text: I never been a churchgoer. That’s the short answer for why I’m here. But I suppose you want the long version. I guess I owe it to you, after all these years. I never been a church goer for one reason: the relationship with the divine ought to be personal. Some say that temples all exist as a form of power. So man can divide himself into the ruled and the ruler. Anyone who claims such is as bad as their straw theology. It requires you believe that man is irreparably divided -- a man is either evil, and aspires to rule; or stupid, and fit only to be ruled. It robs people of their intelligence. I was never much for robbery. People don’t go to hallowed grounds because gods compel them. They do it for the ritual. Some might call it habit, but the two ought not be conflated. People hate habits. Tobacco is a habit. Finger-nibbling is a habit. Rituals, people like. We don’t call our toilet and coffee the morning habit -- no! The morning ritual. Mankind went and conflated ritual with the divine when he oughtn’t’ve. This road right here is my ritual. Before I stood on it, I walked it. Once at morning and once in the evening. I awoke before dawn, and strapped into my clothes. Jeans with a hole, flannel faded, and a patchwork jacket. Breakfast was never part of the ritual -- too inconsistent. Sometimes toast, sometimes fruit, sometimes memories. It was the boots that really kicked it off. Good, dependable boots. Ragged as all hell and ugly as sin by the end, but damn if they weren’t wonderful. Had memories for a lot of days after I bought them. I never regretted it. No sir, not a minute. And with the boots on my feet I was out the door and down this road. Back then, there were more trees farther up from town. Short, ugly little things. Full of bramble and toxic radican. But early morning? It could've been a fairy forest. The dew always looked like diamonds, even up close. Took my breath away. Then of course the road led into town. All shuttered up at that hour, such are those kinds of towns. All the working people getting rest for and from the night. You might catch an older gal on a porch, smoking away. I used to wave to them and smile. I think they liked that. A little genuine attention, you know? I ended at the mill, at the far end. It’s not there now, just some roots of it. The stacks used to stretch up to the heavens. I never saw any smoke come out, none of us did. We were too busy on the inside, though I reckon a little slipped out after shift’s end and got lost in the night. Only light was the town down below, warm with flecks of neon. Walking through town at the end of the day and back up the dark road, that wasn’t part of the ritual. That was habit, and nothing more. The Devil, though, he wasn’t habit. He was ritual. You look a bit surprised, but I told you: don’t mix up ritual and divinity. If your morning toilet can be ritual than so can the Devil. My boots were still new when I first met the Devil. I had memories that morning with tea -- the pover kind. I got half way down the road, a quarter mile, when I saw him. Imagine my surprise when I come across this older feller in a good suit, good shoes, with a nice hat on his head. And he had a cane -- well, like this one. The kind of thing you buy because you can. You know he looked a little out of place. “Good morning,” says the man. He had a kind smile and not a speck of dirt on him. And I say, “Good morning,” and then it occurs to me that there might only be one reason such a feller would be in such a town. “You on the Board?” I ask. And the man just smiled. “The Board?” he asks back. “For the mill -- aren’t you a Director?” says I. He shook his head and chuckled like when a little kid tells a joke. “No,” says he. “I’m not on a board of directors.” “The clothes made me think it,” I tell him. “Are you lost?” “No, I’m waiting for you,” he says, and then calls me by name. That sent a little shiver down my spine. “Who are you?” I ask. I might’ve whispered. “Why, I’m the Devil himself,” he says, tipping his hat and bowing a bit. Like it was an honor to meet me. “But I got lots of names, so call me what you want. Old Scratch, Split-Foot, Dragon -- just don’t call me Lucifer.” I think I swallowed sand and asked why, but I can’t be sure. And then I must have asked what he wanted with me, ‘cause what else do you ask Old Scratch? “Not a thing,” he says, looking off into the rising sun. I didn’t believe him, but the sun was awful high in the sky. I made a polite goodbye and went off to the mill. Didn’t tell a soul what I saw and by lunch I chalked it up to my breakfast. But that night, walking down into town, I kept an eye out. I thought I might see that kind smile under that nice hat in some dark alleyway, or under a neon sign. Maybe with one of the girls on the porches or handing some boys a bottle. I never stayed in town after shift’s end. I never had anything against the boys who did. It just wasn’t for me. I got it in my head that our little town must’ve made a hell of a ritual to