After rummaging for some hours, a large square item caught my eye. It was covered with a heavy dirty padding all the way in the corner of the shop where no full light could reflect upon it. I lifted the dank scented cloth and there appeared to be a jukebox. It looked like one of those models popular in the 1930’s. These machines played the old shellac records. They were often called 78’s because of the speed the turntable platter had to rotate in order for them to play right. I remembered Granny talking about these many years ago.

Gil came from behind me. “She’s a beauty ain’t she?” he asked. “To say the least,”

I replied, “does she work?”

“Well,” said Gil scratching his chin stubble. “She is a bit fickle. I know she will play for me if I put some coins into her but she doesn’t play for everyone,” said Gil.

Gil and I moved some of the furniture and boxes out of the way to provide better access. We unleashed the jukebox from its hidden crypt-like space and wheeled it near a plug. Gil removed the padding and made perfunctory cleaning gestures over the cabinet with his dirty sleeve. He stepped back to appraise his work and half absently reached into his pocket. He produced a nickel and placed it into the machine coin slot. About a second elapsed and lights started to flash and gears yawned from slumber. The tubes emitted a low hum, protesting the warm-up.

A scratchy sounding disc started to play a blues tune.. “Tired of the life I’m leading,” sang the vocalist. “Ah, that’s Pearl Bailey. You probably wouldn’t know her though, Gil reflected. He seemed transfixed and almost mournful as Pearl sang about a tired life. When the record finished, gears shifted and placed the disc back into its record slot. Gil stood a bit straighter and took in a long breath.

He pulled his drooping trousers up and searched his pocket, producing another nickel. “Ok kid, give it a shot,” he said, as he handed me the coin. I thought his behavior odd but was not about to care if he was willing to part with this gem. I placed the nickel in the slot where Gil had done just moments before. Lights flashed and gears yawned again.

“Well I’ll be damned,” Gil exclaimed with open mouth wonderment. Swirls of clarinets and horns emanated from the speaker. “Moonlight Serenade! It gave you Moonlight Serenade,” my startled host exclaimed. “Son, you may think this is crazy but this machine is truly haunted,” Gil stated matter of factly. The proprietor must have seen the look of skepticism upon my face so he recounted an odd tale that I was hoping wouldn’t take all afternoon.

He looked more stoic and asked, “Did you ever hear the expression that music is the language of angels?“

“Yes,” I replied, “but what does that have to do with anything?”

“From the dawn of time, certain people were chosen to hold the records of heaven,” Gil declared.

“Well, I am really not looking for a Bible lesson,” I interjected quickly. “But if you’re selling this machine, just tell me how much,” trying to contain my annoyance at the possibility of another Bible thumper pitching to me.

“Kid, I ain’t selling this to you. I am giving it to you. This machine was destined to be yours the way it was destined to be mine. Now let me finish so you can be on your way to take this thing to wherever it is you are going,” he replied. My curiosity piqued when he said he was giving me the jukebox. The man had to be a little soft in the head.

“As I was sayin,” he declared, “People were destined to hold the records of life and creation for all eternity until the end of time.” Gil had a somber reflection on his face while telling this tale. “This machine is only part of many other records that others have been destined to hold. This baby is the soul of the angel’s language. The light ones and the dark ones,” he emphasized.

I laughed at the old codger, “Come on, this machine was built in the 30’s, this is not a Biblical relic.”

“Let me explain it this way,” as he shifted legs. “When the world was created, it was sound from the void first. Then that sound was passed on to an instrument of our ancestors, possibly some simple instrument like a conch shell or something. When it was time for mankind to move up another level , the spirit essence transferred to a more complex instrument and so on,” he explained.

“This makes no sense. Why stop at the 1930’s with a jukebox? We have CD players and more sophisticated equipment now,” I retorted.

“Son, them machines may play music but they don’t have a soul. There was a time that people truly loved their music and their instruments. You can’t transfer a soul to a dead man. Same thing with this. If it doesn’t have the love, it won’t live,“ Gil replied. “There was a time when people took care of their things, loved the music and the records that they worked hard to buy. These days everything is quick and throw away,“ he continued. “This machine was the first one made. It was created with a lot of love and people came near and far to hear it at a time when they couldn’t afford to buy music. All those years of love finally made it a vehicle for the angels to come through.”

