"Help Wanted"

Other than the aides and the occasional insurance representative, Mr Lucy, the occupant of room #042, had no visitors.

No one ever saw him at mealtimes. He didn’t seem to eat at all.

He received no mail, flowers, or balloons.

He didn’t hang a wreath on his door during the holidays or a heart on Valentine’s or even a flag in July. His door was devoid of dents, nicks, tape residue, or any kind of imperfection.  The doorframe always gleamed as if freshly painted, which it wasn’t because nothing in Briarwood Assisted Living and Nursing Care was freshly anything-d.

Mr Lucy wasn’t interested in Monday Bridge–Come Join Your Friends!, Tuesday Movie Night With Free Popcorn, Wednesday Chair Volleyball: Teamwork, Laughter, and Camaraderie!, or any of the activities which Briarwood regularly offered. He didn’t go to the Synagogue on Shabbat, and on Sunday mornings, his door was somehow more tightly closed than ever. No one was even sure what he looked like.

 The intrepid few who dared to knock and invite him out for a chat or a friendly game of Canasta were ignored completely. Eventually, even the most garrulous residents gave up trying to get him to socialize.

Clearly Mr Lucy wanted to be left alone, and the residents would have gladly obliged him except for a one niggling thing that first drew their attention, then their low-key hostility back to his existence: Wellness Check/Pill Time.

 Every resident’s Wellness Check/Pill Time began either before dawn’s first light or well into mid-morning in the same unceremonious way: two sharp raps on the heavy metal door, a calling out of the resident’s name (“Mrs Brentwood? Time for your medicine and blood pressure and sugar check! Don’t go to the bathroom yet because we need to check your urine for proteins..!”) followed by the aide’s ass unromantically shoving open the door as they backed into the room with the blood pressure cuff,  pill cups, and water all on a tray. This rear-ended entrance was done in case the occupant was still dressing (or possibly naked) to foster the illusion that residents had privacy. After a few questions about sleeping, bowel movements, and mental status, the paper cups of pills followed thereupon, accompanied by the squat bottle of Sam’s Choice water to wash them down, uncapped in their presence and poured into a plastic cup with all the grace of a third-rate sommelier. 

Mr Lucy was the only resident to receive his pills at exactly 8.35am and 4.30pm. They were presented to him not on a bandage-colored plastic tray but on a large gold charger covered by a black cloth. The aides always knocked three times on the door (softly, it might be noted) to announce their presence. No ass-backing into #042. The door opened and closed swiftly behind, and exactly 13 minutes later, the aides backed out again, heads ducked and almost apologetic, and that was the end of it. Twice daily, no variation, no exceptions. 

It aggravated the residents and stirred subterranean feelings of deepest dissent.

Mrs Wen-Lin, who feigned a senility she didn’t have for the purpose of observing unimpeded everything that happened on the floor, was a consummate source of information at Monday Bridge–Come Join Your Friends! gatherings.  A month into Mr Lucy’s tenancy, she passed on some interesting observations to her Bridge partners. “One time the clock read 8.36am, and Mr Lucy refused to open the door,” she relayed in hushed tones, as if the invisible Mr Lucy might be lurking and eavesdropping.  “They knocked and they begged…nothing. And that’s not all,” she went on, her crabbed hands haphazardly shuffling the cards, then scattering them across the table as she dealt. “He gets a Jack and Coke at Pill Time. Every day–even in the mornings!--with a lemon slice on the edge.”

Miss Miriam, whippet thin and still sharp as a tack, stared at Mrs Lin-Wen. “Jack and Coke, in the morning? Why’s he so special?”

“He ain’t,” croaked Liam Bates, puffing on his ever-present Vape pen and leaning in to scrape his cards together. “No one is. It don’t make sense.”

Miss Wanda, retired coroner for the local Sheriff’s Office and thus rarely disturbed by anything, slotted her cards into the card holder and pursed her lips. “There’s something different about that one,” she said, sipping from her ever-present coffee cup and tapping her cards into a neat row. “They’re scareda him. You seen them runnin’, to make sure they there ‘xactly on time for his pills?  There’s somethin’ about him got them all rattled, mmhm, surely is. Mr Bates, I bid two spade.”

