The Devil and Tom Brady

             The worn-down tavern in Ann Arbor, Michigan was nearly empty. A few old timers sat at one end of the bar, staring into their half-empty beers, smoking cheap cigarettes. A couple of bikers shot pool in the back room, while a heavy-set woman looked on. Nobody took much notice of the young man sitting in the corner, watching Super Bowl XXXIV from an 18-inch TV that hung from the ceiling. To the others, he could have been invisible, which was exactly the way he liked it. The countless number of people who would have surely recognized him—as the star quarterback for the University of Michigan—were miles away, at private Super Bowl parties, or at sports bars much closer to campus. Young Tom Brady liked the empty dive-bar because he could enjoy the big game in peace and quiet.

            “Can I buy you a drink, handsome?”

            Young Tom didn’t even notice the woman walk through the door, let alone sit down on the stool next to him. She was by far the most beautiful woman he had ever laid his eyes on and he immediately wondered what she was doing in such a filthy, darkened hole on the bad side of town. “You want to buy me a drink?” was what came out of his mouth.

            “What are you having?” she asked.

            “Fuzzy Navel.”

            “Fuzzy Navel?”

            “I like the way they taste,” Young Tom smiled. “Fruity!”

            “One Fuzzy Navel,” the beautiful woman said to the bartender. “And a double whiskey for me.”

            “On the rocks?” the bartender asked.

            “I don’t think so.” The beautiful woman gave the bartender a wink before turning her attention back to Young Tom. “So, you like football?”

            “Gee Whiz Miss, I’m just wild about football. It’s my favorite sport.”

            “What about me?” The beautiful woman asked as the bartender placed the drinks on the bar. “Are you wild about me?”

            “I think you’re awfully pretty,” Young Tom blushed.

            “I bet you do.” The beautiful woman drank down her whiskey with one gulp. “What if I told you that you could have me?”

            “But we hardly even know each other.”

            “I know a lot about you, Thomas Edward Patrick Brady, Jr.”

            “Hey, how did you know my name?”

            “I told you, I know an awful lot about you. I’ve been watching you for a long time. Now, tell me, what do you want more than anything else in the world?”

            “I want to be the greatest quarterback who ever lived. I want to be just like my hero, Joe Montana.”

            “What if I told you I could give you that? What if I could promise you’d be even better than Joe Montana?”

            “Gee whiz Miss, that would be super! But what’s the catch?”

            “I want your soul.”

            “My soul?”

            “Yes, your soul.”

            “Wait just a second. Who are you?”

            “I’m the devil of course.” The beautiful woman leaned over and licked Young Tom’s ear. “But you can call me Gisele,” she whispered.

            Young Tom nearly spit out a mouthful of Fuzzy Navel. “Now, let me get this straight. I get to be the greatest quarterback who ever lived and I get to have you as my girlfriend and all’s I got to do is give you my soul.”

            “It’s that simple,” Gisele said as she placed her hand on Young Tom’s inner thigh.

            “But wait just a second now! How can I be the greatest quarterback ever if I don’t even get drafted? I’ve seen the scouting reports on me. They all say I’m slow, lack confidence, and have a physique similar to the Pillsbury Dough Boy.”

            With the blink of an eye, the beautiful Gisele transformed into a disgruntled, middle-aged man wearing a ragged hoodie. “You let me take care of that.”

            Young Tom jumped to his feet. “Who are you and what did you do with Gisele?”

            “The name’s Bill Belichick, but you can call me Coach from now on. And don’t you worry about getting drafted.”

            “But even if I’m drafted, how can you assure that I’ll succeed? The NFL is tough.”

            “You see that man on the screen, Kurt Warner? He was bagging goddamn groceries when he made a deal with me. I only had to promise him one Super Bowl ring. I’m promising you five. Now, do we have a deal?”

            “Oh, I still don’t know.”

            Disgruntled Bill Belichick switched back to beautiful Gisele. “C’mon Tommy, don’t you want to play?” She grabbed his buttocks and pulled him in close.

            “I do! I do! Okay, where do I sign?”

            “A kiss will seal the deal.”

            Young Tom leaned in and gave the beautiful Gisele a long, deep kiss. When he finally pulled away, he found himself staring back at pure evil—into the eyes of Bill Belichick. “This is going to be fun,” his new coach growled…

            

