. What do you mean you know why I'm here?"

"You're fed up with your life. You've even thought about committing suicide, haven't you," Luke said. "I know a desperate man when I see one."

Paul gasped and felt a shiver shoot through him, a tremble. He swallowed searching for words.

Luke chuckled, seeing Paul's response. "I can help you if you're willing to make a deal," he said, folding his hands in front of him, still looking into Paul's eyes.

"What are you talking about?" Paul asked.

"I can help you live the way you want to live," Luke said.

"How do you know how I want to live? This is nuts!" Paul said, suddenly bewildered, not sure if he should be here, the trembling returning. "Who are you? What are you talking about?"

"I can help you if you're willing to make a deal," he repeated, smiling, looking into Paul's eyes.

"What do you mean by willing to make a deal?" Paul asked, shifting on his chair, taking a deep breath.

"Make a bargain," Luke said. "You know. A deal...make a deal."

"I don't get it. What deal?" Paul asked, shaking his head, looking into Luke's dark eyes.

"You're upset with getting old, withering away. You're feeling you haven't lived," he said, pausing, narrowing his eyes. "I know what you're missing and if you're willing to make a deal, I can give you another chance."

"Another chance, another chance for what," Paul asked.

"Another chance to have the young women you lust after give themselves to you, only this time, you will not live in denial as you have your whole life."

"What are you talking about? How do you know anything about me?"

"Intuition," he said. "Listen, I've been around a lot of years. There's not much I haven't seen and when I saw you, I saw an uptight old coon who wants to make up for lost time before it's too late." He paused, stroking his chin, looking into Paul's eyes. "I'm right aren't I?"

Paul scratched the back of his head, puzzled by what Luke was saying, not sure how to answer and sighed deeply.

"Well, that's a world weary sigh if I ever heard one," Luke said. "Listen, I've seen so many men like you who suddenly realize their best days are behind them. I bet I know one thing that's bothering you."

"Really, what," Paul asked.

"It bothers you that the pretty young women you see on the street or on that campus where you teach don't notice you."

"Wait a minute, how do you know I'm on a campus? How do you know I teach?"

Luke laughed, scratching his cheek with his finger and Paul noticed the long sharp finger nails. "It's not hard to see you're a college professor with that wrinkled old jacket with patches and I can tell by your eyes--eyes that know books but nothing about life. Anyway, it's hard to explain how I know what I know and it doesn't matter because of the offer I am going to make you."

"What offer? What are you talking about?"

"I can make those young women want to look at you," Luke said, rubbing his hands.

"This is nonsense. I'm an old man. They don't even see me when I look at them. They used to when I was younger but those days are gone."

"Right and that's what's bothering you," Luke said. "And I can change that if you are willing to make a deal."

"I don't believe you. This is crazy. You can't make young women look at me and suddenly want me in their bed."

"I can understand you being skeptical--an English professor, a distinguished poet, an intellectual," he said.

"How did you know that? How do you know anything about me?" Paul asked again, alarmed and amazed. "What the hell is going on?"

Luke chuckled at Paul's questions.

"How badly do you want to be a handsome young English professor again, not so uptight about morality and just follow your carnal desires, your lust. How much do you want that?"

It didn't take Paul long to know how much he wanted that feeling of being desired, how much he wanted to satisfy the urges he swallowed all those years every time one of the sexy young students came to his office, obviously flirting, looking seductively at him. He knew Luke was right, that's exactly what was bothering him. He was an old man with white hair and beard and stiff legs and worse, he was single, free, available for a sexual encounter, still lusty, but what could he do. He was invisible to them.

"Tell me more," Paul asked. "What's this deal you are proposing?"

"I want your spirit, your soul," Luke said, leaning forward, looking Paul in the eyes.

"You want my spirit, my soul," Paul said, bewildered yet curious, sensing who he was talking to. "Who are you?" he asked.

"Well, first of all, my name isn't Luke, its Lucifer," he said. "Honesty is important in the matters we are discussing."

"So why do you call this place "Luke's?" Paul asked. "That's not honest."

"Would you go to a bar called Lucifer's?" he asked. "Luke was a business decision."

