PODCAST-SLOW WALKING OUT OF BABYLON
*This originally appeared in Literally Stories, an international literary journal.
One day, I meet Beelzebub standing ahead of me in line at the To God Be the Glory Soup Kitchen. Bathed in the glare of the fluorescent lights that flicker above us, the man glistens. Shards of hard white light reflect off his glimmering jacket, obscuring my view.
But that one glimpse gives me the shivers.
Our line inches closer to the table and away from the dazzle-splattering tubes. I notice the expanse of him, almost seven feet stretching toward the ceiling. Tuxedo jacket with wide lapels, crisp white shirt with tiny black buttons, tux pants with a satin stripe and the crease ironed in, patent leather shoes.
Pretty glamorous for a soup kitchen.
Looking closer, I notice the too shiny jacket, frayed shirtsleeves, a missing onyx cufflink, highwater pants, and significant lifts on the heels of his shoes.
I hear a familiar whisper. “Run, child!” It’s the same voice I sense when I attend a Sing Loud and Pray Hard meeting at the soup kitchen.
My heart, that duplicitous muscle, quivers. Shall I run? If so, in which direction? Toward or away?
I lean my ear toward God’s lips, waiting for instruction. But the man steps between me and God, catching my eye. He sparkles in my direction, reeling me in.
Why? Am I flirting or terrified?
I inhale. I smell sulfur and bug spray with notes of Old Spice and cookies baking. You wouldn’t know it now, but I used to be a sommelier of men, not that I ever had the willpower to heed warnings.
I don’t lift my head. He turns back to the full table.
After he piles food onto his plate, the glittery guy whips around. With a warm smile, or maybe a hot leer, he says, “Join me for lunch.” A command more than an invitation.
I freeze. I gasp. Usually, when people get a full look at my face, they turn away in horror. I realize that he’s not repulsed.
I barely tip my chin in assent.
Beelzebub beams and bows. Like a magnificent prince of darkness, he takes my elbow. He leads me, his damaged princess to a rickety card table onto which he slides his paper plate. With a flourish, he pulls out the folding chair, “For you, my lady.”
Of late, I’ve been called Whatever Your Name Is, Hey You, and Girlie plenty of times, but never anything like, “my lady.” At least not since the beginning of my ending.
Now, hand on my shoulder, he guides me into the seat. At his light touch, the hair on my neck bristles.
He removes his jacket, rolls his sleeves and tucks into his heaping plate.
Beelzebub comes at me all end times and Armageddon and the beauty of a Texas cactus and swing dancing in a barn, the benefits of ivermectin and the perils of vaccines. Now and then, he lures me into his word tornado with an alluring image, like the sweet taste of that first ear of summer corn, especially when you pick it straight from the stalk then toss it into boiling water.
He spouts paragraphs without taking a breath. All the while he’s inching his arm along the back of my chair, until the flesh of his arm rests heavy on the flesh of my neck.
I feel hard muscles, icy knots. At first, I edge away from his intrusion. But then the rush of his words beguiles me, entices me into his world.
I re-frame my experience. I give new labels to these feelings I’m not even sure I’m feeling. I relax into his protection, enjoy being surrounded by his strength.
We dine on juicy franks, dripping with mustard, ketchup and relish, heaps of sugary brown beans, crisp Doritos that cover our fingers with orange dust, and a dessert of Mott’s Applesauce in a foil cup.
He proposes a cranberry juice toast. We raise our plastic ups, touch rims. He declares, “You are special, my dear. Let no man, no misplaced morals, no selfless thoughts impede your path to the pursuit of pleasure, no matter who or what must be set on fire along the way.”
I don’t know what he means or what he intends, but I am luxuriating in the attention, the visibility. I believe he sees me, embraces me. His pronouncements offer me a palace, unlike the hovel I live in now.
We lean in toward each other on our loveseat of rusty metal chairs. So close, I let myself believe that Beelzebub smells more like Old Spice and cookies than sulfur and bug spray. He smooth talks me into a date, dinner out on Saturday, the next night.
I walk home to my one-room studio apartment, a grubby dump with a fold-out couch, a microwave, a sink, a shared hall bathroom, and roaches for roommates. As I drift off to sleep, I realize that Beelzebub never asked my name.
Saturday night, we meet out front of the To God Be the Glory Soup Kitchen. He pulls up in a swirling cloud of smoke, engine backfiring, muffler rattling. To my hopeful ears, the rhythms sound like fanfare, a drum roll announcing his regal entrance rather than a death rattle.
The air clears, the setting sun creates a warm red glow on his Cadillac.
Beelzebub unfolds himself from the driver’s seat, gangly, long arms and legs, leaps onto the sidewalk and opens the car door for me. He’s all zippity doo dah. Barely corporeal, bordering on surreal. A vibrating string of energy.
