Lean in a little closer. See that guy across the street? That’s Hank. He’s currently watering his driveway. Not the grass, mind you. The actual concrete. He does it every Tuesday at four. He thinks he’s just a retired guy with a hobby. But I know the truth about the fellow who used to follow him around.
About ten years ago, Hank was an accountant. He was the kind of man who found joy in a well-organized spreadsheet. He was so boring that even the universe seemed to forget he existed. That was until Bernie showed up. Now, Bernie wasn’t a neighbor. He wasn’t even a human. He was a demon from the Ninth Circle, but he was the kind of demon who couldn’t even get a campfire started.
Bernie had a deep need to be feared. He wanted to be the guy who caused storms and flipped cars. Instead, a clerical error in the basement of the afterlife assigned him as Hank’s guardian angel. The middle management down there is a mess. They use folders that stick together with old coffee and spite. Bernie was supposed to be a temp in the Pit, but he ended up with a halo that flickered like a dying light bulb and a pair of wings that were folded like a card table.
I saw them one afternoon while I was trimming my hedge. Hank was walking to his car, and Bernie was hovering behind him. Bernie looked miserable. He was trying to trip Hank into a puddle, but because of his new job description, he accidentally pushed Hank out of the way of a speeding bicycle.
Bernie’s face turned a dusty shade of red. He looked like he wanted to cry, or maybe explode. He pulled out a thick stack of yellow paper. It was a Soul Transfer Authorization Form. To get back to his real job, Bernie had to get Hank to sign away his soul. But Bernie was so bad at being a demon that he tried to do it through office supplies.
He would replace Hank’s favorite pens with ones that leaked. He thought the frustration would drive Hank to madness. Instead, Hank just sighed and wiped the ink off his hands with a handkerchief. Bernie tried to make Hank’s computer freeze during tax season. He stood over Hank’s shoulder, his fingers twitching with dark energy. The screen turned blue.
Hank didn’t scream. He didn’t curse. He just stood up, stretched his back, and went to make a cup of tea. I watched Bernie through the window. The demon was expanding like a panicked pufferfish. He was so angry that his little halo started to smoke. He hated how calm Hank was. He hated the smell of the tea. Most of all, he hated that he was starting to worry about Hank’s cholesterol.
The bureaucracy of the afterlife is a cold machine. Bernie’s boss, a guy named Gus who wore a suit made of wet shadows, showed up in Hank’s kitchen one night. I was out back putting out the recycling when I heard the shouting. It wasn’t loud, but it was sharp. It was the sound of a manager who was disappointed in your quarterly goals.
Gus told Bernie that if he didn’t get a signature by midnight, they’d both be turned into office chairs. Bernie looked at Hank, who was currently asleep on the sofa with a bowl of half-eaten popcorn on his chest. Hank looked so small. He looked like a guy who had never been the main character in anything, not even his own life.
Bernie sat down on the floor next to the sofa. He didn’t try to wake him. He just looked at the Form 4-B in his lap. He realized that if he took Hank’s soul, Hank would finally be important, but he’d be miserable forever. If Bernie stayed a guardian, Hank would stay boring, but he’d be safe.
The demon did something then that I’ll never forget. He took his official demonic stamp and pressed it onto his own hand. Then, he pressed his hand onto the bottom of the form. He forged the signature. He knew it meant he’d never go back to the Pit. He’d be stuck in the suburbs forever, watching a man water his driveway.
Gus vanished in a puff of sulfur that smelled like a lukewarm chalupa. Bernie just sat there. His wings grew a little softer. His halo stopped flickering and turned a steady, boring yellow.
Hank woke up a minute later. He rubbed his eyes and looked around. He didn’t see Bernie, of course. He just felt a sudden warmth in his chest, like he’d just finished a really good bowl of soup. He stood up, tucked his shirt in, and went to bed.
Bernie is still around. I see him sometimes when the light hits the street just right. He’s usually standing by the mailbox, looking bored. He saves Hank from the little things now: a bad tuna melt, a slippery rug, a tax audit. He’s the most overqualified bodyguard in the world.
It makes you wonder, doesn’t it? You look at a guy like Hank and you think his life is empty. You think nothing ever happens in this neighborhood. But there’s a whole lot of paperwork going on behind the scenes. There’s a lot of middle management trying to balance the books of our souls.
I think Bernie likes it here. He doesn’t have to poke anyone with needles anymore. He just has to make sure Hank doesn’t lose his car keys. It’s a quiet kind of hell, I suppose. Or maybe it’s a quiet kind of heaven. It’s hard to tell the difference when you’ve been leaning over a fence as long as I have.
Next time you see a guy watering his driveway for no reason, don’t laugh. He might just be the only thing keeping a demon from a very long promotion. And Bernie? He’s probably just glad he’s not an office chair.