catch the Devil’s attention. Then I was afraid. You run across the Devil by daylight, and you sort of feel safe about it. But in the dark? That’s his turf. I jumped at shadows the whole way home, but that’s all there was. I barred my door and swept the blinds closed, though. But in the morning, it all seemed silly. I cussed myself out for it. “The only Devil is the one in your head,” I told myself. Still, I ate half my lunch for breakfast, so that he’d stay in my head. Then strapped into my clothes, and those good new boots, and went on my way. And halfway down the road stood the Devil. I came close to turning heel for home, but that wasn’t a luxury I had then. “Good morning,” says the Devil, with a hat tip and a little smile. “It was,” I told him, and went on my way. Same as the night before, I was afraid. I bolted the door at home, and was sure I’d wake up to brimstone in the air. I didn’t feel silly that morning, but I wanted to. So I resolved a solution: I would poke at the Devil! My finger would go right through and I could be satisfied. It might mean I was crazy -- but at least the Devil wasn’t standing before me. I strapped into my clothes and boots and got on my way. “Good morning,” says the Devil. He held his hat in his hand and watched birds in the air. Full head of hair on his head, silver as anything to come out of Oneida. I took two fingers and poked him -- like this! A good, solid, poke, right? You felt me real as real can be. And you can guess I felt him real as real, too. My heart went up my throat and then beat faster than anything in the mill. The Devil, he just kind of rocked back a bit. Didn’t even stop watching the birds. I hurried to the mill, and back home after shift. But I didn’t bar my door that night. I got it in my head that the Devil wouldn’t come after me in the dark when the town was all lit up. I got to thinking that it must be like a moth to flame, you know? The next morning I woke up feeling silly. I had an epiphany that morning when I woke. Who’s to say that the old man was really the Devil, and not just some old nutter? I cussed myself out, strapped into my clothes and boots, and went on my merry way. I whistled as I walked. “Good morning,” says the nutter, and again he addressed me by name. This time, I felt no shiver in my spine. It’s a small mill town, and if some nutter wanted to learn my name -- well, that wasn’t hard at all. The older gals who smoked in the mornings knew my name. Even if they’d never known me. “It is,” says I, and I smiled wide. The birds flitted around, sometimes landing on tree branches and causing a cascade of diamonds. The sun was warm and the breeze was cool. It went on like this, for a time. For a long, long time. Seeing that old man by the road became ritual. Once, I humored him. “Say, why don’t I ever see you tempting the boys in town, Dragon?” I ask. “Ain’t that your kind of scene? Shouldn’t you be scooping up souls all night?” He just smiled at me. “Who steals their own china?” he says. At the time, I thought that was just nutter talk. Even though I told myself he was just a nutter, something always felt off about it. I never told anyone at the mill, not a soul. In my head, it was because it felt like a silly thing to talk about. But in my heart, it almost felt like fear. If he was just a nutter, why did my mouth dry up when I tried to mention him? No matter the season, no matter the weather, he was there. It started to eat at me. I’d stand at my door every night, fingers inches from the bar. Spend ten minute just pacing, telling myself how silly it all was. I started to wonder if he wasn’t a nutter after all. Maybe he was the Devil. Maybe I was the nutter. Years went by, and all we did was small-talk once a day. Until one summer morning. It had been an oven of a summer. This must’ve been August or so because I was already baking when I woke. There were no diamonds on the trees that day, and all the birds stayed in the shade. Not a cloud in sight. The sun felt angry that day. I didn’t realize what was wrong with the day until I made it to town. I waved at one of the gals -- then it kind of clicked in my brain. I’d made it all the way down the road -- and no nutter. “You seen an old man?” I ask the gal on the porch. “I see lotsa old men, hun,” she says. “This one wears a nice suit and has a cane,” I say. “A real silver fox type.” The girl scoffed a bit. “Nuna the old men I see wear suits,” she says. I ask around the mill, too. First time in years my tongue got loose on the subject. I ask if anyone heard about any deaths. None of the boys could say for sure. I was nervous and afraid after shift. I was nervous to see a punk showing off his new cane. The kind you buy -- or take -- because you can. I was afraid to catch a glimpse of some pale flesh in the underbrush. The man was a nutter, but he was a harmless one. And he’d gone and died somewhere. I was sure of it. I even said a little benediction at home. I barred the door, too. If some hooligans had done in the