The Devil and 20 Gs

“20 Grand would solve a fuckton of problems, right?” Tommy Rodriguez thought about that often. Pay off student loans on an unfinished degree or buy a new car. Go back and finish that unfinished degree. Maybe start a business. Something. Start over. But it’s never really that simple, is it?

Life had seemed to pass Tommy by. He was a moderately successful artist without a dime to his name. He had anxiety, problems sleeping, and a frustrated libido.

20 Grand would also sure buy a bunch of weed.

Ah weed. Always his go-to vice. What a shame. After going through a surprise health scare and surgery some months earlier, Tommy had found himself struggling even with enjoying his said go to vice. The Mary Jane just didn’t give him the same love it once had. Tommy hadn’t painted much, either… which wasn’t an ideal situation for a painter. He hadn’t really done much of anything. He did have a nervous breakdown, though. That was something. Christ, that was something. Tommy was kinda lost.

“I’m kinda lost,” he thought to himself more than a few times a day. See? Kinda lost. This omnipotent narrator offers no lies. This is an honest tale. Well, as honest as any tale could be. Of course, the whole world is kinda lost these days, as everybody’s still stuck in the middle of eternal COVID sheltering in place. Now, as you’ve just read, Tommy was a fine artist. So one would think that he’d be pumping out work without worrying about a proper day job and having all that free quarantine time on his hands. But no. He’s over it. No inspiration. He’s just a bit lonely, is all. Okay, really, really lonely. Maybe he’ll hit up an old girlfriend...

Who’s he kidding? What old girlfriend? The last few hadn’t been great. The few before that weren’t super fond of him either. And frankly, the anxiety had been kicking his ass up and down the street. His nerves were fried like two eggs, sunny side up. But maybe, just maybe, if he could score 20 Gs he could pack up and move to England or something.

Tommy had been to England some years earlier for an art show. He didn’t sell a bloody thing, but he did meet some nice folks. Especially this pretty girl of Bangledeshi descent. She was called Vitra Singh. Well actually, it was Vitra Singh! As Tommy put it, because he couldn’t just say her name, only shout it from the rooftops. She was adorable. Short, warm, and with giant brown eyes the size of planets. She was cosmopolitan, but dorky. Kindly, but sarcastic. Brilliant, funny, and perfect. He’d marry her in a heartbeat if he could. 20 Gs would let him get over there to start over. Granted, what the fuck would he do once he got there? Sell fish and chips? Vitra Singh! was pretty much his ideal woman, wasn’t she? Tommy had spent so much time idealizing her that he‘d easily forgotte that she’s actually a real person too. They’d honestly only spent a little time together. As friends. No romantic entanglements whatsoever. He had never even properly kissed her...

Ah… The Devil’s in the details.

And that’s when the Devil showed up at his door holding a suitcase filled with 20 Thousand Dollars.

“Seriously though, I thought you’d look more like David Bowie.” Tommy thought when he met Satan. Our hero was rather surprised by the Dark Lord of the Abyss. The Devil was a short, stocky man in his late 60’s or something. Well dressed, sort of. His suit was nice, but not too nice, ya know? Off the rack, and not tailored at all. But the guy did have 20 Gs.

“I’m sorry to disappoint, but honestly friend, who are you to complain? I’ve got 20 Large in this suitcase, and it’s got your name on it.”

Tommy was perplexed. “Okay… so this is a bit too good to be true, yeah? I mean you just showed up pretty randomly. How do I even know that you're the Devil? I mean, you could just be some asshole. And that cash could just be Monopoly Money.”

POOF! The Devil then transformed himself into a GIANT, HULKING BEAST! 9 feet tall, red skin, cliche tattoos (ya know like flames shooting up his arms and a big-ass 666 across his massive disco tits… so, disco tits are big muscles that don’t really do much; it’s a thing). The Devil stomped his giant hooves through a cloud of smoke and huffed. And he puffed. He didn’t blow anything down, but he did have a rather exaggeratedly stuffed crotch.

“Is this good enough for you?” Said Satan in that cliche, auto tuned voice like they have in the movies. He breathed a little bit of fire just to hammer it home.

“Meh. You look kinda fake. Like a cheap C-Movie monster. But oh alright, I’ll bite; you’re the Devil.” Tommy was convinced enough; this dude was the Devil. The big monster turned back into the short, stocky guy from before. He opened the suitcase to show Tommy, and sure enough there were five rows of one-hundred dollar bills. “So how ‘bout it, Tommy? 20 Grand? No strings attached.”

“Yeah, right. Okay dude, whatever you say.” Tommy was clearly skeptical. After all, this was the Devil we’re talking about.

“You don’t believe me, do you? But why? I’m just trying to help! Take this money and all of your problems will be solved.” The Devil was just as confused with Tommy’s disbelief as Tommy was with the Devil suddenly showing up at his door.

