“Are you the devil?”
“Why would you ask me that?”
“You’re standing in my living room. Like from out of nowhere.”
“No,” he said. “I’m not the devil.”
“Are you denying you’re the devil because of… how does it go? ‘The greatest trick the devil played was convincing people he didn’t exist’?” It was a long time since I’d seen The Usual Suspects.
“Let’s just say that if I were the devil, I’d deny it, anyway.”
That made sense. “What do you want?”
“I’m here for your soul.”
“I knew it! You are the devil!”
“Who I am is irrelevant,” he said. “What matters is you made an offer to sell your soul, and I’m here to collect.”
So much for sleeping in on a Sunday. “I don’t remember ever offering my soul. If I had sold it, I didn’t get much for it. I have a shit job, I live in this shit apartment, and I haven’t been laid in years.”
“You offered your soul for a hamburger.”
“What? When?”
“August 3, 1978.”
“I was 7 years old.”
“You were at camp. It was around 11 in the morning and lunch was still an hour away. You were hungry, and you claimed you would sell your soul for a hamburger.”
“I don’t remember that at all.”
“That’s how it happened,” he said with a shrug.
“You remember the part when I said I was only 7 years old?”
“Of course. But you did make the offer.”
“Isn’t there an age of consent thing with soul-selling?”
He sighed. “Yes. I was hoping you wouldn’t mention that.”
“Do other people not bring it up, the ones who were too young to know what they were doing when they said they’d sell their souls?”
“They’re usually so terrified when I appear from out of nowhere, they don’t ask questions. But those who do bring up the age of consent, I have to recognize it.”
“That is just scummy.”
He whistled and shrugged.
I said, “What’s the age of consent for soul-selling, anyway?”
“Age 9.”
“That’s nuts.”
“I don’t make the rules.”
I wasn’t sure whether to believe him. “So now that you can’t take my soul, due to the technicality, what next?”
“I have a proposition for you. Would you be willing to trade your soul — ”
“Here we go. Get the fuck out of here.”
“Wait! For your true love.”
“My true love? How do you know who my true love is? I loved a lot of people.” At least I thought I did. None of them ever worked out.
“I know. But there was only one you said you’d marry.”
“I don’t remember ever mentioning marriage, but I guess I’ll take your word for it because you knew about the hamburger thing. How good was that burger, anyway?”
“It was a camp burger. A hockey puck.”
“Figures.”
“What do you say? Your soul for your true love?”
“Yeah, fuck it, all right. I haven’t been happy in forever. Maybe marriage will bring me some joy.”
“Excellent. Behold your true love.”
“Where is she?”
“On this plate.”
“That’s an ice cream sandwich.”
“That’s your true love.”
“The fuck are you talking about?”
“One time you and a few classmates were hanging out at your friend David’s house and his mother gave you guys ice cream sandwiches. And you said you loved ice cream sandwiches. And David said, ‘If you love them so much, why don’t you marry one?’ And you said — ”
“‘If they always taste this good, I would marry an ice cream sandwich.’ Yeah, I remember saying that. How old was I? Eleven?”
“Twelve.”
“And the age of consent for declaring an intention to marry?”
“Ten.”
“Fuck.”
“It might seem a little strange,” he said. “But I think you two are going to be quite happy together. And you did say about the other women, ‘None of them ever worked out.’”
“When did I say that?”
“About a minute ago.”
“I didn’t say that part out loud.” He shrugged and whistled. “Well…”
“Fuck you, you are the devil!”
“A deal is a deal.” He gently lowered the plate to my coffee table. “Enjoy your true love. I’ll be in touch.” Then he was gone.
I was skeptical of the whole deal, but the ice cream sandwich and I enjoyed a wonderful relationship, the best one I’d ever had. Until then, I hadn’t truly understood what love was — the bond, the depth of affection, the feeling of being fully alive with someone else.
But after about five years, the ice cream sandwich left me for an Eskimo Pie.
Anthony Zumpano lives in Commack.