old man, I didn’t want them catching me unawares in my sleep. Dinner that night was stale bread -- I couldn’t find anything else in the dark pantries. In the morning, though, I found an apple. I figured it must’ve rolled into the corner days back. I was ready to eat around the worms. But the thing was shiny and red, like it’d just come from the tree. I strapped into my clothes, and my good boots which were becoming a little less than good, and got on my way. The day was hot, but not the abominable heat of the day before. The ugly little forest was steaming like the Amazon and the birds only flew when they really had to. I whistled a bit, and looked up at some passing clouds. “Good morning.” My head jerked down faster than a mill press. The nutter, of course, just smiled kindly. “I thought you died,” I say. He frowned a little. “Just out on some business,” he says. “Did you miss me?” “I guess I missed the habit of it,” I say. “Ritual,” he says. “You missed the ritual of it. A habit is a nasty thing, like drink. Ritual is something better. After all, we call the morning toilet and dress a ritual, not a habit.” “Well, glad you’re not dead,” I say, and start on my way. As I passed him, he says, “I liked your benediction.” I felt a fear in me again. I should’ve run or prayed. “Thank you,” I say instead, and started away again. “I trust you found my compensation,” he calls after me. “I picked it myself.” I didn’t know much what he meant, then. The mill boys ask if I found my old man, made a lot of jokes about it. I think they saw I was shook, and cut it out. I got home that night and barred my door. Shut the curtains, too. Then I saw the remains of my breakfast, just a thin apple core, sitting on the table. It hit me like a press. The nutter’s compensation that he picked himself. I didn’t sleep a wink that night. I wasn’t afraid of brimstone. He wasn’t the Devil, but he had been in my house while I slept. He’d been somewhere real close by when I gave my little benediction. Next morning, I strapped into my clothes and boots and marched down this road. The old man was standing here same as always. He wasn’t paying me a lick of attention. I stomped right over to him and threw a mean hook. I had big arms in those days. I had no doubt in my mind I was about to knock his jaw off. Instead, I ended up in the dirt. It was like he was there on minute, and then --snap!-- gone the next. I didn’t see him move an inch. I looked up at him and he just had that kindly smile. “Good morning,” he says. “You son of a bitch,” I say. I scrambled up and got in his face -- like this -- and grabbed him by the lapel. “You were in my house,” I roar at him, but he just smiled and chuckled at me. “You know that isn’t true,” And I say, “Damn right it’s true. You heard me speaking, and you put that apple in my cupboard. You were in my house.” Then he narrowed his eyes at me. Real wry and foxish. “You barred your door,” he says. “For fear of hooligans.” The world got cold. I did bar my door that night. The old man pulled my fingers off his lapel one by one. I could tell that I’d only held on because he allowed it. There was a power in his touch. “You really are the Devil,” I whisper. The Devil just straightened out his lapel a bit. “I told you that years ago,” he says. “What do you want with me?” I ask. “Nothing,” he says, then looks at the sun. “You should get going -- you’ll be late.” I did get going. I didn’t know what else to do. But when shift ended that night and I walked through town, and then down this road in the dark, I wasn’t nervous or fearful. Yes, I really had been swapping sunrise pleasantries with Old Scratch himself the last few years. He’d never tempted me under those neon lights. Never once had he sprung out of the shadows all leathery wings and claws. If he hadn’t done any evil to me all these years, I doubted he’d suddenly try. Besides, I was a mortal man. How much can a mortal man do to stand against something like the Devil? How much can you do, huh? The answer was, and is, not much. So I relaxed. The Devil was part of my ritual, and I part of his. We made small talk. Sometimes I ask him a deeper question about life and such, but he wouldn’t say anything. Just chuckle. But if I ask him if God’s got a beard, he’d go and tell me all about the Lord’s bushy new sideburns. Time, and the country, moved on. We stopped making things they way we did. Started with a few layoffs. I blinked and the mill was running on a skeleton crew. No one could be fired and keep the presses pressing and the gears gearing. But it started to be cheaper to work us less. And the more free time the boys had, the more they spent in town. But I was a plow horse born into a man’s skin. I started getting frustrated, then angry. I was having memories and pover more days than not. Things started to break, and I knew they couldn’t be fixed. With winter coming up, I had to scrimp for coal and firewood. And so one morning, walking down this road to a short shift, I was just fuming like