“I don’t think you really understand the ramifications of what you are saying.”
“Not just a one-hit wonder kinda band. A real bonafide rock band. One with a lot of fans, a lot of great songs, a lot of lasting power. We’d make it into the rock ‘n’ roll hall of fame. It’s gonna be awesome.”
Apparently he hadn’t heard my attempt at rationalization. He was talking as if it had already been guaranteed.
Our ears were ringing as we sat in the idling car, and we were speaking at almost double our usual volume to compensate for the momentary hearing loss that would likely someday become permanent. The car’s engine whimpered as it waited to lunge forward and propel us out of the jammed parking lot. We had just seen Radiohead for the third time in the last week at another sold out amphitheatre, which was certainly what had inspired James’s comments.
“How are you going to be a rock star? You don’t play an instrument, you can’t sing, and you’ve never so much as written a decent poem, much less a song. How the hell are you going to be a rock star?” I repeated the question just to make sure my point had been emphasized.
“Exactly.”
“Huh?” I had obviously missed something.
“That’s why I would sell my soul. If I could do all those things, I wouldn’t need to sell my soul. I would just be a famous rock star.” At this point it occurred to me that the “exactly” referred to my reference to hell in the repeated version of the question.
“Alright, let’s think about this logically now,” I began, deciding to address the issue more fully this time. This was actually the third time in the past week that James had brought up the issue, an issue he had brought up countless times before at previous concerts we had attended together. Obviously he either hadn’t sold his soul yet or the devil just wasn’t interested in making the deal, for as we sat in the car, the radio blaring one of our favorite albums, he tried to croon along at some ghastly pitch that would have sent any nonhuman species running for cover.
“There’s not really much to think about,” he interrupted. “I just say that I agree to sell my soul to the devil for a lifetime of fame and musical brilliance. Then I become a famous rock star. Simple as that.”
“Okay, but let’s start by assuming that there is a heaven and hell.”
“Naturally. If there’s not, then there wouldn’t be much point in selling my soul. Although it wouldn’t really hurt in that case,” he shouted over the furious drum beats that were penetrating the speakers and pulsating my head.
Before offering my rebuttal, I reached for the volume knob and turned the music down until we could speak at a more reasonable volume. The conditions for a rational one-on-one conversation were virtually ideal in this enclosed environment, distractions all eliminated other than the infernal buzzing that just would not leave my ears. Thus I began my philosophizing.
“James, let’s imagine for a second that you did sell your soul and became a successful rock star with all of those stipulations you set forth. So you might be a rock star for twenty years. You might live for another twenty after that. The years before you die, you’ll likely be terrified of your death. Then you will go to hell for eternity. Eternity is a lot longer than forty years. I don’t think it would be worth it.”
“Well, I’ve thought about that, and I have a couple solutions. The first one is that right before I die I repent, tell God what a fool I was, plead for forgiveness, and then I get rock stardom and heaven.” He said all of this with a smug smile on his face, a smile that suggested he could just trick an omnipotent being.
“Don’t you think God will know that you aren’t really sorry for what you did?”
“But I’ll really mean it, and God can’t say no to that.”
“And just in case that doesn’t work, what is your other solution?”
He paused, obvious indication that he hadn’t really thought of multiple solutions, figuring I would not have really questioned the first one.
“Well, the second solution is a little trickier, not as dependable, so I hope the first one would work. It’s really more of a backup plan.” He was clearly stalling, and I could tell that whatever he produced as a potential solution was going to be purely insane.
“Okay, I’m waiting to hear it.”
“So here it is. Right before I die, I will release a terrible album, one so bad that it will threaten to eliminate my rock star status, and then I don’t have to give my soul to the devil because he won’t have made good on his promise.”
“I see a couple of problems with that. Firstly, won’t the devil know that you made the album terrible on purpose just to try to get out of the deal?”
We were finally moving, so maybe this conversation would end soon, but I felt like I had him on the ropes and needed to go for that knockout.
“I don’t know if the devil is really that smart.”
“With all those lawyers in hell, don’t you think he could make a pretty good case for keeping your soul?” I winked at my stupid little joke.
“What’s your other problem with the bad album idea, Mr. Smart Ass?”
“Couldn’t the devil just force it to be good, especially since he was the one that gave you all of the talent anyway?”
I could tell from his slanted scowl that he knew I had a point here. “Alright, I can see your point there, but I think repenting will work anyway, so it’s no big deal. In fact, I’ll do lots of praying and going to church right after I sell my soul.”
“Do you think that maybe all of the repenting would reverse the deal with the devil and make you into a critically bashed musician? And then you might go to hell anyway, so you lose on both accounts.”
Pause. One, two, three… I had him down. Would he stay down for the count?
When I had reached eight in my head, he piped up, “I think I’m going to do it. I’ll do it tomorrow. Do you want to be in my band?”
I guess I had hit him too hard and caused some brain damage, for he just wasn’t getting the message. “No, I don’t want to be in your stupid band. And I’m not going to buy your albums either. What makes you think the devil even wants your soul? Maybe he already knows he has it and doesn’t need to make a deal with you?”