My ambivalence must have been more pronounced on my face because he changed his tone to sound more conciliatory. “Son, this box will only play for the one who it is intended for. For years, I was the only one who could play it. Many have tried and none succeeded until you,” Gil said. “You won’t be able to open it up to change the music either, but the songs will change on their own,” he added.

“So you want me to believe this is an angelic jukebox that changes music on it’s own. Fine!,” I said more curtly that I ought to.

“The box played Moonlight Serenade for you. That was the song it played for me 50 years ago,” he said. “So what’s that mean?” I asked.

“That’s the song of the dark angels. The muse of mystery who lurk in the shadows. If you want to know what is happening or is going to happen, it will play a song for you to figure out. But it’s a language, so you have to listen and interpret through the lyrics,” he said.

A cuckoo clock in the shop began to chime. “Well, time to close shop,” said Gil as he stretched. “Tell ya what kid. Fill out this slip. I will have this baby packed up and shipped to you tonight.” Gil handed me the paper then picked up the phone receiver on the counter and started talking to someone named Morty. “Don’t worry Morty, I got you covered. This is on me,” he said into the receiver.

I had barely finished filling out the paper when Morty and two other burley guys entered the shop. Morty walked over to Gil and introductions were made.

“You’re lucky son,” said Morty. “We were just about to close up next door when Gil called.” That explained the lightning speed for their arrival at least. “No angels at play yet Gil,” I thought to myself. “I’ll just run ahead to my apartment so I can get some things out of the way so you can get this jukebox in,” I said.

“Go ahead kid, we’ll be right behind you,” said Morty. As I was leaving, it seemed like a mournful look passed between Morty and Gil.

Less than half an hour elapsed when the door bell rang. I let Morty and his assistants in. After they placed the jukebox in the corner, I went to plug it in.

Morty let out a scream, “NO!” Startled by his outburst I inquired to what his problem was. “It won’t work if you plug it in,” said Morty, matter of factly. Great, one thinks I am the receiver of angelic providence and now this guy thinks a machine can work by magic.

“Did Gil fill your head up with stories too, Morty?” I asked.

“They ain’t stories kid. Did you see Gil plug it in at the shop?” he asked.

Realization crept upon me and sent a shiver down my spine momentarily. Gil had not plugged it in. Maybe he did and I just wasn’t watching I rationalized.

“Here, watch this,” Morty replied as he pulled some loose change from his pocket. He selected a nickel and placed it into the coin slot. Nothing happened. The jukebox naturally remained dormant like a slumbering bear in hibernation. “Now you try it,” he stated as he handed me another nickel. I placed the money in the slot and to my astonishment, the machine once again flickered it’s lights. It careened back to life without the aid of electricity and selected “I Wanna Be Loved By You.” The voice was strangely familiar. Morty chuckled and in response to my unanswered query, “That’s Helen Kane. The voice of Betty Boop.” Morty maintained his smug expression while he gathered the cloths that had protectively draped around the jukebox for transport. “ I guess the machine is telling you something kid,” Morty jovially declared.

I was grateful that the man and his assistant’s left me in my unquiet reverie as I tried to absorb all this. The men were done in a matter of moments and as they began to leave, Morty turned to me. “Oh, I almost forgot,“ he said as he waved off the tip I was holding out. “Gil gave me a letter to give to you.” I accepted the envelope and let them out.

Inside was a hurriedly scrawled letter from Gil. As I began to read, the jukebox flared to life and played a Benny Goodman tune “And The Angels Sing.”

“Kid,” the letter began. “This box will be either a blessing or a curse for you. It will flare to life of its own accord to play what it wants you to interpret. Since it is a language of the angelic realm, it may take some time to decipher what it is they are trying to tell you. The hard part is there is nothing you can do with any of the information. You will remain a silent witness as both the light and dark angels compete for rotation. There will be times when a more modern song is channeled through the machine which may startle you. When it plays ‘Tired’ again, you will have about twelve hours left to your life. Someday another person will come along that you chance to meet. They will also be able to make her play. She will spring to life with ‘Moonlight Serenade,’ telling you that this is the next sentinel of these records. ”

“Over the years, I found the box with its own life very disruptive. I had wrapped it up and placed it all the way in the back of the shop so I wouldn’t have to continue to witness the horrors of a world gone mad. Mostly the dark angels on the negative side play their tunes these days. I guess it is because we are losing so much of our humanity and our hearts that they are able to be more powerful. Not all the dark angels are evil though. Some of them are heavenly mourners, others are like muses that come to us in the night. They provide inspiration during the dark hours hence the name dark angels.

