Headed for the worst part of town to cop cocaine, I remember that night's October sky. It hosted wind-rushed clouds and a huge full moon. Legends of the lunacy a moon like that inflicts mocked my intentions. As a Corrections Officer I'd always been law-abiding, but not on that night.

Maybe the full moon combined with the passions of youth was to blame. I didn't care. At that point I'd already, figuratively, torn off my shirt and howled. My personal werewolf had emerged, and the moon could go to hell.

My girl at the time, the only woman who'd ever touched my soul, that one beautiful embodiement of a sexual thrill that comes along once in a man's lifetime and can make him do things he'd never normally do, sat at home waiting for me.

She used to freebase cocaine, and had been clean for two years, but that night she ached for a relapse. She'd confided in me before she did it, but said there was nothing I could do. She told me she would smoke coke that night or kill herself.

I volunteered myself, insisting on doing her dirty work. I wasn't going to let her go back to blowing a wetback coke dealer to get high, so I'd made her agree to let me be her errand boy. I told her we'd smoke it together when I returned.

That's why I let the werewolf out, to hunt down cocaine for my woman, and I was determined to return to her with a baggy full of some magic white dust to prove my love.

Effective werewolves need claws and a soul-shaking howl. I had my D.O.C. licensed handgun, so my werewolf had claws, but I needed alcohol to get a good howl going. Buying drugs in back alleys takes the confidence of either a lunatic or a drunk. I had one, but I needed both.

I passed a little bar on my left; usually dead, cars flooded the lot. A huge glut of people thronged the function hall in back where a band rocked Skynyrd.

I pulled in.

As I entered the front section of that dilapidated bar, a long-haired guido, his shirt open to show off his pecs, smiled and nodded. Cursed with heterosexualism, I ignored him and sat at the bar. No one else seemed to notice me, including the bartender.

The guido sat down. "Need a beer?"

"Uh...yeah," I said, uncomfortable with his hospitality.

He whoop-whistled.

The bartender yelled, "Whatcha need, Joey?"

"Bud Light!" he said, guessing my favorite. He turned and winked, sporting a wide, toothy grin that made me a bit uneasy. Why was he being so friendly?

The beer arrived. "It's on me," he said, sliding it my way. "Don't worry about it. I own this town."

"Okay," I said with a nod of thanks, and enjoyed a long swig. I may be homophobic, but I never refuse free beer.

"Bummed-out?" he asked. "It's a girl, huh?"

Typical, he was seeing if I liked girls. "Yes, as a matter of fact," I said. "It is a girl."

"She's got it bad, poor thing," he said, seeming concerned. "But, Chris, my friend, I've got exactly--"

"How do you know my name?" I demanded. "Who are you?"

His smile broadened.

"Are you an ex-inmate?" I asked.

"No."

"Then how'd you know my name?"

"You told me."

"I did not tell you my name, dude."

He laughed and looked at me like I was nuts. "You did. I sat down and said, 'I'm Joey', and you nodded and said, 'Chris'."

He lied at me right through that wide and giddy shit-eating grin.

I don't forget faces, but his eluded me. He knew me from somewhere and was screwing with me, but, to deny him the pleasure, I shrugged it off and downed my beer.

He motioned the bartender for another.

"So," he said, "As I was saying, I've got exactly what your girl needs."

"I doubt it," I said, grabbing and gulping my second beer.

"How's eighty bucks worth of coke sound?" He opened his hand, flashing a rectangular packet.

Coughing on beer, I scanned for witnesses. "What are you friggin' crazy?"

He laughed, baring his small perfect teeth and drinking in my distress with his squinty eyes. "Come on," he said, "Take it. She needs it, right?"

After a short pause, I agreed with a slight nod, and dug into my pockets for the cash.

"Nope, the coke's on me too, Chris."

His offer alarmed me. "Are you serious? It's not even coke, is it?"

"Oh, it's coke alright, and I have plenty more... plenty more. When you come back just ask for Joey. Everyone knows me here." He offered the packet.

I snatched it from his hand before anyone noticed. "Why give it away for free?" I asked, stashing it.

"That one's an investment, Chris. I figure you'll be back looking to buy a lot more."

"No I won't."

"We'll see, Chris," he said, laughing. "We shall see."

I was even more freaked out by his prediction than by him using my name. I drained my beer and left.

When I got back to the house it was only nine o'clock, but Gina had fallen asleep. Apparently, the stress of intending to trash two years of sobriety had taken its toll.

I didn't wake her, hoping she might not want to relapse after all. Instead, I slept on the couch.

She woke me at four in the morning, and asked, "Did you score?"

"No," I lied.

"Good," she said. "Come to bed."

I did, right after I flushed Joey's packet down the toilet.

# # #

The following Friday I wanted to find Joey just to talk. The whole thing hadn't sat right with me all week.

I went into that dilapidated bar, and the place was dead, as usual. Only a few old drunks sat drinking with an old woman serving them.

"Hi," I said, "I was in here last week when you had the big party in the back. There was a guy named Joey. Do you know him?"

"Joey," she said, scowling. "I don't know a Joey. And there weren't no party here either. You got the wrong place."

"Look, I know there was a party here last Friday night."

"I'm telling you, son," she said. "I haven't rented that old hall since my husband died two years ago. It's all busted up and ain't up to code. You got the wrong place."

Confused, I left, and even though I knew that was the place, I searched up and down the street for another bar that looked like it.

There weren't any.

Maybe the old lady lied because the place wasn't up to code. Maybe this Joey character knew me from somewhere, and gave me eighty bucks worth of coke because he's a moron.

Those seem like reasonable explanations, but I wonder to this day what really happened that night.

The memory feels like that scene in "The Shining", where the whole party is going on, but Jack Nicholson's character doesn't seem to notice. It's like I went somewhere strange, some place I'll never quite be able to explain.

Joey knew my name, exactly what I needed and why I needed it. Then he gave it to me with the temptation of 'plenty more'.

My sister thinks Joey might have been an angel, protecting me from getting in trouble by giving me what I needed before I went into rougher parts of town.

I don't believe that.

I know exactly what Joey was, and it's the opposite of what my sister thinks. No angel gives you cocaine and urges you to come back for more. Those are the actions of a devil, not an angel.

So, if there is a Devil, I'm certain I've met him. He's a good looking, friendly guy who hangs out in bars, giving away free drinks and free drugs, wearing a big, shit-eating grin, and his name is Joey.