Brass / stories / 2005 / Hail

And there, walking along side of the parking building, Roger knew he was about to taste destiny.

Roger was on his way to pick up some friends for the night out.  They lived in a busy part of downtown.  People lined the streets one either side, causing traffic to snarl its way throughout.  Roger had just parked his car in the parking structure to the right of him and was on his way to his friends’ apartment two blocks south.

Something was different this night.  He could tell by the faces of the random people walking opposite to the left of him.  A few snapped around briefly to where they came, to see if they could further taste what they had just seen.  A certain fear started to grip Roger’s inner being.

Noise was apparent and imminent.  Roger thought that perhaps a rowdy group of friends drinking the night away were causing havoc, pushing each other into the faceless crowd as a newfound, friendly game.  Or perhaps a couple was on the brink of a heart-wrenching breakup, throwing their drama into the nearby walking sea.  Roger knew deep within, however, that he was wrong.

Commotion surfed ahead.  Slowly, Roger sensed a deep darkness stirring in his belly.   Strangely, it felt as if an old friend he had not seen in a while was nearby.  Perhaps it was a friend he had not seen in years, but he couldn’t pin down either the face or the voice.

Suddenly, without warning, a brief parting of the crowd in front of Roger granted him a glimpse of what he was in for: there, in a clearing, a homeless miscreant could be seen rushing from one stranger to the next, shouting – to the maximum capacity its lungs would permit – clear, flowing, unbridled judgments of metaphysical damnation. 

The demon was in his early 30s: shirtless, with sun-battered skin and a fading lock of yellowish hair on top of his scared, beaten, worn head.  A belt of a lap pack flung around his waist with every new-found charge, spouting his tyrannical escalades with vigorous passion.

Briskly, the crowd ahead swallowed Roger’s clear view of sight.  He continued his pace normally, now with an ever-so-subtle hitch.  Oddly, Roger felt threatened but not scared. 

For a moment, he thought that perhaps this scene was a staged tirade for the entertainment of humanity.  He reasoned that if only he would look closer, he would find cameras and lights and directors and actors all focusing their attention on a promising young actor playing his defining role in an independent film.  This film, as such, would be a forthright grass roots project.  It would be the kind of film that you dream about as a kid: starting out with minimal funding, bolted together with brilliant organization, fueled by the passion of a determined producer – the kind that just won’t take “no” for an answer.  The movie would finally see the light of day and be welcomed with grand praise and admiration from Sundance’s finest and Canne’s elite.  From there it would explode upon society like a wicked, unyielding firestorm.  Everyone would demand a ticket.  Everyone would yearn for this masterpiece. It wouldn’t be long before regular, common people began conversations with “Hey, have you seen…”  This is set in the fabric of time; this was destiny. Entire lives of communities would be rendered incomplete until they saw this very film.

Another parting of the crowd ahead quelled any such optimistic notions.  There, on the opposite side of the demon’s clearing, were two unarmed security guards, clearly waiting for backup before taking on the filthy hoodlum.

Roger continued.  He was an obvious suspect for the marauder.  He was dressed up for the night: obnoxious bright red silk shirt that gleaned in the light and shimmering silver pants.  He looked sharp, and he knew it.  Unfortunately, he also looked like fishing tackle for the beast ahead.

Roger was close to the clearing that the demon had carved out.  People were quick to cross it, praying that they would be spared claws and brimstone.  Roger witnessed a teenager taking the brunt of the demon’s ravaged punishment, the teen then sobbing quickly past.  Roger anticipated the time, some five seconds in the future, when the demon would unleash its worst upon him.  A certain sense of anxiety danced with excitement.  Roger couldn’t help but to contemplate his judgment.  What sort of dark fortune lurked within this well-worn soothsayer?  What dark, plump fruit would be plucked from Roger’s heart to be exposed to the mouth of eternity?  Something deep within him stirred greatly with resonating remorse.  Suddenly, Roger was encompassed by the brisk thought of turning around and fleeing with all he had.  He couldn’t face his judgment.  It was too much for him!  But somehow, Roger’s legs continued to churn onward.  The click of his shoes grew fainter as the anticipation of his soul’s damnation grew with determination.

Finally, Roger entered the cusp of the demon’s clearing.  He noticed that it wasn’t really a clearing, but a crossing for an entrance way into the parking structure along side to his right.  Cars periodically pulled in and out.  Lucky for Roger, no cars were in queue.  The demon had made its home here. 

With haste, the ghoul swiveled its hips towards Roger.  Roger continued a step without the recently acquired subtle hitch.  His very essence braced with all it had.  In one fluid motion, the monster roared towards Roger, screaming with thorough utter contempt.  Roger stared straight ahead not knowing what todo.  Judgment was at hand.  The demon rushed with greater purpose.  Noise flooded from its lungs alongside into Roger’s ear.  Roger couldn’t help but to wince, only to find the demon continuing past him.  It took a split second for the noise to fade to a tolerable level.  The howling judgment was meant for a newfound car pulling into the structure behind Roger.  Roger’s stomach clenched with tenacious fret.  What sort of sign was this?!  Where was his judgment?  What sort of demon was this?

Behind him, Roger heard the demon spout off intelligent obscenities to the wheeled transport.  Hearing the demon’s prophecy in whole made no sense to Roger, but he instantly knew the message was only to be understood by its victim.  The whispery coarseness of the demon’s timbre touched Roger deeply.  He knew that if he had handled the brunt of the demon’s diatribe, he would be touched on a level that he had never encountered in this life.  It was as if the judgment was meant to feel the very core of soul. As Roger pressed on, he swore he heard the noise of banging glass.  Ahead, the helpless, unarmed security guards whispered into their shouldered static boxes.  It was the most they could do.

Somehow, Roger felt robbed.  The impulse to turn around and glare at the demon filled him.  Perhaps he could provoke a judgment out of it.  Void filled Roger’s insides.  His bile turned to void.  His intestines secreted void. What was he to make of this demon’s non-fortune?  Roger now faced walking the rest of his life, waiting for judgment in some other lifetime to befall him.  He felt deeply cheated in a way; the declared fate twisted his face. Still, Roger couldn’t stop thinking about how that demon chased past him.  The moment echoed in his mind like a vivid fantasy.  In slow motion, he could feel the demon looking at him in an intimate way, in a way that he’s never felt before.  It was as if though the demon’s eyes pierced Roger in that very brief passing.  With horror flooding his heart, Roger could see the demon’s mouth crack open slightly, as to give a sly smile of approval.

Roger’s hallowed being expanded with a deep ringing revulsion.  He had just won the acclaim of a hell-bound soul.