Close to the car now, I see that the passenger side is crushed, partially repaired with Bondo and painted the shade of an orange emergency cone. Should I worry about what happened to the last passenger? I dismiss the thought. Instead, the words, royal coach enter my mind.
As my dark prince opens the door, it creaks or sighs or possibly groans. I perch on the gray vinyl seat, trying to avoid the glue on the curling duct tape that crisscrosses the torn fabric.
A pine tree air freshener hangs from his rearview mirror. The scent doesn’t cover the stench of sorrow that fills the interior–notes of sour milk, old shoes, not quite empty cartons of Chinese food. Perhaps I am a sommelier of cars now.
I try to lower my window, but it doesn’t budge.
He smiles, beneficence oozing from his pores. “No worries. I’ll turn up the air.”
He does and the car fills with the odor of wet cardboard.
“Olympia Diner on the Babylon Turnpike.”
“Don’t you mean Berlin Turnpike?”
“Ha! Broaden your mind.” He shifts gears then smashes the gas pedal. We go from zero to sixty as we cruise onto the entrance ramp of the turnpike.
I stare at the rusted floorboard beneath my feet. Through giant holes, I view my bleak life rushing past: My dad dying of kidney failure when I was five. Losing my twenty-year-old twin brother to an IED in Fallujah. MBA in hand, starting my dream job in marketing at twenty-four—my new boss saying I would be the face of the company. A head-on collision with a drunk driver at twenty-five that killed my mother but left me alive with a re-arranged face and blinding headaches. Losing my job, the family home and now scraping by with money earned by walking dogs.
We’re on the throughway now, flying past the brick tenements and old factories. He revs the engine and yells, “This baby’s got power. I’m going to take you places.”
He darts around cars, forcing his way through the middle of two lanes. I grip the armrest, panicking, re-living the accident that changed my life.
The man opens his mouth and out floats glowing word bubbles that wrap around my soul, “You’re safe with me, Babe. Trust me.”
I take a deep breath, tamp down my fear, dare to dream. I envision exchanging my space heater for the sun’s warmth, snuggled in a comfy beach chair, waves dancing along a white, sandy beach.
But then, I look ahead at the road on which he is careening. Fear ripples down my neck, spine and out my arms, until I feel tingling to my fingertips. “Please slow down.”
Sweet voice, dripping with the promise of pleasure, Beelzebub oozes, “Stick with me, dearest and you’ll never feel the ache of hunger. I’ll feed you sweet cinnamon rolls straight out of a blazing oven.”
I am starving, my stomach hollow and aching, my spirit spirals into an abyss.
His nostrils flare and his smile widens, exposing his incisors, teeth that can cut through flesh. “We’ll get us a house. Make babies. Live off the fat of the land.”
I see now we are inches from rear-ending a tractor-trailer. Louder, I yell, “Slow down!”
The man accelerates. We barely miss the truck, but now we are taking a sharp curve on two wheels. I scream.
He screams back. Only louder and wilder.
I hear sirens. Wonk, wonk, wonk. Oooeeee. Oooeeee! I look through the rear window and see no one coming to my rescue.
We ascend into space or maybe we descend. We are surrounded by color, red, orange, black. Shafts of cobalt-blue lightning rip through the space. I am suffocated by the heat, yet my heart and limbs feel icy, numb.
Time passes. Hours, maybe decades. Engulfed in the chaos, I lose my sense of self. I struggle to remember anything. Who am I? What is my name? Finally, I sigh the words, oh god.
I take four deep breaths, wait, then take another four breaths, then I lean my ear toward God’s lips and listen.
From everywhere and nowhere, a light breeze sweeps through, causing the pine tree freshener to flutter.
Barely audible, as if spoken from a great distance, I hear a whisper. “That creature will suck the joy out of your soul then spit out your dreams, one by one.”
I turn to Beelzebub. “Stop the car!”
“We are almost there, my dear. Why stop now?” He reaches to pat my shoulder.
I push away his hand which I now see is scaly.
“What is my name? Do you even know my name?” I am crying now.
I see a neon sign ahead, OLYMPIA in pink and DINER in orange.
I ask again, “WHAT AM I CALLED?”
Beelzebub leans back, “To me, you are food for thought, a trifle to be consumed. You are an extinguished star. You are yellow snow. You are dead meat, literally and figuratively.” He laughs hard enough to make the car shimmy and swerve.
He slows but doesn’t pull over.
I pop the lock, tumble onto the road, rolling twice before stopping.
Beelzebub evaporates into the Stygian gloom.
My forehead and right arm bear the brunt of the fall. I lie still, in shock.
I take stock. My face and arms are scraped and bruised, but nothing worse than what already is.