“Really? 20 Grand is just suddenly and magically gonna make everything better? Sure it would help a bit, but my real problems are still gonna be there. I mean sure, I could use a new car. And I really only got dick in the bank for savings. But I read the Monkey’s Paw in high school. I saw Bedazzled, both the original and the remake. Ooh Elizabeth Hurley! Much better looking than Peter Cook. Both English. Like Vitra Singh! Sigh, Vitra Singh! But I digress. You’re the Devil. And you’re not English (which might’ve sold your case better, just sayin’). You lie. You cheat. You steal. You got strings a plenty. And yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s usually the case. Or if there are no strings, then there’s crazy consequences. Like I take the 20 and then suddenly I grow boobs or my dong stops working or my ass falls off. Or I end up spit roasted in some Hironymous Bosch painting. I dunno, but I’d bet the farm that there’s some Twilight Zone shit involved. I mean, you totally just showed up outta nowhere.”

“I showed up from Hell, obviously. And, with all due respect, so what????? My boy, you’re rather desperate these days, aren’t you? I’ve heard you cry out in despair. I’ve seen you howl in panic. I’ve tasted your tears. I’ve come to you as a friend with a lovely offer to help and you’re throwing it in my face. People always seem to want to turn to the Other Guy Upstairs in times of need, why shouldn’t I get in on that action?” The Devil was persistent to say the least.

“Okay, okay. I take the 20 Gs. I could do some great stuff with 20 Gs. But then what?” Tommy remained suspicious. “Sorry dude, I just don’t trust you. I’ve had a hard enough time this year with all the bullshit I’ve gone through. I can’t sleep without pills. I have a shit time calming down. I haven’t had a day job in a year. I haven’t got any retirement. I’m lonely and I’m getting old. I don’t drink; I don’t smoke. Weed ain’t what it used to be. And now I gotta worry about the fucking Devil? Worry about owing him? What am I gonna owe? What’s the vig? My soul? No thanks. I’d rather trust my shrink. And that’s saying something.” Tommy honestly didn’t know what a ‘vig’ was but still managed to somehow use the term correctly.

The Devil was taken back. “Say what? You’re turning me down? Can’t you see that I’m just here to give you a hand...”

“Yeah, no. I’ve gotta solve my own shit. I’ve gotta work on me. I’ve got a lot to figure out. I’ve got a long road of healing ahead, but I am going to heal. I’m healing even now. I know I’ll be right again. I know I’m safe, and even though I know it’s hard to believe, I still have to. I’ve got to believe in me. Quick fixes are nice and all, but they’re not real. You’re not real.” Tommy wasn’t sure where this sudden burst of confidence came from, but he was gonna run with it. “And besides, 20 grand ain’t shit anyway. ” Tommy really wasn’t sure where that statement came from either. E

“But…” The Devil was dumbfounded.

“You’re not real.” Tommy was insistent.

“But…” The Devil kept trying.

“Dude,” Tommy meant business. “Not. Real.”

“Sigh. Very well. You’re right. I’m not real. I’m just a figment of your stupid imagination. Or a hallucination. Or both.”

The Devil proceeded to pull out a small black book from his suit pocket and flip through its pages. “But permit me this observation: I noticed that you’ve thought about completely giving up, haven’t you? Feeling uninspired, feeling empty, feeling sad… Lots of ‘Woe is me! In your life.”

Satan held up his little black book and showed it to Tommy. “See? It’s all right here.” And there it was, plain as day. Scribbled among The Devil’s notes it read: “Woe is me! - Tommy Rodriguez”

“I have plenty more of that nonsense in here too. I haven’t even gotten to your browser history. Really, Tommy… your porn habits have gotten a bit freaky… I mean, yikes! But alright, as you said earlier, I digress.” The Devil decided to not poke any further. Which was a totally uncharacteristic move. Maybe old Scratch had felt sorry for Tommy, or maybe this wasn’t all that fun for the Prince of Darkness. Who could tell? The Devil wasn’t used to mere mortals giving him so much shit. He tucked his little book back in his pocket, sighed and continued, “You don’t give up, do you? You keep fighting and chugging along. You keep the struggle and you fight. And no matter how much I endeavor to fuck you up, you remain determined to help yourself. Damn. Well, I guess the Other Guy Upstairs wins. You win. Best of luck.”

POOF! The Devil vanished into a puff of foul smelling smoke. And that was that. Tommy assumed it was brimstone. Brimstone was supposed to stink, and this stunk. So did Satan. Was the Devil just a figment of Tommy’s imagination? Was he a hallucination brought on by anxiety? Or meds? Loneliness? Did it even matter? The experience was real enough for Tommy, even though Satan’s special effects were kinda lame.

Tommy sighed. “20 Gs could’ve totally helped my ass out.” Tommy laughed for the first time in months. “Ah well, I guess I’ll go for a hike. And, when I’ve finished walking around for fun instead of having to just get somewhere, I think I’ll go finish that painting I’ve been putting off forever. Some lunch would be good. I’ll send Vitra a message. Just to say hi.”

So Tommy Rodriguez went about his day and did these things. Vitra wrote him back later and lamented the brisk English weather.

And Tommy Rodriguez lived.