Devil

“Is there a devil?” Written neatly across the dry erase board in an old Expo marker that fades at the end of the sentence, as if it knows the significance of what it is contributing to and does not wish to finish its work.  The rest of the board is a mass of grimy black streaks about four inches wide from constant use. 

         The wording of this small question floors me.  It is not stated, “Do you believe…” but boldly and possessively, “Is there…”  The very meaning of this makes me stop in my tracks, pissing off the girl behind me who popped her gum at me then continued checking out the substitute teacher, clearly not noticing the question on the white board.  I roll my eyes but continue to my desk in the middle of the classroom and ponder the question more so I can have an intelligible answer when it is discussed.  I take out my vocabulary book, literature book, grammar book, and notebook at set them on my desk.  All of the desks are in haphazard rows and the cubby inside is facing out so that the students cannot use them for bad things, as the teachers are convinced they will.  The vulgar words etched into the tops of desks prove them right.

         What makes something real?  It is not necessarily if it is a tangible, touchable thing.  Depending on who is asked, the devil exists and is simultaneously merely a story told to naughty, gullible children.  The fact that the devil exists to one person and does not to another suggests the possibility of different realms of existence.  I try and think if the devil exists for me and find I cannot convey my answer even to myself.

         I startle to find the conversation has already kicked off and is steering away from the literal devil in Tom Walker to the definition of “the devil”.  There are the red faced and loud kids who boisterously claim the literal, tangible devil in the book.  I wonder if their pushy demeanor is more for the other students or themselves as nobody else seems to pay any attention to them.  Ignoring the protests of a few kids, the class pushes on in the discussion.

         “The devil could be the sense of self-preservation” This is rare participation for the boy in camo but he is now on a roll.  Heads turn to the back corner of the room in surprise to see him reclining in his blue plastic chair,  fingers laced behind his head, as if it was a lazy-boy.

         “The devil may not be literal but personal.  The devil is the reason for a conscience.  The devil exists because its counterpart undoubtedly exists.”

         Having said his piece, the boy in camo proceeds to go back to sleep, lifting his hood so the glare from the one window in the opposite corner of the room does not disturb him.  This window shows the outside world, and while he does not yet want to be there, neither does he want to be in the classroom.  The teacher, Mr. Smith, writes something down in a notebook filled with loose papers with raised eyebrows but does not comment.  The bell rings, breaking the moment where our sturdy social expectations had crumbled into dust at the passionate sporadic whim of one boy in camo. 

         It takes a few moments before we scramble for our books and quickly squeeze out the door into the hall, eager to slip back into the rut of routine.