"Okay, I can see that," Paul responded. "Now about this deal you're talking about, I have to tell you something. I don't believe in all of that. I think this is all nonsense, superstition."

"I'm not surprised to hear that," Luke said. "You intellectuals are all alike."

"But tell me, if I did believe you, what would you do to make what you are proposing happen?"

"I have a potion you will drink but only after you agree to the deal and we shake hands."

"And what will happen when I drink this potion of yours?"

"I'm not going to tell you what will happen but you will discover my power manifesting its self when more woman than you will ever want, desire you."

"So if I drink your potion and we shake hands and make this deal, women will suddenly start wanting me. I won't be invisible."

"Exactly," Luke said, "but you will give me your spirit and your soul. I will own you."

"Well, if that's what you believe, that's your business," Paul said. "I'm a poet, a prize winning poet and I don't believe in any spirit or soul, there is nothing to own."

"So you're an existentialist," Luke said. "You think you live and you die and that's it."

"Right, there's no spirit, no soul, no afterlife, no God, no Devil, or arch angel named Lucifer. It's all irrational mythology. The only thing that matters is my life and right now I'm miserable."

"Paul, I know you're an educated man, a scholar, a poet, a good poet. You're a smart man, but not a wise man."

"Listen, I beg your pardon for being so blunt, but I think this is nuts and you're delusional. You can't change my life. The only one that can change me is me and I have come to reluctantly and painfully accept that the days of having young women look and desire me are gone."

"So you don't believe if you drink my potion and we shake hands nothing will change." Luke sat with his hands folded, looking calmly at Paul.

"That's right, but I'll tell you what, if it makes you feel better I will drink your potion and shake your hand because I have nothing to lose," Paul said, shrugging his shoulder, "why not? By the way what's in your potion? It won't make me sick will it?"

"It won't make you sick. In fact it tastes like root beer," Luke said, getting up and walked to a small refrigerator on the other side of the room. "Do you like root beer?"

"Yes, I love root beer. It's my favorite kind of soda," Paul said watching Luke bring a wine bottle to the table.

"Well, Paul this tastes like root beer but it isn't. I cannot reveal what is in it, but I promise you it will not make you sick; however, it will definitely do what I say it will. Young sexy women--blondes, dark haired, red heads, tall, petite, will be attracted to you."

"I'm not sure I should drink it," Paul said. "I don't like drinking what I don't know. How do I know I won't get sick? Why should I trust you?"

"You're a cautious, skeptical man, Paul. I don't blame you for not wanting to drink this potion and not know what it is," Luke said, getting two tall glasses from a cabinet behind him. "So I will drink with you. I wouldn't drink something that would make me sick, would I? I guarantee it's safe and why would I harm you if I want your soul and spirit."

"Well, if you're drinking it, I guess it's safe," Paul said.

Luke removed the cork from the bottle of dark liquid, a small amount of vapor rising, "The recipe for this potion is ancient and I've had this bottle for a long time."

While he poured the dark liquid into both glasses, they could see the foam from the potion rising to the top of each glass. Luke paused, waiting for the foam to settle before pouring more. While waiting, holding the narrow bottle just above the glass, he smiled at Paul.

"See the foam," Luke said.

"Yes, what about it," Paul asked.

"It reminds me of how people fall in love, how they fool themselves."

"How they fool themselves?" Paul asked, somehow remembering falling in love with Evelyn almost thirty years ago.

"Yes, you really don't know how much root beer you have until the foam settles," Luke said, watching the foam in the glass settling before pouring more. "People get fooled by the foam and think its love."

"I guess, I did," Paul said. "My marriage certainly died after about eight years though we stayed together for twenty-five."

"Eight years," Luke said. "Not too bad. Many don't last that long."

When both glasses were filled, Luke handed Paul a glass and lifted his up and they clicked glasses, "To lust!" Luke said.

"I'll drink to that," Paul said, lifting the glass to his lips, watching Luke take a big drink and he felt the sweet root beer tasting potion swirl around in his mouth before swallowing.

When Paul finished drinking, he put the glass down on Luke's desk. "Not bad," he said then stood up.

"Well, let's shake hands now that we have agreed on our deal. You will see you have made a good bargain, Luke said, extending his hand.