The End of the Line

            Ever since he was a small boy, Max loved waiting in line. It made no difference where he was, or what he waiting for. It could have been at the cafeteria at school, waiting for a grilled cheese sandwich and a carton of milk, or at soccer practice, waiting in line for his turn to drill a corner-kick with his right foot. When his parents took him to Disney World, he chose all the rides with the longest lines, even if they towered above the rest, even though he was afraid of heights. There was just something about waiting in line, something about the anticipation, something about the feeling of community, even if it only lasted until it was his turn to do, to receive, to perform, to ride, whatever it was he was waiting in line for. As he grew older, Max’s love for waiting in lines never wavered. In fact, if anything, it grew stronger. In college, he would go to frat-parties just to wait in line for the keg, even though he hated the taste of beer. He showed up at movie theaters the night before the anticipated releases of cult franchises, even though he had absolute no interest in super heroes, vampires, space operas, or dinosaurs. He waited in line outside of stadium box-offices, even though he found no importance in organized sporting events, or live musical performers. As an adult, he found himself waiting in line more than ever, and he loved every minute of it. He went to the bank every Friday during lunch, even though it meant returning late to work. He visited the nightclubs with the longest lines outside their doors, and once inside, waited longer to order drinks that he didn’t much enjoy drinking. He showed up days early for Black Friday sales, but once inside the big box stores, rarely bought a single item. When friends asked him to join them for brunch, he always recommended the trendiest restaurants, and when they were finally seated at a table, he would order only a coffee. He waited for authors’ signatures in books that he never read and books that he would never read. He waited in line for computer software and smart phones that he would never learn to operate. He waited in line for donuts and cheeseburgers and ice cream, even though he was lactose intolerant, gluten free, vegetarian. He waited in line for security at airports just to be told that he wasn’t allowed in the terminal without a ticket. Then, one day, while waiting in line outside a movie studio for an audition to be an extra in an independent film mockumenting the many different people who wait in line for various reasons, a city bus driver suffered a heart attack, causing his vehicle to jump a curb, killing six pedestrians and injuring fourteen others. Max was among the deceased. He awoke in the afterlife, surrounded by white, puffy clouds, in the longest of lines that he had ever seen. “Where am I?” he asked the woman in front of him. “You’re in heaven,” she answered. Max looked down the line, a line that seemed to go on forever, a line that ended a million years away at a pearly gate. “Yes I am,” he smiled. “Yes I am.”

LIVE-A-LIFE

            Harold Beachman lived a good life, no, a great life, and in the final moments before he died, he contemplated that great life. What made it so good, so great? He had been born in the midst of the Roaring Twenties and spent his childhood surviving through a depression so great it would be forever remembered as the Great Depression. Not that he noticed. Not that his family was rich or anything, in fact, they were quite poor, but then, so was everyone else in his neighborhood, and so, young Harold never knew of anything better. He grew through simpler times, times of kick-the-can and jack-o-lanterns and cheap thrills, very cheap thrills. And then came the war, The Great War, Part II, and young Harold was shipped off to Europe to fight the axis of evil. He survived D-Day and returned a hero, if only because he survived, and was given a hero’s welcome, parade and all. And then he met Nancy, the most beautiful girl he had ever seen, and he won her over, he won her over Richard McCasey and Francis Browner and Peter Astridge, and he married her and they had three beautiful children. After a short stint in professional baseball, briefly playing centerfield for the Milwaukee Braves, Harold realized that the life of a traveling athlete was not for him and so he settled on a job in an advertising firm where he would prosper for nearly two decades, pitching products like cigarettes and soda pop and men’s dress shoes. Life was good, no, great, until that unjust war in East Asia took his oldest son from him, the greatest loss of his life. But Harold would bounce back, starting his own business, selling cheap thrills to a new generation, which made him millions, which allowed him to retire at a younger age than most, which allowed him and his wife Nancy to travel the world. Harold would return an old man and Nancy, an old woman, and they would buy land, a boatload of land, in the mountains, where they would build a cabin, with a master bedroom bigger than most houses, with windows that pointed to the east, where they would watch the sun rise each morning. And it’s from those windows that Harold looked out as he contemplated his life, as he lied in bed, surrounded by his loved ones, his wife, his two remaining children and their spouses, and their children, and even some of their children’s children. And Harold would look around and crack a smile, satisfied with the life that he had lived, and take one last breath and close his eyes one last time.

            Jacob Gatlin opened his eyes. He unbuckled the strap around his chin and removed the shielded helmet that surrounded his entire head. He stood up out of the reclining chair and wiped the sweat from this brow. He looked around to see a dozen other people sitting in identical chairs with identical helmets hiding their faces. He stared up at a sign lit up in bright letters that read: LIVE-A-LIFE. Below it, it read: $99 FOR 10 MINUTES, AT YOUR OWN RISK! Just then, Dominick DePelegra, the shop’s owner, shuffled out of the back room. “What the hell are you doing in here?” He yelled. “You’re going to get my permit revoked, you little bastard! Can’t you read the sign?” Jacob looked toward the far wall, where the fat man was pointing, at a sign that read: 21 AND OVER, NO EXCEPTIONS! Dominick grabbed him by the collar and dragged him to the front door, shoving him outside, where three of his friends waited. “What was it like?” one of them asked. “It was…It was…” Jacob paused. “It was what?” Another friend asked. “It… just… was…” Jacob said, before collapsing to his knees and bursting into tears.