Managing Editor Lisa Ampleman: What would cheer up the devil if he’s been a bit morose? Alyson Mosquera Dutemple shows us, in the tradition of C. S. Lewis’s The Screwtape Letters and John Milton’s Paradise Lost, with professional hockey and stadium hot dogs in the mix. Dutemple’s masterful story, though, is more of an indictment of the logic of organized religion.
To hear Alyson read the story, click below:
Checking on the Devil
I checked in on the devil. He hadn’t been doing too hot. His place was dark and smelled weird. I asked if I could open a window. Sure, he wheezed. He put his feet up on his recliner. He asked me to tell him some things, about what had been going on in my life, around town, around New Jersey. I thought for a long time before I came up with something I thought might cheer him. I told him I went to a professional hockey game recently and that after tabulating the outrageous amount I spent on a ticket, on parking, on snacks and a couple of beers, I realized I could have probably paid for a trip to Europe. Really, the devil said, sitting back up. Tell me more. I told him about the food stands, about how many different stalls there were in that cavernous arena, but how all of them appeared to be owned by the same vendor, so it wasn’t even worth doing any comparison shopping. It wasn’t even worth walking around to see what interesting sorts of refreshments were on offer because after a few laps, I realized all the stalls were selling variations of the same fare anyway. Even all the way upstairs, at the top of the interminable escalator dominating the hall full of shouting, full of red faces, of fervor, sweat, there was just more of the same. Only, on the top floor they called hot dogs Devil Dogs—but the little tubes of flesh floating in the dirty water were still just hot dogs, all right.
Devil Dogs? The devil, naturally, perked up at this. Like the dessert? I explained that they were just regular hot dogs, but they tried rebranding them to trick people into thinking they were getting something special. A reward. A thing they might not be able to get on the lower floors. Something available only to those who rode the escalator. Who ascended, all the way up.
Ahh, I see, the devil said knowingly. I’m familiar with that drill. He leaned back and put his feet up again. He closed his eyes, breathed deeply, and I left after that because it seemed as though I had cheered him.
Alyson Mosquera Dutemple’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in Colorado Review, Alaska Quarterly Review, Salamander, Passages North, Arts & Letters, DIAGRAM, and Michigan Quarterly Review‘s Mixtape, among others, and her story collection was a runner-up for the 2022 Flannery O’Connor Award for Short Fiction. Alyson teaches and edits in New Jersey. Find her at www.alysondutemple.com.
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