Demons

As for me . . . I was up in a high-rise in San Francisco those months ago the morning the demons came. I had gone to see Professor Paymenz or, to be perfectly honest, to see his daughter under the auspices of seeing the professor. It was housing that San Francisco State had arranged for himthey had a program supplying subsidized housing to teaching staffand as I arrived I saw another eviction notice from SFSU on the door. Paymenz had refused to teach comparative religion anymore, would lecture only about extremely obscure occult practices and beliefs, and rarely showed up even for those classes. He hadn't ever had his tenure settled, so they simply fired him. But he'd refused to leave the university housing on the simple but contumacious grounds, as he explained, that he deserved this more than the teacher down the hall, who taught "existential themes in daytime television." Vastly bearded, restless-eyed, in the grimy alchemist's robe that he wore as a nightgown, Paymenz looked over my shoulder into the hallway behind me. Expecting to see someone back there. He always did that, and he never met my eyes, no matter how earnestly he spoke to me. He seemed almost happy to see me as he ushered me in. He even said, "Why, hello, Ira." He rarely troubled with social niceties. I saw that Professor Shephard was there, small-brimed fedora in hand. Shephard seemed poised between staying and going. Maybe that was why Paymenz was happy to see me: It gave him an excuse to get rid of an unwanted visitor. Shephard was a short, fiftyish, bullet-shaped man in an immaculate gray suit, vest, tie that matched the season. He had a shaved head, eyes the color of aluminum, a perpetual pursed smile, and a jutting jaw. He put his hat on his head but didn't go. Standing there in the exact middle of the small living room, with his arms by his sides, his small feet in shiny black shoes neatly together, Shephard looked out of place in Paymenz's untidy, jumbled apartment. He looked set up and painted like one of those Russian toys, the sort made of smooth wood containing ever-smaller copies. Shephard was an economics professor who believed in "returning economics to philosophy, as it was with our Found- ing Fathers, and, yes, with Marx"but his philosophy had something to do with "pragmatic postmodernism." Today his tie was all coppery maple leaves against rusty orange, celebrating autumn. I knew Shephard from the last conference on Spirituality and Economics he'd put togetherhe'd hired me to create the poster, with "appropriate imagery," and paid me three times for doing three versions, each version less definite, blander than the one before. At every poster-design discussion, he'd brought up Paymenz. "I understand you're his good friend. What is he up to? And his daughter? How is she?" The questions always felt like non sequiturs. Now, recognizing me, he nodded pleasantly. "Ira. How are you?" "Dr. Shephard," Paymenz said before I could reply, "thank you for dropping inI have guests, as you see. . . ." Shephard's head swiveled on his shoulders like a turret, first at me, then to Paymenz. "Of course. I am sorry to have precipitated myself upon you, as it were; perhaps certain matters are of some urgency. Perhaps not. I only wished to plant the seed of the idea, so to say, that, should the conference on Spiritual Philosophy and Economics not come about this weekend for any reason, I do wish to stay in touchvery closely in touch. Please feel free to call me." He handed Paymenz a business card and was moving toward the door. He startlShirley, John is the author of 'Demons' with ISBN 9780345446473 and ISBN 034544647X.