Pots

by Pil Lee

Murray was an imp. He washed the pots in Hell. But being an employee, not one of the damned, he sometimes got days off.

On Monday, the Devil stopped by and looked in the scullery.

“What clean pots,” he murmured, stroking his beard. “You may have tomorrow off, my lad.”

Murray woke early Tuesday morning. He took a water taxi to the gate, patted the dog and set off with a whistle.

First he walked across France, and came to Paris. “What a beautiful exciting place”, he thought.

“Excuse me”, he said to a passer by. “Do they wash pots here?”

“Yes of course”, the man answered.

Murray kept walking. When he reached Mongolia he stopped under the shadow of the magnificent mountains and popped his head into a tent.

“Excuse me, do you wash pots here?”

“But yes, of course”, was the reply.

Murray then walked to North America. The flashing lights and laughter of Las Vegas drew his attention.

“Do they wash pots here”, he said to a very big man in a doorway.

“Pots and pots!” said the man with a leer.

Murray smiled and withdrew a little nervously. Turning, he walked to the middle of Patagonia. There was a little man in a poncho sitting amid a field of yellow daisies, and the air was heady and fragrant.

“Excuse me, do you wash pots here?” he asked.

The man smiled up at him, and threw the leaf he was holding into a nearby stream.

Murray smiled too, and sat on the other side of the stream for the rest of the day.

In the evening he walked back to Hell. At the door he put three daisy chains on the dog, took the water taxi through the gate, and turned in for the night.

What a perfect day.