Beneath the expanded efflorescence of the cherry blossom tree, Lucifer pulled his knees to his chest and shivered. The sparse leaves and translucent, waxy pink petals of the blooms offered minimal shade to the slender, pale form that huddled beneath it as if desperate for warmth in the 77-degree weather. From above, only the tip of his long, narrow nose could be seen from under the rim of his sweat-stained Devil Rays baseball cap. His naked feet poked out from the tattered end of a cerulean blue bathrobe, and his toes were lost among the blades of the neatly trimmed Kentucky Blue. With his ass comfortably sunken into the soft mound of airy dirt that surrounded the base of the purchased and replanted tree, he looked to the sky for an explanation.
“If this is supposed to be a joke, I want you to know I don’t find it humorous in the least,” he said quietly to the one ear that heard all. “I had this resurfacing planned for the past 250 years. I measured the climb and the inclination perfectly, there’s no reason I should have missed Manhattan.” He sighed and searched through a torn pocket for a cigarette and lighter. “And yet, here I am; right in the middle of New York’s inoffensive little brother. This can only be your doing.” The wind rustled the leaves of his tree a little; not exactly bolts of lightning in the distance or a burning bush, but Lucifer knew he was being heard.
As he made a cup with his hands to guard the flame from the wind, he thought about what a small comfort it was to smoke. Not only did he get to pollute the useless puppet body with tar and carcinogens, but it also kept out the nauseatingly fresh air that blew past on the warm spring day. It was the only way he could be offensive in his position.
Taking in two deep lungs of smoke and fire, a little hell burning inside him, he looked out at the place where he’d arrived. The yellow crayon smudge dominated the blue construction paper and sparkled glitter and glue across the small lake not 20 feet from where he sat. Truly, he thought, a public park as picturesque as a first grade art project.
“Do you enjoy what your men have done with the earth you have provided for them? Pre-grown trees, a machine-dug lake, hybrid grass seeds made to be the brightest color with no concern for the condition of the soil? You’ve given your children a garden, and they’ve dug it up and made mud pies.” He sucked on his cigarette and scowled. “If only I could move, I’d never cast eyes on grass or trees again.”
But the devil couldn’t move.
The human body he had claimed seemed perfect when he’d chosen it. It was slender and wiry, and lightweight enough to be easy to pull up through the crust of the earth. Yet, it had taken every ounce of energy he could force out of the flesh to make it to the top. His weakened, throbbing muscles could do little more than allow him to smoke and sit. Lucifer scoffed at his continued punishment.
“It’s fathomless how weak you made these creatures, you know. Tell me, did you weaken them out of fear that they’d conquer you or because they’re so stupid they’d kill themselves with their own strength?” He laughed. “They can’t even function unless they waste a third of the day sleeping. I guess that’s a third less time you have to worry about them, huh?” He took another drag and let it out. “Infants, the lot of them. Crawling in the dark, bumping their heads on everything.”
The wind blew again, this time carrying voices. An overweight balding man of 50 moved along the paved walking trail across the lake. His girth shifted from side to side in his extra-large stretch pants and corporate T-shirt as he strode as briskly as his weight would allow. The devil noticed he seemed to be talking to himself, and then laughed a little as he realized the man was probably on a headset. There was too much he could say about the situation, it was all too perfect. A man who had glutted himself on processed meats and fried potatoes at McDonald’s his whole life was now trying desperately to lose pounds of fat he’d spent so much money on obtaining. But he couldn’t dedicate himself to it without also making sure that his job was still intact. He was going to have a heart attack because he would lose his job for being too old, too fat, too out of the loop. His job would be filled by a kid his son’s age. It used to be rich white men had everything; now it was their children.
“Children are the future,” Lucifer said to himself. “There is such a small age group of happy people. They’re either wrapped up in the confusion of adolescence, or forced into early retirement at 40. They have to be 24 to 35 to really make it here in America.”
