6 Count

“Are you there, God? It’s me Lucas… ya know, the antichrist.” 

It’s a weird prayer, but it’s mine. The same thing I ask for every morning before I have to dance for exactly 6 minutes. 

The Devil’s Dance happened every day at 6:06 a.m. And, I had to dance a 6 count. 

My dad took the whole 666 thing super serious. 

“I know you and my dad don’t get along. He really fu… messed things up and I’ve not done so much better myself. But at least I’ve kept the world from ending.” 

Maybe God ignores my prayers. I mean, why would he listen to the son of the devil, destined to bring about the end times. Truly, no one really listened to me for whatever reason. 

Just kidding, it’s cause I’m a demon. Maybe. I’m not totally sure. 

The thing is I don’t totally look like a demon. I mean, my curly blonde hair seems fit for an altar boy. I had a lithe build, so I wasn’t super strong. I was told that it was my eyes that set people off. Deep amber irises with bright flecks of gold, meant to look stunning to deceive the humans around me. 

It was also my eyes that made my family realize the curse had come true. Six generations of waiting after a shady deal at a crossroads in Georgia, the sixth child of a sixth child was born with unholy eyes. 

Like I said, dad really likes the numbers thing. 

Ding. Ding. Ding. 

My phone’s alarm blared from my pocket as it did every morning. 

Except for this morning, I wasn’t at home or in the bathroom or in a closet, so I was going to have to dance publicly. 

At the bus stop. And a crowded one at that. 

I pulled some headphones out of my pocket, hoping that by acting like I was listening to music that maybe people would assume I was rehearsing a dance for a musical or something. 

The time on my phone read 6:05 a.m. Less than 60 seconds to go before the fate of the world fell on my feet. 

I hated the last few seconds more than anything else. For the past few years, since I started working a dead-end job at Taco Bell, I wondered if preventing the end of the world was truly worth it. 

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want to destroy everything but this stupid swing dance (most 6 counts are swing dances, actually) had really set me down a tragic path. Between work, a string of troubled friendships (dating never felt quite right), and an abusive family who thought they could beat the evil out of me. 

Real original, right? I hated all of them. Letting their world end was tempting, but then I would justify all their fears about me. 

6:06 a.m. 

Showtime. I started to count in my head as I shuffled my feet across the broken sidewalk. 

1-2-3-4-5-6

I kept with some basic steps, turning occasionally to please dear old, dad. He gave me my one and only warning when I was 11 that shuffling my feet was not enough. In hindsight, I wonder if it was his way of being gracious. That or it was a subtle way of torturing me more. 

“Nice steps, bro!” 

A teenager waiting for the bus started to shuffle his feet some, seeming to mimic what I was doing. His smile was pure and light, clueless of what he was messing with. 

No. 

Keeping the world spinning was the first part of the curse. The second part said that anyone who danced with me would be doomed if they didn’t die within six minutes of my last step.

Honestly, dancing every morning was the easy part. 

Convincing those people who were willing to randomly dance in public, ya know the ones who loved flash mobs, well, that was extremely hard.  

“It’s really more of a solo number, man,” I said. 

The teen raised his eyebrows. He shoved his hands into the pockets of a letterman jacket. I imagined he was the quarterback of his high school, the golden boy, probably destined to earn an athletic scholarship. 

Then again, maybe he’d knock up a cheerleader on prom night, ruining any chance he had at meaningful success. He’d either find a dead-end job or a soulless one, maybe selling lemon cars. 

Really, who knows. 

“Aw dude, seriously?” 

Maybe he was disappointed, but better to have dance disappointment than devil dues. I couldn’t control people’s reaction to my sporadic dancing but I could at least try to deter them from death. 

The last person to dance with me ended up breaking her ankle during her big dance break on Broadway. The worst part was how public it was. She was tapping in one of those doomed to fail live on TV performances. Live shows on stage are meant to be viewed when you can see the stage. Part of me wonders if the person behind the string of TV failures had danced with me when I was younger. 

“Sorry man, it’s better if you don’t.” 

His surprise shifted to a scowl. Offending someone usually went one of two ways. They would either:

1. walk away, none the wiser how close they came to pure evil

2. or take it as a challenge and dance with me regardless

His eyes bore into mine, the first signal of what was likely going to be a challenge. He was signing his deal with pops. While I don’t think I’m evil, I do wonder what his curse will be. 

He’s young so it will be something traumatic that will follow him around. Maybe he’ll lose a testicle in a terrible game of kickball. Would that cut his chances of kids in half? Did it work like that? Knowing curses, he’d probably end up extra virile. 

Golden boy took a deep breath, sort of huffing and puffing out his chest. Okay, if he was going to fight me for trying to spare him, maybe he deserved a curse. 

“Whatever dude.” 

Thank God, he gave up. 

He laughed. “I’ll do my own jig!” 

He started to do some 50s inspired, sockhop nonsense that made him look like he belonged in some dumb musical that’s been done to death. His friends started to laugh. 

Based on what he said next I must have let a deep scowl come across my face. 

“Wow. I didn’t realize jerks took silent dancing so seriously. You would think you would at least be good at it.” 

His dance moves shifted from mocking to intimidating. I’m talking break-dancing, 1990s hip-hop swag. This gangly teenager was fresh. 

I heard whispers from the random bus riders waiting around us. I’m sure we were quite the sight. Me, a bad dancer just shuffling around, protecting the lives of all those watching and beyond. My 6 count swing moves were the only things keeping their lives from shifting into a literal hell. 

Then, this 18-year-old quarterback was popping and locking and dropping. Breaking into different rhythms with sharp shoulder movements, serving little to no purpose to anyone but himself. 

Yeah, my request was weird but I was protecting him. He was just boosting his own ego. He was selfish. 

“You’re going to regret this.” I pleaded.

I wasn’t quite sure how this part of the curse worked, but I figured that the less he danced with me, the less severe the devil’s wrath.

“Oh, I am?” 

The intensity of his dancing slowed as he stepped toward me, his friends surrounding him as they prepared to “teach me a lesson.” Man, this really was cliche. 

“I’m not looking for trouble. You just can’t understand what dancing with me means.” 

Your life is doomed if you keep dancing! 

I wanted to say that, but I highly doubted he would believe me. 

“I don’t take orders from fast-food workers.” 

He scowled with the air of entitlement. I realized that he probably only heard the word ‘no’ from those he didn’t respect. Teachers. Classmates. Decent people. 

I bit my lip, still following my solo swing number. I could keep talking smack at him, hope he stopped dancing, and prevent whatever demonic future awaited him. 

On the other hand, I could just let him dance. It was his choice to dance. I didn’t make him. The only he didn’t choose in life was the taste that silver spoon left in his mouth. I’m sure his karma was out of whack anyway. 

But, would letting him dance be the moment that started me on the path of dad? If I gave up on him, would that mean that I was eventually going to give up on myself? Everyone else? 

Everyone else… 

He started to fume when I didn’t answer. Fists clenching, jaw jutting out, he had fire in his eyes. It would take just a second for him to lay me out and stop my dance. 

And if the Devil’s Dance ends before the six minutes were up? 

Apocalypse. 

I nodded at him, taking in my options one last time. Him? Me? The world? 

“So, you going to let me dance twinkle toes?” 

I looked at my phone. The clock changed to 6:10 a.m.

Ya know what… 

“Screw it.”