"Okay, if you think so, you know what I think," Paul said, reaching over the desk, looking into Luke's eyes, shaking hands, "but I better get going. I have a long drive home."

Luke came around the desk and walked over to the black door and opened it for Paul and smiled, "Have a good journey. Have fun. Your best days are ahead of you."

"We'll see," Paul said and walked down the dark narrow hall to the barroom, then past the four men, ignoring their glances at him. He stopped and put a five dollar bill down on the bar and nodded to Zach. He stopped at the front door, glanced around the dark smoky room and left.

Paul sat in his car, looking up at the shabby white building and at the black sign over the door, glanced around at the motorcycles and took a deep breath, "Well, I'll be," he said out loud, shaking his head. "Now that was strange." He turned on the car, backed out and decided not to listen to the radio, instead drove in silence, trying to remember his way back to the university and the pile of papers on his desk, thinking about his conversation with Luke, or Lucifer and the deal he made, thinking how delusional people are, some thinking they're Jesus, or the devil, or wishing they were a vampire or a movie star or a famous writer. "I'm not delusional," Paul said. "I'm miserable and I know it and no potion or bargain is going to change that."

It was dark and late when Paul got back to the college. The campus was quiet, practically empty except for a few students walking back to their dorms or a couple sitting on the wall circling the fountain, the water turned off for the night. He walked past the dark library and into the empty humanities building to his office on the third floor. Realizing he had to pee, he went down the hall to the men's room, turned on the florescent light, causing him to squint and stood there in front of the urinal, holding his limp penis, watching the pale yellow liquid arcing into the white bowl, thinking about the insane idea of women suddenly lusting after what he was holding in his hand, imagining what it would be like if that actually happened, dismissing the idea, but zipped up and went to the sink to wash his hands, glancing at himself in the mirror, looking at his watery blue eyes, his wrinkled brow, the bags under his eyes, his thinning white hair, wondering what he would look like if he suddenly looked younger and sexier, then sighed, shaking his head from side to side, resigned to the reality that he was an old man now, his longing for a return of his youthful vitality an impossible dream. Suddenly, he remembered the song, "The Impossible Dream" from the musical, The Man of La Mancha about Don Quixote and how foolish he was thinking he could win the heart of Dulcinia. Paul wiped his hands with a paper towel and took one last look at himself in the mirror then sighed with deep resignation.

Two days later, his papers graded with shorter than usual comments written in red at the bottom of the last page, he was relieved to know he was now on summer break and could get back to trying to finish the poem he had been working on for several months, hoping he could break though what was blocking him and nail it. He stood at the window of his small apartment in a complex that had a pool and looked down at the people lounging: children splashing, a man with a hairy chest diving off the board at one end, several women wearing bikinis sun bathing, talking to each other, sunglasses, blonde haired, dark haired, their slim tan bodies captivating him, causing him to sigh, something he had been doing a lot lately.

He went back to his notebook and to the poem he had been working on and suddenly, he felt energized and the words started coming like they hadn't in a long time. Rather than finish the poem he had been writing, new words came to him and he just wrote without crossing out a word. He stopped and read the first line, "I'm getting old because I haven't died." The line made him laugh, and he continued reading what he had written. When he got down to another line, he felt tears coming to his eyes, a burning ache when he read,

"And when I think of love,

getting older doesn't make the longing go away.

It's just the thought of a lover's skin

doesn't fade that easily and comes back

like a waking dream late at night.

When he finished the poem, reading it over several times, he sat back happy that he was able to write, was able to reach where he hadn't been able to for the last eight months and felt relieved that he was able to get out what he needed to say. "Maybe I haven't lost it," Paul thought, holding the pages he had finished in his hand.

He felt a warm glow come over him and suddenly thought, "I deserve to celebrate," and got up from his desk, glanced out the window at the people around the pool and decided he was going to go to the Gilded Cage Cafe in town, a local hangout that had good coffee, decadent pastries, served wine and beer, light meals a place where students, teachers, artists gathered to talk or use the internet. He hadn't been there in over a year but today, after finishing the poem, he felt refreshed and wanted to get a cappuccino or a glass of red wine.

