Demon Box

“Greetings the house!” he called through a curtain of phlegm. “This is Bible Bill, ol’ Bible Bill, come in the name of the Main Redeemer, praise Him. Anybody home?”

I didn’t have to give it a second thought. “No,” I said.

“Dev? Brother Deboree? Greetings, brother, greetings!” He held forth the Good Book and the bad wine. “Compliments of Bible Bill, these—”

“No,” I repeated, pushing right on past the offerings. I put one hand on his chest and held the door open with the other, pushing. Behind him, I could make out an entourage of shivering teenagers, unhappy in the December wind. Bill wasn’t pleased with the prospect of getting shoved back out in it, either.

“Dev, don’t be like this, dammit all! I promised these kids—”

“No.” I pushed.

“Give it up, dude,” one of the teenagers said to him. “Can’t you see you’re bugging the man?”

“But kinfolks—”

“But my butt,” another kid joined in. “Let’s go.”

With me pushing and them pulling we moved him back to the Toyota they’d come in, him hollering, “But cousins! Brothers! Comrades!” and me hollering back, “But no! No! No!”

The second visitation was a little more complex. For one thing, he was likable. He showed up the next morning while I was out in the field with Dobbs, fixing the fence where the cows had broken through during the night. Whenever it’s real cold Ebenezer likes to lead her herd in an assault on the barnyard, hoping to break into the hay sheds (for cussedness and comfort more than food), and it was real cold. The ruts and tracks raised by their midnight raid were still hard as iron. Dobbs and I were long-johned and overalled and leather-gloved and still too cold to be able to effectively hammer in staples. After a half-hour’s work we would have to head to the house for a gin and tonic to warm us up. After the third try, we haywired a hasty patch and came in for good.

I saw him standing by our stove, bent to the open door, moving his hooked hands in and out of the heat the way a man does when they’re numbed so stone hard he’s afraid to thaw them back to feeling. I left him alone. I peeled out of my overalls and boots and mixed Dobbs and me a drink. The guy never moved. When Betsy came downstairs she told me she had let him in because he was obviously about to freeze to death and didn’t seem the slightest bit worried about the prospect.

“He says he’s got something for you.”

“I’ll bet he does,” I said and went over to talk to him. His hand was as hard as it looked, a calloused claw, beginning to turn red with the heat. In fact he was turning red all over, beginning to glow and grin.

He was about thirty-five or forty, like Bible Bill, with a lot of hard mileage in his eyes and scraggly hair on his face. But this hair was the color of berries on a holly bough, the eyes sharp and green as the leaves, merry. He said he was called—no lie!—John the Groupie, and that we had met once fifteen years ago at the Trips Festival, where I had given him something.

“I got good and turned on,” he confided with a big limber-shouldered shrug, “and I guess I never been able to get turned off.”

I asked him what in the dickens was he doing this far north at Christmastime with nothing on but ventilated sneaks and kneeless jeans and a Sunset Strip pink pearl-button shirt? He grinned and shrugged his carefree shrug again and told me he’d caught a ride with a hippie kid outta LA over the Grapevine, and the kid said he was headed all the way to Eugene, Oregon, so John the Groupie says, well, what the hell… never been to Oregon. Ain’t that where Old Man Deboree hangs his hat? Maybe I’ll go check him out. Met him once, you know, over a tab or two, ho ho.

“Besides,” he added, trying to get that big red claw down a hip pocket, “I got something here I knew you’d want.”

This made me back off two steps, I didn’t care how carefree his shrug or merry his eye. If there was one thing I had learned in Egypt, it was Don’t take nothing free, especially from ingratiating types who come on “My friend please be accept this wonderful geeft, my nation to yours, no charge”—pressing into your palm a ratty little scarab carved out of a goat pellet or something, a little hook by which the hustler can attach himself to you. And the less you want the goddamned thing he forces on you the more attached he becomes.

“I got right here,” John the Groupie announced proudly, holding out a wad of white paper, “Chet Helms’s phone number.”

I told him I had no need for Chet Helms’s phone number, that I had never needed Chet Helms’s phone number, even during Chet Helms’s San Fran Family Dog promoter days, hadn’t even seen Chet Helms in ten years!

John stepped close, becoming intimate.

“But I mean this isn’t Chet Helms’s answering service, man,” he made me to realize, delicately holding forth the little chit like it might have been a spindle of the purest Peruvian. “This is Chet Helms’s home phone number.”