Entry #2: When Hell Holds a BBQ, Politely Decline

Jack held the container tight. He hated carrying anything valuable on the subway, feeling every thieving eye upon him. It was the size of pear, patterned with gaudy faux brick and marked with strangely abbreviated lettering "BAR-B-Q SAUCE." Who could believe something so valuable would fit in a container so small?

A couple of days ago, he'd run into the Devil in a liquor store. Out of principle, he'd refused the prince of darkness' offer, not even bothering to fully hearing what it was. But he remembered the Devil kept repeating six numbers, rhythmically, like a song. Later that night, in a drunken stupor, Jack watched as the lady in a sequin dress pulled lottery numbers from a bin. The numbers sounded familiar, like lyrics from a song. Suddenly, all of the details of the liquor store offer came back to him. Jack swung his front door open and there sat the empty container. He needed only to fill it.

The passing train thumped it's signature duh-duh-duh. As the train faded, Jack heard the signature clomp-clomp of the goateed man approaching him.

"Ah yes, I'm glad you came," said the Devil pleasantly.

Jack handed over the container.

The Devil gently popped the wooden top and touched the tiniest amount of the glowing nectar to his tongue. Like a newly rich man sampling too expensive wine, he closed his eyes and worked his tongue.

"Marvelous. I'm eternally grateful," said the Devil

"And my part of the deal?" Jack asked.

"Ah yes. I believe your luck is already changing," said the Devil and cocked his head at the tall red head seating herself next to Jack.

Taking in the delicious woman, Jack was suddenly filled with doubt and remorse. When he turned back goatee was gone.

The red head touched him lightly on the knee and said, "Excuse me, but I'm on my way to a photoshoot..." But he barely heard her. It was just BBQ sauce. Sure, award winning, secret family recipe, passed on for generations sauce, but still just sauce -- tomatoes, spices and vinegar. Certainly, it was worth it right?

Entry #1: Porcelain

After spending decades motionless, the porcelain figurines finally came alive as they teetered at the edge of the table. I flicked one. A little boy holding a fishing rod dove into the garbage can and shattered. My sister drew a sharp breath. A little girl with an umbrella went to pieces. The last time we'd broken one, I had to sleep on my stomach for a week. Even though the baby Jesus figurine had slipped from Allison's hand, mom drunkenly blamed me for "playing ball in the house." A smiling clown's oversized shoes cracked as they hit the metal. The next few nights, Allison brought me little zip-lock baggies of ice, looking worse than I did.

I pointed at a painted elephant. Allison clumsily flicked. Porcelain exploded. We took turns down the line until all that was left were silhouettes in the dust. I wiped it clean with my hand.

Allison’s husband had offered to help but we’d sent him and my wife to talk to the funeral director and pick up relatives. We were tired of coming up with respectable sounding lies every time they asked if we were OK.

We moved to the kitchen. Sis called dibs on cleaning out the fridge. A good idea, considering mom had never fixed the air conditioner. At Allison's insistence, I'd driven three hours back to fix it but mom had refused to even let me look at the unit. She claimed to like the hundred degree heat.

I presided over the disposal of the pantry, tossing out cans of liver, fetishistic amounts of lard and flour crawling with tiny weevils.

“Wow. These olives expired more three and a half years ago," my sister said. "Ah, you remember this?” She waved a ceramic container at me before aiming for the garbage.

“Wait, wait!” I cried and tugged the small jar from her hand. Brown, with a faux brick pattern and the strangely abbreviated, "BAR-B-Q SAUCE" it was mom's pride and joy, her "sauce taster."

“Is there any chicken in the freezer?” I asked.

“Yeah, some of the frozen stuff looks like it could still be edible.”

I cleared the stove. After quickly grilling the chicken breasts, I popped the wooden cover from the container and with the attached brush slathered the remaining BBQ sauce over the steaming meat.

“Every year, mom won county with the exact same secret sauce,” Allison said, “Remember that time she used all the prize money to buy us bicycles? Dad nearly killed her.”

“She wouldn’t tell anyone the recipe. You know I won a frat cook off by stealing a jug of the stuff? I never even knew what was in it so I had to tell everyone it was a family secret. Mom found out but she was more proud than angry.”

We each took a bite, savoring the peppercorn heat, the vinegar tartness, the copious taste of Bourbon and the hint of sweetness.

Memory

Her mind was like a steel trap. Fluid memories flowed through, rusting it shut.