The Career of Lucifer Messenger

 

He was a nattier dresser than I expected him to be. In fact he was more of a dresser than I expected him to be. His suit was charcoal-colored, and tailored to fit him, because of the tail.

However well he dressed, and however much aftershave he slapped on, it couldn’t mask the scents of smoke and despair and fear that followed him about. And on hot and humid days, or when it rained, you could see the reddish tint of his skin under his makeup.

He didn’t even knock. He just popped through the door to my office and said, “Good evening!”

I was ready to send him away with his ears burning for interrupting me when I hesitated. “Aren’t you—?”

“Yes! I am Lucifer, Lucifer Messenger. You should have my name on”—he crooked his finger towards my left elbow—”that piece of paper, there.”

I didn’t immediately look down. I was mesmerized by his fingernails. They were stained a deep, dark red and very nicely filed. He caught my stare and tucked his hand under his lapel.

“Ah…” I looked down for the piece of paper. Yes, there it was, the list of candidates who would be interviewed for the HR internship tomorrow morning. As assistant director of human resources, I got stuck with doing the interviews, and supervising the intern once hired. I was planning to pick the person who looked least likely to create any problems.

Ten candidates had been selected for interviews. But there was only one name on the list: Messenger, Lucifer.

“What happened to the others?” I rifled through the papers under the list, which should have been the CVs and cover letters for all the candidates. Instead, there was only a CV and a letter from Lucifer Messenger. The return address was Circle 9, Lake Cocytus. No ZIP code.

“Well”—Lucifer Messenger gave a little giggle—”let us say they are vacationing in the tropics.”

Really, this had gone far enough. I folded my hands before me on the desk and said, “Mr. Messenger, I gather you want to interview for our summer human resources internship?”

“That’s right!” He nodded.

I indicated one of the chairs before my desk. I would ask him a few questions and send him on his way. “Have a seat.”

The seating of Lucifer Messenger was an involved process. He approached the chair, circled it a few times, and then chose to semi-recline on it on his left side. He crossed his right leg over his straightened left leg, wincing a bit. I later realized all this was because the tube for his tail had been sewn into his right pants leg.

At last he seemed set. “So, Mr. Messenger, tell me why you’re interested in our internship.”

“Oh, well!” Another little giggle. “I’m trying to prove to Daddio”—he pointed towards the ceiling—”that I’m not the total wastrel he thinks I am. Every family dinner, it’s all ‘when are you going to get a real job, Lucifer?’ as though I don’t work hard enough already. Like I don’t have responsibilities! And I constantly hear about how well Joshua and Michael and Gabriel and Raphael are doing! What the Big Kahuna”—another upwards gesture—”doesn’t understand is that if he gave me even a tenth of the support he gives them, I would be ten times better!” For a moment his eyes, so dark brown as to almost be black, had little flames instead of irises. The temperature in the room rose perceptibly.

“I see. Thank you for answering that honestly.” I paused to give both of us a moment to calm ourselves. “Now, what interests you about working in human resources?”

“Wait wait wait.” He wagged his finger at me. “Shouldn’t you be taking notes?”

“Of course, how stupid of me.” I yanked out a legal pad.

“I wouldn’t want to lose my dream job because you didn’t take notes.”

“I understand, Mr. Messenger. Now—human resources?”

“Oh…it seems so fun! Benefits, salary, hiring, firing, making people happy, making people miserable, making people fill out twenty forms in triplicate and then realize they were given the wrong forms and have to fill out twenty other forms…Mwah!” He kissed his fingertips at me. “The perfect job for me! I have extensive experience in making people happy and miserable. Happy first, miserable later.”

“I was just about to ask you about experience.” I picked up his CV. “I see you are currently CEO and COO of Gehenna, LLC?” No place like Hell for limited liability.

“That’s right! I run the whole show! Nothing happens there without my approval.”

“Won’t you be missed there while you’re interning here?”

“Oh, no!” He gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “I’m owed a lot of vacation time, you know! Several hundred years at least. Beelzebub can handle things in my absence.”

“Mr. Messenger—” I folded my hands and leaned forward. He started to lean forward, too, but almost fell off his chair. I caught a glimpse of something red and forked at the end emerging from his right pants leg. “—forgive me for saying so, but you seem much too experienced for this position. You have your own company. You're older than our typical candidates. You’re really overqualified, you know.”

He had leapt up in indignation when I mentioned his age. “Older?! Does this company practice ageism, Ms. Wilcox? I know my rights! You can’t refuse to hire me on the basis of age alone. And believe me, I know a lot of lawyers.”

“No no no.” I tried to calm him down. The air conditioner was no longer effectively cooling the room. “I’m just not sure you would be a good fit.”