“Resign yourself to knowing you cannot destroy this machine. I have tried to burn it, break it, even give it away. It remains unscathed, protected by whatever force makes it all work. Be well and God bless,” it ended.

I never did see Gil again. I had gone back to the shop the next day and Morty was tacking up a black wreath over the door to Gil’s shop. He died as he stated he would, slipping silently away in his sleep around six a.m. the following morning.

Fifteen years later, those memories remain as fresh as yesterday. As Gil predicted, the jukebox made me privy to some hair raising events that I could do nothing about. My object of beauty became my torment of a living hell at times, playing a tune whenever it saw fit. Many sleepless nights were had from its impetuousness.

On some nights, the machine flared to life after midnight. I would crawl from my bed to go look at it and possibly try to understand what it was saying. There were some nights that it played tunes for ghostly apparitions that had long since passed on. It was a macabre voyeurism that held me to viewing the transparent couples, who often danced and mingled in the middle of my living room. A few times the vision depicted fighting. One incident played out a couple embroiled in an argument. She had discovered he was cheating on her and pounded at his chest in frustration and anger over his betrayal. He sneered at her and pushed her to the ground like she was slime.

Another time there were apparitions who were in the midst of a poker game while the jukebox played accompanying music for this back drop. One man suspected another of cheating and shot him from where he sat. The killer got up from the table, turned and seemed to be looking right at me. He spoke to me then, raising the hair on my neck. “We watch you too,” said the killer in a malevolent voice as he walked out of my line of sight. These days, the jukebox often becomes a soundtrack to news events. Frequently it will come to life while the television or radio news programs are on.

Every time the KKK or the neo-Nazi’s were about to make some noise, Billie Holiday would come blaring forth singing “Strange Fruit.” The day that Princess Diana’s car crashed, it played the Paul Anka tune “Diana” and backed it up with a bluesy instrumental rendition of “Body and Soul” by “Big” Dale Scott. Mother Teresa’s death was foretold with the song “Walkin’ Slow Behind You” by Count Basie followed by “Amazing Grace.”

Ironically, before the Bill Clinton scandal, the jukebox would come to life every time he was on the news and play “How Long Has This Been Going On?” More recently, while watching the nightly news, the jukebox roared to life again playing “Swamp Fire.” The news anchor was reporting something about suspected biological warfare with the encephalitic mosquitoes that were harrowing New York City.

I remain a hostage in the big city. A faceless man with the ability to hear the language of the angel’s. They keep me bound to them through an old machine that I must endure without a choice. This is eternal damnation.

Fifty years had passed, and Vera just shook her head. Vera Tulley had been a nurse for a number of years and had seen all types of patients coming through her ward. This old man who was admitted just a few days prior was an odd case. He seemed lucid enough, yet he frequently would go into a monologue about angels and demons and how sometimes it isn’t so easy to tell one from the other. Besides, that old jukebox that he insisted social service allow him to bring into his room nearly caused an uproar. He kept his word though and didn’t play it though. Even more oddly was how it was all wrapped up in heavy blankets. He didn’t want it uncovered and from the looks of things, it hadn’t seen the light of day in quite some time.

When protective services knocked on the old man’s door they found him living in squalor. He looked as if he had not eaten in months. They had to explain to him repeatedly that they were called because of a stench coming from his apartment. The social worker said that from the looks of his surroundings, it didn’t seem like it had been cleaned in years. It really is a shame how folks can get on mental disability and then no one bothers to follow up on their condition. One would think that in this day and age, that plight would have been eradicated.

At least he isn’t a difficult patient, Vera mused. Some of these elderly folks are warehoused in this place and left to rot by the families. The joke is usually on the family though when they end up outliving their own children. It did break Vera’s heart to some degree though when a patient came in who had no known family. She liked to assign the more compassionate nursing assistants to these folks simply because they could be a bit of a handful at times.