When he went into his bedroom to change his clothes, he looked in the mirror and looked into his eyes, noticing, they looked really blue, not watery the way they usually did, though his skin had wrinkles, he had more color, his cheeks had a glow and he thought he looked good, different and thought finishing a new poem had an impact on him, maybe he would go back to the poem he had been working on for months and felt confident he could nail that one too.

Something made him take off the wrinkled white dress shirt he wore and take out a dark blue t shirt from the drawer and slip in on. "I haven't worn this shirt in years," he thought but liked the way it looked on him. He turned to side and noticed his paunchy belly was gone. "What happened, I look thinner," he said and remembered he hadn't been eating much recently. He hadn't felt hungry and realized he often didn't eat when he was tense or depressed. "Guess I'm losing weight," he thought, then decided to wear the white sneakers he had in the closet instead of the brown shoes he was wearing. "Why not," he thought as he sat down on his bed and put them on, liking the way they went with the dark blue jeans he had put on that morning. Before leaving, he glanced at himself in the mirror one more time. "Not bad. You look pretty good for a change, not as wrinkled. "

When he entered the café, he put the New Yorker magazine he grabbed before leaving on the small table against the brick wall and went up to the counter to order. He knew what he wanted and when the young woman came to him, "Oh hi, Dr. Cantor," she said. "I haven't seen you here in a long time."

"Well, that's because I haven't been here in a long time," he joked.

"Right," she laughed. "That explains it. What can I get you?"

"Well, I was going to have a cappuccino, but I think I'll have a glass of wine. Do you have Chianti?" he asked, suddenly remembering when he vacationed on the Italian Rivieria twenty years ago and the image of him sitting in a café in San Remo when he was on sabbatical working on his second book came to him.

"Yeah, we have Chianti," she said. "I'll get it and bring it over to you," she said.

"Cool," he said, surprised. He never used that word but it popped out of his mouth and made him chuckle.

When he sat down, he opened his New Yorker, turning the pages, looking at the ads, stopping at an article that looked interesting then the young woman brought over his wine.

"Here you are, Dr. Cantor, she said. "By the way, I was in your writing workshop a few years ago. I'm Wendy Paquin. You probably don't remember me."

"Yes, you look familiar," Paul said, looking up at her, noticing the stud in her nose, the bright brown eyes, her long dusty blond hair and couldn't help notice how her breasts stretched the green t shirt she was wearing with the words Gilded Cage written in gothic letters and noticed a picture of an empty cage with the door wide open. "Yes, Wendy," I remember you." He paused. "I like your shirt and that image of an empty bird cage."

"I do too," she said. "Well enjoy your wine," she added then paused, looking at him. "By the way, you're looking pretty good," she said and went back to her place behind the counter.

"Well, that was nice of her to say," Paul thought as he watched her walk away noticing her short black skirt, the slight swaying of her hips then took a sip of his Chianti, tasting the sweet thick texture on his tongue, again remembering the bright, warm sun of San Remo.

While reading and sipping his wine, he looked around the café at people drinking, talking, reading, noticed the hanging plants, the soft jazz playing and remembered Luke's Bar and Grill and the contrast in atmosphere. He looked over at a table in the corner at an attractive dark haired young woman sitting by herself wearing a low cut tight orange tank top. She was reading a book and had a yellow scarf tight lightly around her neck, a coffee mug next to her hand. He could see her cleavage and wondered whether she was wearing a bra. "She looks pretty sexy," he thought then went back to his New Yorker but glanced over at her a few times and saw she looked over at him then went back to her book. He was surprised that she looked at him realizing how rare it was that any woman looked at him, but a few times their eyes met then both looked away and he knew there was an attraction, but also knew nothing would happen.

When she got up to leave, putting her book in a backpack, he noticed she was wearing grey sweats that were tight on her ass and he wished he had the nerve to talk to her. He wondered what book she was reading and thought he would ask her if he had the chance as a way of starting a conversation. He felt his heart leap when she walked by his table and smiled at him before leaving, their eyes meeting. He noticed how her long dark curly hair flowed over her bare shoulders, her dangling earrings. He was stunned by the way she looked at him realizing it had been years since a young beautiful sexy woman looked at him like that. He could not take his eyes off her as she walked away, and wondered if he'd ever see her again. "Now that's someone I'd like to get to know," he said.