“Fit?! Fit?!” He threw himself into his chair and immediately jumped up with a howl of pain. Rubbing his right butt cheek, he paced in circles in front of my desk. “Fit? I’ll tell you about fit, Ms. Wilcox! Fit is what I don’t have with my family! Always disappointed in me, Daddio always shaking his head and Michael, that twit, always smirking at me while Joshua and Raphael do things like tie my tail to my bed when I’m asleep! Well, I plan to rise from intern to CEO of this company! That will show them Lucifer can cut it.”

He pirouetted and was suddenly leaning across my desk, his nose inches from mine. His breath smelled like rotten eggs. I was powerfully reminded of Great-granny Wilcox. “Fit? What better place for me than a mortgage brokerage?”

“Mr. Messenger, I can’t justify hiring you to my boss.”

“Can’t?” He calmed down and rearranged himself in his chair, smirking. “Oh, I think you can and will, Ms. Wilcox.”

​

“How so, Mr. Messenger?”

“Behold!” With a much too dramatic gesture he unfurled a piece of paper from his inner breast pocket. “You will, if you want your soul back.”

My soul? As far as I knew it was somewhere inside me. I read from the paper, “I, Cathy Wilcox, sell Mr. Luc my soul in return for five dollars to buy Mr. Freezee pops for me and my friends.”

It was written in crayon on construction paper. But it was in my six-year-old hand.

I closed my eyes. I did have a vague memory of the Mr. Freezee truck jingling by and my friends and I wishing we had money to buy pops. The gardener for one of the nearby houses overheard and called me over. If I would just write what he told me on a piece of paper, he would give me enough money for my friends and me to have two pops each.

“Oh, come on,” I said to Lucifer Messenger. “A six-year-old doesn't understand contract law.”

“Nevertheless”—the finger wagged again—”I have your soul, Ms. Wilcox. Why do you think you picked human resources as a career? You don’t have a soul! Why do you think you don’t visit your parents enough, even though they’re just over the border in Connecticut? Can’t find a good man? Dump your friends when they get clingy? You don’t have a soul!

“Imagine—” he breathed at me, leaning closer again, “having a soul! Giving a damn! Working in editing, not human resources! Getting along with your parents, having friends get your back, finding the man of your dreams!”

It did sound good. I hesitated. “So if I give you this job, I will have my soul back at the end of the summer?”

“Not the summer, no. When I am the CEO of the whole company, yes. Then I will give you your contract and your soul back. But not before.”

“So why not start on the banking side? Why human resources?”

“Ah, ah, ah”—the finger again—“trying to get rid of me, already? Anyone can pick up numbers, but I know humans. You’ll get your soul when I am CEO.”

That was a long time to wait. If having a soul was so great, I wanted it back soonest. I hadn’t had one for thirty years. It sounded like I’d been missing a lot.

I had to get my hands on that piece of paper.

And at least he didn’t want my job. I planned to be Director of Human Resources someday. “All right, Mr. Messenger. You’re hired.” Why not? I saw all kinds in my line of work.

“Excellent!” He sprang to his feet and clicked his heels.

“Let me have you sign our standard contract, so you can start now.” With a few clicks I had the document ready and printed. I signed, then looked up at him.

“In the special notes section, I’d like to add the note that I will get my soul back when you become CEO.”

“Of course, of course!” He waved his hand as though he were extending a boon. “I shall like being CEO, you know!”

“Mmmm-hmmm.” I added to the contract, with the understanding that Mr. Lucifer Messenger will return to Ms. Cathy Wilcox the contract for her soul upon his becoming CEO, or the termination of his employment, and pushed the amended document across the desk. “Sign here, and here, and initial the bottom of each page.”

I watched him. He licked his finger as he turned each page. “Mmm…mmm…mmm…you don’t pay very much, do you?” He stopped at the last line and prepared to sign. I held my breath. I could fire him tomorrow and get my soul back. “Oh, no, Ms. Wilcox, I’m afraid we can’t have this!” He scored through or the termination of his employment. Damn.

And then he signed with an extravagant flourish. “Congratulations, Mr. Messenger. I’ll see you at eight tomorrow morning for orientation.”

 

Back home, I read through the alarmingly high number of stories about deals with the devil.

Faust, of course.

“That Hell-Bound Train.”

The Year the Yankees Lost the Pennant.

“The Devil and Daniel Webster.”

The Picture of Dorian Gray.

None of them were especially helpful to someone who had sold their soul at six.

But the devil could be deceived. Souls could be taken back. If I could just get that contract, he would have no choice but to return it. I would just have to be more cunning.

 

Lucifer Messenger was the ideal intern. His coffee was always just the right temperature. He could unclog any paper jam in a printer or xerox machine. He could shred for hours on end. His ability to find “misplaced” files was extraordinary. When one case manager thought she had permanently deleted a list of employee social security numbers, he retrieved the data from the bowels of the server.