The others bid, the game began, and there was no more talk of Mr Lucy at the Bridge table that night.

Two weeks went by with no change in routine, aside from the growing resentment of Mr Lucy’s special treatment, and it was rumored that the Tuesday Movie Night With Free Popcorn movie, “The Seventh Seal,” was shown at Mr Lucy’s request. This bit of intel, not surprisingly, came from Mrs Wen-Lin, sitting next to Miriam in the flickering darkness. “I overheard two aides in the break room,” she whispered in Miriam’s ear. “They said he didn’t ask. He just ordered. It’s like they can’t tell him no.”

Miriam’s eyes narrowed. “Now he gets to decide what we watch?” she hissed. “What’s next? Menu approval?”

Shrugging, Mrs Wen-Lin offered her friend some of her popcorn. “Come on, take a few pieces. You’re too thin,” she urged as Miriam shook her head. “Aren’t you eating anything?”

“Not much,” Miriam sighed. “I don’t seem to have an appetite anymore.”

Mrs Wen-Lin turned and stared at her friend for several moments, taking in the pronounced cheekbones and drawn mouth. “Have you told the doctor?”

“Dr Forbes doesn’t care. I’m 94 years old. He only gets paid if I’m ill, not healthy.” Miriam smiled, then made a show of taking a handful of popcorn from the carton. “There. See? I’m eating.” She put a piece in her mouth and smiled. “Better?”

Mrs Wen-Lin frowned and turned back to the screen, watching as Death took the knight’s White Queen.  Next to her, Miriam secretly dropped the handful of popcorn to the floor and scooted the kernels under the chair with her foot.

“I didn’t see that coming,” said the knight in response to Death’s enigmatic smile.

“We need to talk to him,” Mrs Wen-Lin remarked on Wednesday at Chair Volleyball–Teamwork, Laughter, and Camaraderie!, scooting her roller chair next to Miss Wanda. “He’s choosing the movies, he gets his own Pill Time, everyone bends over backwards to please him. It’s only gonna get worse.”

“Mmmmhmmm.” Miss Wanda leaned back in her chair and bunted the foam ball over the net with her fist. “We do indeed. That man’s thinking everybody here to serve him. Not in my house, no sir.” She looked at Mrs Len-Win. “Whatchyou think, tonight after dinner?”

“Yes, tonight after the aides go home, around 9. The sooner the better.”

Wanda looked at her friend, pursed her lips, and nodded. It was time to do something about the Mr Lucy Situation.

At exactly 9pm, Miriam, Mrs Wen-Lin, Liam, and Miss Wanda stood in front of room #042 and stared at the door in silence. 

No one moved. No one spoke. And no one knew why they couldn’t move or speak.

Slowly, as if buffeting great winds, Miriam raised her fist and drew it back in preparation to knock, but before her swollen knuckles hit the metal, the door swung inward, and there stood the inscrutable Mr Lucy, smiling broadly. “Good evening, my friends,” he said, graciously sweeping his arm behind him. “I’m so delighted to see you. Won’t you come in?”

They did. En masse the Monday Bridge–Come Join Your Friends! quartet moved into the remarkably ordinary-looking room and saw four even more remarkably ordinary-looking wooden chairs lined up in front of a large, squashy leather recliner that had seen better days. Each chair in turn had a brown box placed upon it of differing sizes but which seemed somehow similar. The walls were a relaxing pale blue and hung with pictures of various religious scenes: Adam and Eve at the Tree of Knowledge, Jesus in the desert, Anubis in profile, and a large Yin and Yang, all tastefully framed and hung in a stylish manner.

As for Mr Lucy, there was something vaguely familiar about him, but no one could quite put a finger on it. He gave the impression of being both welcoming and threatening at the same time, even when all he did was close the door behind them, move stiffly to his chair, and sit down, gesturing for them to do the same. In fact, with his red polo shirt, zippered sweat jacket, tan pants, and large black orthopedic shoes, he looked wholly unremarkable and rather disappointingly plain. 