She ran a tight unit and went by the book. Most nursing assistants dreaded being assigned to her floor because they knew what a task master she could be. She was no nonsense and none of the nursing staff could disappear for unscheduled breaks like they could with some of the other charge nurses. Most folks felt she was too regimented and maybe she was. Everything had an explanation and a solution, which is why the patients on her unit always received the best care. Despite the distance she kept with most people, she remained with a charming bedside manner which endeared her to all her patients.

Some folks think they can take it with them beyond the grave.

The light from room 777 buzzed. The in house joke had been that the triple seven room on the seventh floor could only be assigned to Vera. To the patients she was an angel of mercy but to the staff she was the devil himself. Vera pressed the intercom button to find out what the old man wanted. He had some odd request about needing to see a social worker immediately. He seemed a bit agitated about this request, so Vera knew something was starting to bother the old man. She flipped the switch off and called his social worker, Claire, who was rather annoyed that her nail polishing session had just been interrupted.

Claire knew Vera would see the unfinished hand and realize she was goofing off. She hated when Vera gave her those condescending looks. Most of the employees speculated on Vera’s zealousness and couldn’t understand why she had to be so stodgy. Vera had no love life that anyone could surmise and she made this job a mission for some strange reason. Everyone thought that someone ought to tell Vera that healthcare is now a business and not a calling. Claire blew the last nail she was polishing dry and went to the seventh floor.

When Claire arrived to the floor, she put on her most winning smile and began to ask Vera what the emergency was. Vera stopped Claire in mid sentence and explained how she went in to see the man and he is quite concerned that he does not have a will. He wanted to at least put something in writing so he could leave his jukebox with someone. Claire couldn’t believe that she was interrupted for this. Luckily she learned to carry every form she would ever need after having a few battles over competency with Vera. Claire slipped the forms out of her binder and went into room 777.

The old man greeted Claire like a long lost friend, however, she was not in the mood but did her best to keep on the mask so it would appear like she cared. He explained his concerns and before he had time to finish, she handed him the papers stating that he needs to just sign them and she will file them in his chart. Claire didn’t have the compassion it took to be a good social worker, but she knew how to play the political games it took to get to the top. Administration thought she was an asset, and she did know how to juggle the scores to get maximum reimbursement money from the insurance companies, but none of the patients ever really found her all that comforting. Claire didn’t care though, because her eye was on the Administrator’s title. Those who really knew her knew that she was cold blooded and would stop at nothing to get what she really wanted.

Claire glanced at the big bulky thing still wrapped in the blankets it arrived in. She couldn’t imagine what it was worth, but figured it would probably garner enough money from an antique dealer to even finance one of her infamous lavish vacations with plenty left over to bank roll a nice little nest egg. Somehow she has to figure a way of making this thing a facility “asset” and make claims that it will help pay for the old geezers care. She could simply make this form disappear, and when the old coot dies, the facility can “absorb” it as legal property. She will then legally tie it up until everyone forgets about it and make it simply disappear. While Claire was toying with ideas of how to legally misappropriate the jukebox, she heard a low hum. Suddenly, some muted strains of music came from underneath the blankets. She quizzically looked over to the old man who was smiling like the Cheshire cat.

The old man asked Claire for an envelope and a few pieces of writing paper. “That song, my dear,” said the old man, “is Moonlight Serenade. It should have played ‘Tired’ first, but it must want you really bad. You must have one hell of a dark side. I would hate to be in your shoes now.” The old man had this crazed glimmer in his eyes. He then focused all his concentration on the paper in front of him and started to write something rather quickly. He looked up only once to tell Claire that the note would explain everything. As he was writing, he started to chuckle, which grew into a cackle. The menacing laugh grew so loud that it traveled down the hallway to Vera’s desk.

After he finished writing, he looked very intently at Claire and with a wicked smile said, “Let me be the first to welcome you to Hell on Earth.” He handed Claire the papers and just slipped into the arms of death within the span of a breath. His maniacal laughter was still heard for a few minutes more and seemed to travel from the room, down the hallways and out the entrance of the nursing home.