Except for his insistence on standing during even the longest meetings, and his annoying titter, he fit right in. He joined the lunchtime yoga classes the company sponsored. He discussed the hockey playoffs and the baseball season by the water cooler. He opened doors for female employees with a flourish and a little bow.

“I have to say, Cathy,” remarked my director, Mr. Hughes, “I was dubious when I saw he was older, but he’s a prize find.”

“We should think about hiring him permanently,” chimed in Ms. Casey, my associate director.

 

Lucifer Messenger was offered a position as a case manager the very next week. He excelled at all the requirements of the position: he confused new hires thoroughly at the benefits orientation, so that they did not sign up for the plans that would cost the company too much money; he created several more forms for applicants and new hires to fill out; and he negotiated lower salaries with aplomb by stressing the value of our benefits package, which he would explain further at benefits orientation.

A few months after this, Ms. Casey went on leave for cancer treatment. I was appointed acting associate director. Lucifer Messenger was under my direct authority.

I mentored him. I kept tabs on him. I wanted my contract back.

No one knew where he went at night or on the weekends. No one knew where he came from in the mornings. He was there later than everyone else and there before everyone else, but he checked in and out with security as required. However late I stayed, however early I arrived, he was always in his office and there was no chance to go through his files looking for my contract.

He appeared to wear the same sharply-pressed suit every day, changing only for the lunchtime yoga sessions. I slipped into the men’s locker area once but could not find his suit. Another day I entered his office and locked the door, glancing out the window to the courtyard first. There he was deep in a Kali pose, tongue protruding. The teacher was using him as a model for proper form to the other students.

​

I looked through his files undisturbed. Nothing.

 

In desperation I arranged for us to go on a business trip together. And for the hotel to “lose” our reservation for a second room so we would be forced to share.

I planned to wait until he was asleep and search his briefcase and suit. But he didn’t change. He didn’t shower. He didn’t even use the facilities. He stayed awake all night. There was no opportunity to get my contract back.

The final night I tried something different.

“Phew,” I said as we came in after a day of meetings and meals. “I need a drink.”

I kicked off my heels, unbuttoned a few more buttons on my blouse, and extracted two mini bottles of whisky from the hotel bar. Then I walked over to Lucifer Messenger, who had sat down on the sofa and was powering up his laptop.

I gave him a bottle. He looked puzzled and put it on the end table.

I sat right next to him and tucked my legs up under me so I was almost touching him. He ignored me and logged onto his computer.

I leaned my forearm on top of his shoulder and let my hand hang down so it would brush his chest. He looked at it like it was the first boil of an incipient case of the bubonic plague.

“Sooo…” I leaned my head close to his so I could see his screen. “Whatcha doing?” My hand slipped inside his suit jacket.

“Work. And you, Ms. Wilcox, are distracting me.”

“Work?! Come on, Lucifer, have some fun!” I reached out and shut his laptop.

“Gadzooks, Ms. Wilcox! I hadn’t saved!” Frantically he opened his laptop and tapped away at the keyboard. “I know what you think you’re doing, but I’m not interested, and you’re distracting me.”

“Come on.” I tried again. “Kick back. Have some fun. You know, like the people in the Second Circle.” I snaked my hand beneath the laptop and settled it firmly on his crotch.

I couldn’t feel anything. I pressed harder, ran my hand around looking for something to grab. There was nothing there.

Was he some kind of Ken doll underneath the charcoal suit?

He had ignored my rummaging around. I wasn’t even sure he could feel my hand. “The Second Circle? Those perverts? Eeeewwwwww!”

I retreated. I didn’t need a sexual harassment charge against me from Satan. Plus, there was serious repression going on here. Probably Daddio’s doing. What else would you expect with a father who thought procreation was thinking other beings into existence?

 

We were a mortgage brokerage. If Lucifer Messenger wanted to be CEO, he would have to make a lateral move over to the banking side someday. Soon, before I lost more quality time with my soul.

I started dropping hints about that during our weekly staff meetings and anytime I ran into him in the hall. Finally, at his six-month performance review—glowing, of course—I asked him what he knew about finance.

Nothing, it turned out. He knew greed, but he didn’t know credit.

I encouraged him to go to training sessions and take classes, where he found a lot to like. The idea of refinancing enchanted him. “We give people more money so that they can sink further and longer into debt, even at a lower interest rate? How nefarious! How wonderful!”

I’d recommended him for a transfer to Mortgages. I’d done some coursework towards an MBA years ago and I helped him study. Although strong on the broader concepts of banking, he was weak on the details.

“No, no, no.” I said after he’d botched yet another question on mortgage contracts and was scowling in frustration. “You need to pay closer attention.”