“You’re just jealous that I am going to be a star and you won’t even be worthy of being my roadie.”
I was glad this was the last concert of the summer. No more of this utter nonsense. I decided to crank the stereo to put an end to the discussion. We were about to exit the parking lot anyway, and it’s much better to blast music than to talk when you’re driving.
We were silent as we drove home, surrounded by the fading ringing and the blasting stereo. When we arrived in front of his house, he got out saying only, “Awesome show, man. I wish we could go to another.”
“I’m broke,” I responded. “Have a good night.” I thought about telling him not to sell his soul, but I figured that would only encourage him. He had probably forgotten all about it anyway, so I just drove away to the loneliness of my indie rock music.
He called me excitedly the next day. “I did it,” was all he said when I picked up the phone.
“Did what?” I asked, no recollection of last night’s stupidity.
“I’m gonna be a rock star.”
“Oh, Jesus,” I responded, not necessarily praying, but suddenly recalling what he had said he was going to do.
“I don’t need Jesus yet, man,” he responded with a laugh. “Come to me with that in about twenty years or so.”
“Have you tried singing or playing an instrument since you made your deal?”
“Nah, I figured I would wait a few days to let all my talents fully sink in.”
“Sounds like a splendid plan.”
“I’m sure that you could join. There’s always room for more souls in hell.” Again he spoke with a laugh, obviously not taking this seriously. I wondered if he really had sold his soul after all. He was probably just getting a cheap laugh at my expense.
“You know, just by talking this way, it might leave a bad taste in God’s mouth about you, even if you didn’t really sell your soul.” I tried to laugh as I spoke, but mine came out uncomfortable unlike his confident cackle.
He could tell I thought he was joking. “Dude, I really did it. I got down on my knees and told the devil that my soul was his if I could be a famous rock star for the rest of my life. I felt some weird sensations when I did it. I really think it worked. I even wrote it down.”
“So why haven’t you started singing yet?”
“Maybe I’m a little scared.”
“Scared that it worked or that it didn’t?”
“I’m not really sure right now. Being a rock star would be pretty sweet. But I guess eternal damnation would suck pretty bad.”
There was a brief pause, and I knew he was waiting for me to tell him something that would comfort him. I gave it my best shot. “I’m sure nothing happened. Do you really believe in all that heaven and hell nonsense anyway? Seems a bit silly to me.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” He started laughing again. “Sold my soul. Ha. What a ridiculous thing to think. Like I even have a soul. Talk to you later.”
He hung up before I could respond, and although he seemed relaxed about the situation now, I was a bit uneasy as I lowered the phone to the receiver. I tried not to think about it as I got ready for work, but the thought that he had just done eternal harm to himself lingered in the back of my mind. I put myself at ease thinking about how cool it would be to have my friend as a rock star.
As the day at the office rolled on, relatively pointless as usual, I forgot all about James and his soul selling. By the end of the day I was just tired and eager to get home, so I didn’t think much of the boatload of missed calls on my cell phone that I couldn’t answer at work.
Once I arrived home and took off my shoes, I decided to check the many voice mails so that I could revel in my popularity. The first one was from James. “Dude,” it began, “I just tried singing along to ‘Paranoid Android’ and I hit every note perfectly. Every note dude. I’m gonna be a rock star.”
I rolled my eyes as I pressed the 7 to delete the message. That one wasn’t worth a return call. Four messages to go.
The second one was from James’s girlfriend, Julie. It was cute that their names both started with the same letter. She always talked about how they would have a bunch of kids and call them things that started with the letter J. She rarely called me, so I guessed James just asked her to call me to extend this whole joke.
“Ed,” she started softly, an uneasy tone to her voice, “James was in a car accident this afternoon. A bad one. They don’t think he’s going to make it. Call me as soon as you get this.”
Without thinking, I pushed for the next message, again from Julie. “Ed, it’s Julie again.” I could hear the tears now. “James is…” the sobs grew too heavy for me to hear the rest of the message. I moved on to the final one.
“Ed, this is James’s mother.” Another message accompanied by sobs. “James was in a car accident and passed away. Please come to the hospital when you can. We’ll be here for awhile.”
I hurried to my car and drove without much regard for the traffic laws while I fought back tears. I didn’t really know what to think. I had just been with the guy last night, had just talked to him this morning, and now he was gone for good. There really wasn’t anything to think other than that I would miss him.
When I arrived at the hospital, his mother and Julie were there. We were really the only three close people in his life. Their eyes were red with tears, the work of hours of crying. Mine were ready to join them. I didn’t have anything to say to them. It wouldn’t have made sense to say sorry since I had the same loss they did. We had been like brothers. Two guys born without brothers.
James’s mother broke the sorrowful silence with an action rather than words. She handed me a small scrap of paper and then managed to choke out the words, “I found this on his floor. I don’t know what it means,” then went back to her silent crying.
I unfolded the paper twice and read over its contents, the tears ready to escape my eyes. When I finished reading it, I crumpled it in anger rather than sorrow, then uncrumpled it and read the words again just to be sure. They remained the same. To the devil, I give my soul. In exchange, he will make me a rock star.
My friend had gone to hell before he had gotten his wish.