I see the garish pink neon sign: OLYMPIA DINER. But the inside lights are dimmed. I sit up. Only one car in the parking lot.
From behind me, I hear a voice, neither kind nor unkind. A stocky, older man in a white apron, carrying a full bag of garbage. “Hey, what’s this, now?”
He helps me up and I begin to cry.
The man starts when he sees my face in the light of the flickering sign. He recovers his composure and says, “We’re closing, but the boss, my wife, is inside.” He laughs when he says, “the boss, my wife.”
He leaves the overfull bag in the parking lot. With one arm, he steadies me, as we walk in.
Although the overhead lights are off, I see a counter with stools, tables with the chairs up, a juke box, and several booths. The man eases me into one. I lay my head on the table, too tired and weak to move or think.
A large woman slides into the other side of the booth. “Need me to call the police?”
“No. Just scratched up.” I look at her. Curly, salt and pepper hair, tied back by a blue bandana, but unruly sprigs springing out from under. She doesn’t recoil when she sees my face. Her husband must have warned her.
She brings me Band-Aids and hydrogen peroxide.
As I tend to my scrapes, she asks, “Want a late supper or early breakfast?”
“That’s not an answer to my question.” Rough voice, like she’d grown up in the Bronx. Big, bold eyes, nose, mouth. Sturdy, not the least bit delicate.
She brings a large tray: hash browns, scrambled eggs, bacon, buttered toast, orange juice. After I eat, she returns. She says, “What’s your story?”
Little by little, I unroll my scroll of grief, seeing my father’s empty brown leather slippers by the door, crying when my mother said he would never come home, holding a folded American flag at my twin brother’s funeral as grief billowed over me, regaining consciousness in the hospital after the car crash, trying to make sense of the words the grim doctor spoke, “I’m sorry. Your mother didn’t make it.” Looking in the mirror and seeing a long, jagged scar that crossed from forehead to chin. The crushing headaches that arrive without warning, kneecapping me. After six months of not being able to be at the office, my boss says, “We all love you dearly, but you are not working out as the face of this company.”
My life now: the roach hotel, struggling with unruly dogs and rude owners, the only bright spot, To God Be the Glory Soup Kitchen, the eating, the singing and praying–although I’m not sure to whom.
Then I describe my hope of finding a home in Beelzebub. I weep.
She covers my hand with hers. I feel both calluses and warmth. “My name is Mary, like half the girls at Mother of God Catholic School.” She rolls her eyes. “What’s your name?”
I’m startled by her question. “Amia.”
“Amia?” Mary laughs. “You know that means beloved, right? I paid attention in Latin class at Mother of Monsters, which was what we called the place.”
As Mary clears away the dishes, she says, “I got to be honest. I think your Beelzebub story is looney tunes. You on drugs?”
“Well, I have met guys who fit that creep’s description except maybe not that high energy vibrating string thing.” Mary stood. “Look, Louie and I got to close the place. Mass at nine-thirty tomorrow morning. Want a ride home?”
I sit in the front seat of their Pontiac Tempest, squished between Louie and Mary, their back seat being full of boxes, napkins, vegetables, and who knows what. I can’t tell in the dark. The car smells of garlic and over-ripe bananas, with notes of oregano and lemon. I guess I am a car sommelier now.
I don’t mind being squished between them.
When we pull up in front of the decrepit boarding house, Mary says, “Your landlord ought to go to jail.”
She and Louie get out and walk me to the door, which is only twelve feet from where their car is parked. “Hey, tomorrow is Sunday lunch. Noon at my house—pasta and meatballs. My daughters, their useless husbands and their barbarian boys always come over. Louie, he’ll pick you up at 11:30 after mass.”
As he walks away, Louie makes a gesture as if he’s tipping his hat, though he’s not wearing one.
Mary acts like she might hug me, then reconsiders. Instead, she gives a little punch to my scraped-up shoulder, which hurts. She looks me in the eye. “Amia, everybody’s always wicked hungry after church. Don’t nobody like to wait to eat. So, you be ready.”
Note: As a high school student in Connecticut, without parental permission, I’d occasionally visit the Olympia Diner late at night with friend. All characters in this story are fictional, with the exception of Beelzebub, but I’d advise steering clear of him.
*Interested in reading more of my short stories? Check out the FICTION section of my website.
*Photo courtesy of Hans Vivek.
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Walking Out of Babylon
(Photo by Jen Fariello)Deborah Prum’s fiction has appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review, Across the Margin, Streetlight and other outlets. Her essays air on NPR member stations and have appeared in The Washington Post, Ladies Home Journal and Southern Living, as well as many other places. Check out her WEBSITE. Check out her DEVELOPMENTAL EDITING SERVICES. Check out her PAINTINGS.
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