Having decided at some point in my youth that I wanted nothing more than to continue to remain in my pyjamas and slippers for the greater part of my days while reading books and writing poems and short stories, I decided to be a journalist. Not a hard-news journalist; I wanted to write features, personality profiles, book reviews. So I set out to get myself assignments with smaller, lesser-known publications in order to work my way up to the larger, more reputable ones. I got a few by-lines in the pages of some free community newspapers that I’m sure were used more for wrapping fish than reading articles.
Gradually, I got better assignments with publications that people actually took the time to read. A large part of how I did this was to find a way to become friendly with the editorial staff. This is how I ended up taking on what, to date, has been the oddest freelance writing assignment I’ve ever attempted.
I knew where this one editor usually ate lunch so every now and again I would show up there like a stray puppy, staring at him with sad eyes and begging for whatever scrap of writing work he could give me. Usually he’d say, “I got nothing this week, kid. Try again in a week or two.” And I would. Then one week my fortune seemed to change. He told me he was considering running a series of articles on The Occult, something I knew absolutely nothing about, but assured him that with a little research and reading, I was certain I could be knowledgeable or at least conversant enough to write a good article.
“So what should I write about?” I asked, so excited I could barely contain myself.
“Well,” he said, taking a bite of his sandwich so he wouldn’t have to make eye contact, “I’m looking for a writer to attend and report on an upcoming Satan-worship meeting.”
It took a moment for me to register what he’d said. Satan worship? Satan, as in the devil? Oh dear!
“Um, sure,” I heard myself say. “I’ll take the assignment.” I know, I know, what was I thinking????!!! Well, I was desperate for a by-line in that publication and this was my way in.
Was I scared? I went home in a daze with images of a two-legged creature with horns and hoofs, fiery red skin and a pitchfork. Hell, yeah, I was scared.
I grew up in a God-fearing, but not overtly religious, home. My family allowed me the freedom of spiritual exploration and expression. In those early years, the faith to which I was most drawn was Christian Science, but when I hit puberty, I began experiencing the most excruciating menstrual cramps and quickly discovered that while prayer was good, it was more immediately effective when combined with strong pharmaceuticals. So that was the end of me as a Christian Scientist.
As an adult, aside from the most basic admissions—like the fact that I do believe in God—I don’t publicly discuss any other details of my spiritual faith and practise. I consider it my own private business.
I will, however, admit that deep in the recesses of my mind, in that place where reason and logic are fully suspended, I do still hold an irrational fear of fire and brimstone, the notion of an eternity engulfed in flames for the wicked.
When I dialled the number the editor gave me to RSVP for the Satan-worship meeting, my fear vanished. I got an answering machine with what sounded like the voice of a pimply-faced teenage male. “Hail Satan,” the message began. The voice went on to list the details of the meeting—6pm, third floor, in room 366 of a dodgy hotel in Hollywood. The purposely-orchestrated triple-6 configuration was not lost on me. In fact, it only added to my suspicion that this was probably some sort of silly joke.
I’d probably go and encounter a group of rebellious American teenagers, the sort who are heavily tattooed, wear black clothing and corpse makeup and look as though they’re long-lost members of the Addams family. Strange, yes, but most likely harmless. I envisioned them sitting around a makeshift cauldron holding plastic pitchforks with hard rock music playing in the background as they droned on about how much they hated their parents and teachers, and all the “cool” kids in school. “Yeah, right,” I laughed. “Satan-worship. As if!”
Still, to be safe, I asked my friend Frank to accompany me. In addition to being the most vocal and adamant Atheist I’d ever met, Frank was physically intimidating, a big biscuit-eating German man. He readily agreed, no questions asked. Then three days before the meeting, Frank called to cancel.
“You know I don’t believe in God,” he said, “but, well, the devil, that’s another thing altogether. I don’t know if I wanna mess with all that.” I couldn’t believe it; Frank was actually scared, really and truly frightened. Even over the phone I could hear it. I could feel the fear travelling through the wires, reaching through the façade of strength and open-mindedness I’d constructed to quell my own apprehensions. I wondered if maybe I should cancel, too, but decided against it; I was determined to write that article so I tried to get someone else to go with me.
I called every Atheist and Agnostic person I knew. The moment I mentioned “Satan” or “devil-worship,” they all balked, offered excuses, immediately remembered some prior engagement. Some simply hung up without explanation then refused to pick up when I called back.
Nobody, no matter how mad they were at God, or how doubtful they were of religion was willing to go near that Satan-worship meeting, not out of curiosity, not in the interest of journalism, not even as a favour to a friend. I decided I’d go alone then. After all, what’s the worst they could do to me? Roast me on an open-pit in a city hotel room as a sacrifice?
The night of the meeting, I dressed in all white, threw a pocket Bible into my purse for safe measure, wore a necklace with a Crucifix charm on it and drove to the hotel. As I approached the entrance of the car park, my heart started pounding. My palms were so sweaty I could barely manoeuvre the steering wheel. I imagined myself standing in front of room 366, poised to knock. Did I really want to find out what existed on the other side of that door?
What if it wasn’t a joke or some lame teenage club? What if the people in that room actually worshipped Satan. Satan! What if I became possessed by the devil? Thoughts flooded my mind of exorcism, holy water being sprinkled over my body by a priest chanting words like Exorcizo te, immunde spiritus, in nomine Dei Patris omnipotentis, so on and so forth.
Hmmm…suddenly this didn’t seem like such a good idea. I decided that Frank was right. I may not have been the most religious person but I wasn’t sure if it was wise to take a walk on the other side. I kept on driving, right past the hotel, right around the block and back to my house where I immediately got on my knees and prayed. If my writing was truly a God-given talent then I’d just have to trust that God would find another path for me to gain employment and recognition. Until that time, I decided, no job and no opportunity was worth risking my soul.
This article was published in the Daily Graphic on Friday July 29, 2011.