“What do you think I’m doing, Ms. Wilcox?” The temperature rose.

I raised a placating hand. “Look, let’s do a sample contract so you can see. We’ll keep it simple.”

“All right, but does it have to be houses? I don’t understand houses. I make contracts for souls.”

“Souls it is, then.” I started block printing on a piece of paper. “I’ll be the buyer and you can be the lender.” I turned the paper so he could see what I was writing.

“‘I, Cathy Wilcox, do agree to mortgage my soul to Lucifer Messenger. Soul to be redeemed by Cathy Wilcox after thirty years upon repayment of $10 to Lucifer Messenger. Upon repayment all previous agreements become null and void.’ See?”

He frowned. “Thirty years?”

“It’s the typical term for a fixed-rate mortgage.”

“Oh.” He twitched in irritation. “Got it.”

“Here,” I said, drawing some lines on the bottom of the paper. “Now we both sign it, print our names, and date it.” I signed with a flourish and Lucifer Messenger followed suit. I pushed the paper aside. “Now let’s talk about NINJA loans and mortgages.”

He sighed, but we sat there for another two hours until he seemed to have a handle on mortgage types and agreements.

“I’ve got to go.” I gathered up my old textbooks and notes, slipping our contract into the pile.

Lucifer Messenger nodded, already turning towards his computer. He wasn’t big on thank yous.

“Oh, by the way…” I turned back. “Here’s your $10.”

He looked at the bill, puzzled. “I don’t understand.”

“I’m paying off my mortgage. I’d like my soul back now, please.”

Recognition began to creep into his eyes. The room temperature rose. He patted the breast pocket of his suit and pulled out the old contract for my soul.

“No! This document still holds force! And I gave you $5, not $10.”

“$5 thirty years ago would be worth $10 today. Inflation, you know.” Another concept he was not strong on.

“But this is the real contract! And we agreed that you would have your soul back when I became CEO. We were just practicing with the other one.”

“We both signed it, it’s binding. And see here,” I pointed to the last sentence. “‘Upon repayment all previous agreements become null and void.’”

“AAAAAAAHHHH!” Lucifer Messenger threw back his head and screamed. Daddio probably heard him far above. “Another one! Another trickster! And I fell for it! Again! Raphael is right, I’m too trusting for my own good!”

“My soul, please.”

“Soul? You want your soul?” The room was boiling hot. He reached inside his suit again and threw what looked like a handful of dust at me. I sneezed. “There you go! There is your soul! Much good it may do you!” The room had begun to reek of brimstone. Lucifer Messenger was growing and his head now reached the ceiling. The charcoal suit expanded with him. “Now go! Leave my presence, mortal! We shall meet again, on the Last Day!”

I ran.

 

It has been twenty years since I last saw Lucifer Messenger. He transferred to the banking side of the company a few days after that. I heard no more of him until I sat next to his supervisor at a corporate lunch a few months later.

“Cathy Wilcox? How do I know that name?” she asked. “Oh! You recommended Lucifer Messenger for a transfer to the mortgage department.”

“Yes, that’s me. How is Lucifer doing?”

She just shook her head. The woman across from her leaned forward and said,
“Terrible! He’s Ellen’s worst nightmare.”

I looked at her, confused. “He was our best case manager in Human Resources. Really polite. Hardworking. Ingenious.”

Were they thinking of sending him back to HR? I couldn't have that.

“Not our Lucifer,” Ellen said. “He scowls at everyone. He’s monosyllabic. He leaves early and comes in late. Yesterday I heard him screaming at a client who asked him why mortgages were usually thirty years. She was just making small talk, and he was shrieking in her face. Spittle was flying everywhere.”

“Oh, dear. How odd. He used to open doors for women over in HR.”

“Not anymore. I’m afraid I’m going to have to give him a negative performance review. He won’t take that well.”

The next I heard, one day Lucifer Messenger did not come to work. He just vanished.

I have heard stories of a man who sounds like him here in Manhattan, a handsome fellow in a bespoke charcoal suit who always smells like smoke. Sometimes he is a psychotherapist, sometimes he is a yoga instructor, once he was a docent at MoMA. Perhaps he could no longer tolerate the thought of family dinners and stayed in New York. But I never ran into him, if it was he.

 

And as for me? As soon as I had my soul back I threw myself into a social life. I dated, I chattered, I brunched, I nodded wisely over exhibitions at the Met. I even got engaged twice. Both men wanted me to spend more time with them, they urged me to have kids while I still could, but I was now Director of Human Resources and there was no time.

I tried to make friends. After I was a few minutes late a few times because of a holdup at work, they would drift away.

A few years ago both my parents died. I did not visit them as they were dying and only grudgingly made time to attend their funerals. There were deadlines to meet at work, a new payroll system to implement.

Lucifer Messenger lied to me.