“Erm…where should we sit?” Miriam asked, looking at the chairs.

“Oh, I think you’ll find where you’re meant to be,” chuckled Mr Lucy, settling himself into the chair. “I’ve been expecting you for some time.”

Mrs Wen-Lin shrugged and chose a chair for no other reason than it was the nearest. Wanda sat next to her, then Miriam, and lastly Ian, holding the packages in their laps and watching Mr Lucy.

“How rude of me.” Mr Lucy beckoned to an urn emitting a wisp of smoke. “Would anyone like coffee? I have an excellent supplier who gets the beans straight from Brazil.”

They all shook their heads. Coffee at 9pm? They’d be up all night, and their stomach wouldn’t thank them one bit.

“No? Well, then.” Mr Lucy looked at his audience, then smiled a smile that did not quite reach his eyes. “Let’s begin. I know I’ve been something of a mystery to you, and it was never my intention to be so puzzling. I simply like my solitude and needed time to adjust to this last phase of my life.”

“Oh, dear…are you dying, Mr Lucy?” Wanda asked. “Are you ill?”

His smile grew wider but not any friendlier. “Something like that, Miss Wanda. I am retiring.”

Liam cleared his throat. “Retiring. Now? How old are you??”

Mr Lucy chortled deep in his chest. “Oh…I lost count of that ages ago when I realized that time doesn’t matter to me anymore, Mr Bates,” he said. “No, it’s more than that. I’m not ending a career. I’m ending a contract, a very long one. Two thousand years, in fact.”

The four exchanged looks, eyes wide. In a place where the days bled together into one gray mass of medication, bad food, pain, and exhaustion, Mr Lucy’s presence was by far the strangest thing to have happened at Briarwood Assisted Living and Nursing Care in a very long time.

It was Mrs Wen-Lin who braved the silence. “A two thousand year contract, Mr Lucy, is that what you said?”

A nod. Still the polite smile.

“That’s crazy, really crazy. What did you do, make the pact with the Devil?”

At this, Mr Lucy threw back his head and laughed so loudly the coffee urn next to him shook.. The laughter fed itself, rising to the ceiling and becoming so large that it filled the room and pressed the four friends against the backs of their chairs. It fattened all the air into the floor until it crept back into their lungs again. It was not unlike getting the bends.

“Oh, my friends,” Mr Lucy gasped,  “no! Gracious me, no. I haven’t made a pact with the Devil. Why, I am the Devil.”

Liam dropped his vaping pen. 

Miriam jumped out of her chair.

Miss Wanda yelled, “Lawd Jesus!”

Mrs Wen-Lin froze solid.

Mr Lucy held his hands up. “Please. Relax. It’s not what you think.”

“Not what we think?” Miss Wanda shrieked. “I’ve been going to church my whole life, Mr Lucy or whatever you call yo’self! I’ve been learning about you since I was a little girl, and I know how to deal with you. I rebuke you, in the name of Jesus Christ our Savior!”

“You can’t rebuke me. I haven’t DONE anything,” Mr Lucy pointed out calmly. “Remember, you came into this room willingly, not under coercion. I’m far more powerful than you can ever—” he cut himself off with a wave of his hand. “Look, that’s not what I want to talk about right now…”

Mrs Wen-Lin tilted her head. “I’m a Buddhist,” she said. “I don’t believe in you,” 

“That won’t make me disappear,” Mr Lucy replied. 

“Yes, it would…you’re nothing without faith.”

“You’re thinking of God. I’ve always been here.”

“Are you really the father of lies?” Miriam asked, sitting down and putting the package back on her lap. 

“At one point, when the world was new…yes, I spread some big ones.” Mr Lucy inclined his head. “But really, since the Renaissance you humans haven’t needed much help from me in that arena.”

Miriam pressed on. “And were you cast down from Heaven?”