the mill stacks. “Good morning,” says the Devil. He was leaning on his cane and watching a snake eat a mouse. Just enjoying the day. I wanted to see that cocky bastard in the dirt. I kicked his cane out from under him. I kicked it clear into the bushes, but my other foot slipped from under me. I fell on my ass. And the Devil? Didn’t move and inch, course. Leaned on nothing but air, like his cane was still there. “Why don’t you fall?” I say. “Perks of being a deity,” he says, and leans up straight. I stood up, and when I wasn’t looking that cane was back in his hands. I looked down at my feet: my boot was torn open clear at the toe seam. I cussed a blue streak. “Mad?” says the Devil. “Yes.” “Why?” he asks, and tell him. I tell him about the short shifts and the short wages, about the layoffs. I tell him how angry I was without the work. “That’s not really true, is it?” he says. “No work is your frustration, but not why you’re angry enough to kick the Devil outta himself.” “I guess I’m angry at the boys from the mill. I always thought they were stupid for living in Company houses, eating Company meals, and spending Company dime in town.” “And now?” he says. “Now I feel stupid. I hate those boys -- they get less work, and they just get happier.” “Do you want a habit?” he says. “Would a habit make you happier?” I looked down at my feet. My toe stuck clear out on the left one, and the right one wasn’t far behind. I looked up, and I came this close to asking for a nice habit. “Say, what about a pair of new shoes?” says the Devil suddenly. “You must think I’m stupid,” I say. “No way I’m making a deal with Devil for shoes.” “No, no, no,” says the Devil. “I mean, I need to trade something, but let’s not get eternal. What about your old shoes? I give you mine, and I take yours.” I looked at my boots again. No way I could actually run around the mill in them. “Fine,” I say. I expected the shoes to switch like magic, but the Devil just pulled them off one at a time and handed them over. I did the same, and we switched footwear. Socks, too. The nice shoes looked a little silly. But they felt fine. Divine, even. The Devil moved from foot to foot in his new old boots, and smiled at them. “I like these,” he says. “Very nice.” My walk that morning was easier than ever. The shift was short but smooth. No one seemed to notice I was wearing dress shoes, and I didn’t care if they did. Walking through town, I half expected my feet pull me under the neon signs with their own demonic will. But if anything, I cared less than ever before. I wasn’t mad at the boys with bottles and girls. A few days later, a chill set in. “Cold morning,” says the Devil. “Is,” I chatter back. “You’re coat looks a little threadbare,” says the Devil. “And I’ve grown tired of mine.” We switched coats. I can’t say I regretted it. That winter was as bitter. The next week, I found my pants replaced on the hanger with a sleek new pair. My old flannel was gone, too. A nice dress shirt hung in its place. With a tie. Turned out, I knew how to knot it proper. “I didn’t ask for pants or a shirt,” I say to the Devil that morning. “I thought de-robing on the road would be uncomfortable in this chill,” says the Devil, hiking up my old trousers and thumbing a hole in the flannel. “Besides, if someone came along they might think I were robbing you. I’ve never been one to rob people. I have that reputation to maintain.” I couldn’t debate that. The next morning, he gave me his hat. “Free of charge,” the Devil says, sweeping a hand through his hair, like this. “I’m due for a change, anyhow. Can’t be the same old goat forever.” When I walked into town that day, I tipped my new hat to a gal. I saw her shiver, and she rushed inside. A few weeks more passed. The chill got worse and worse, until one day the sun shone down and melted the snow. The trees were full of crystal-clear icicles. Winter birds landed on the branches and made them tinkle together like windchimes. It was wonderful. “Good morning,” I say to the Devil. “It is,” he says. I stopped a minute to admire the ugly little forest. The Devil held out his cane to me. “I don’t think this is much use to me anymore,” he says. “I’ve got nothing. You already gave me this hat,” I say. “It’s not appropriate for me,” he says, gesturing to my clothes he wore. They seemed to fit better than before. I took the cane and hefted it. See the stone on the hilt, here? That day, the whole forest looked like that stone. “Well, I best be going,” says the Devil. “Where?” I say. The Devil looked a little scruffier, and a little younger. “I’ve got to get to the mill,” he says, and walked off to town. The mill burned down that day. Word is the Foreman fired one boy too many, and the machines just couldn’t be run right. But no one can really say for sure. Not a living soul made it out. For a while I lost my ritual. Still had a habit of standing here on the road, but it wasn’t the same. For a while, anyway. But enough of that. That’s just a long story from long ago.