Mr Lucy sighed and rubbed his forehead. “Here’s what really happened. The Almighty has a top-down management style and not much room for advancement. I merely suggested a reorg. It was really more of a labor dispute that led to a parting of the ways. It was far more amicable than your poets and theologians assume.”

“And Jesus?”

“Nice chap. Great conversationalist. And for the record, he was the last person I truly tempted because I was just hitting my stride when he was on Earth, so I was pretty ambitious. All these other temptations and dark influences that you claim to experience? They come from the demons, free agents who contract with me. Truly…for the last 500 years I really haven’t had much to do because you humans are shockingly skilled at making each other unhappy. It’s stunning..”

Liam leaned to the side and picked up his Vape pen. “This has suddenly gotten very existential.”

“Don’t I know it,” said Mr Lucy, standing up and hobbling over to the coffee. “I’ve been doing this job for nearly 2,000 years, and now all of a sudden, I have to stop.” He poured a measure of coffee into a china demitasse, added sugar and cream, stirred with a small gold spoon. After a pause, he turned to his companions once more and said, “Sure I can’t tempt you? It’s really quite delicious when it’s made fresh…”

Wanda straightened her spine and looked him dead in his eyes. “You, sir, canNOT tempt me. I again rebu–”

Mr Lucy casually lifted a finger, and Wanda froze, her mouth open mid-word.

“Holy shit!” said Liam. “Is she dead?” He prodded Wanda’s face with his finger, then flicked her earlobe. No response.

“Of course not. I never kill people. I just make them want to kill each other.” Mr Lucy sipped his coffee, smiling in satisfaction. “Or themselves. Humanity has fallen into a very nasty habit of blaming all ills on me. My malevolence is vast, but most of your own misery is a result of having an immortal soul stuffed into a corporeal body. It’s why you’re always so violent.”

Wanda suddenly popped back to life. She moved her jaw back and forth, glaring at Mr Lucy but said nothing.

Mr Lucy resumed his seat with a slight groan and gestured to the boxes. “Please. Open them now. My contract expires in less than three hours, and things are about to change.”

Liam fumbled with his box, then paused. “Wait…what’s changing?”

“Well.” Mr Lucy was pensive, rubbing his bottom lip with a finger. “The problem is that humans have made me redundant. There’s nothing I can do that you cannot do to yourselves more efficiently and, quite honestly, more cruelly. It’s good timing, really…as I said, my contract is expiring anyway, and come midnight, I will simply cease to be.”

Miss Wanda prised the lid off her box and pulled out a small bow, a quiver of arrows, and a tarnished crown.

Miriam withdrew a very damaged set of scales.

Liam clutched a surprisingly large sword, bent as though it had been in a battle.

Mrs Wen-Lin pulled out a long, very dirty cape with an enormous hood.

“Oh, I beg your pardon. Time damages so many things,” said Mr Lucy. He waved his hand, and with a great heat enveloping them, the scales sparkled as though fresh from the refiner’s fire, the sword straightened itself into deathly perfection, and the cape was so white it was nearly blinding. Miss Wanda’s crown glistened with jewels in the pale light.

“I remember this beauty…” Liam stood and twirled his sword. 

“These were mine,” Miriam whispered, holding the scales aloft.

Wanda put the crown on her head and smiled. Mrs Wen-Lin snuggled her cape.

“Now, my friends…you have a choice, as you always do.” Mr Lucy stood and seemed to grow taller in front of them, his head nearly brushing the overhead chandelier. “I am fading from this world, but your time has not yet come.” A series of whinnies split the night air; Mr Lucy looked over his shoulder out the window, and smiled. 

“Your mounts are here. Ride with me into midnight and bid me farewell…I go where you cannot follow. Then you are free to ride where you will until the Almighty calls you. Will you come?”

They glanced at each other, then at Mr Lucy who repeated his request. “Will you come?”

When the aide pushed Mr Lucy’s door open for a final check that evening, she found the room completely empty aside from four brown boxes piled neatly on the floor, and one Vape pen. A handwritten note held in place with the gold charger read:

“Thanks for a lovely time. See you soon. PS…keep up the good work.”