Metatron is used to having terrible days. He's a glorified mediator most of the time and constantly having to deal with fighting immortals and creatures (both natural and unnatural) takes its toll on his cheery disposition. There are days when God tasks him with explaining things to those gods and goddesses who have a hard time understanding Her, either because they've chosen not to or because they don't necessarily speak the same language and Meta ends up on the wrong end of someone's lightning bolt (Zeus) or hammer (Thor) or googly-eyed fern (Charles Darwin).
Sometimes, though, it isn't an aspect of Meta's job that leads him into a terrible day, but instead he simply wakes up and things rollercoaster downhill from there. For instance, when he woke up this morning, the Voice of God knew he was going to have a craptastic day from the start. He hit his head on a low-hanging rosary as he was getting out of bed. Then, on his way to the bathroom, he stubbed his toe on the oversized cross in his hallway and the hanging idol of Jesus laughed at him.(1) He's learned over these last few thousand years that when a molded stone imitation of the World's Savior laughs at you, it's never a good sign - especially in light of Jesus' off-beat sense of humor.(2)
He survived his morning meetings - all six of them - and is currently standing in the line to the dessert bar in the Pearly Gates Corporation's lunchroom. Dionysus had been in charge of the last meeting, a twenty-minute diatribe regarding the catering for the annual Fall Harvest Festival in the Greek and Roman levels, and all the god could talk about was the Death by Chocolate cake the lunchroom had planned to serve with lunch. Now, three hours later, all Meta wants for lunch is a glass of milk and a slice of Death by Chocolate Cake. The minion in front of him grabs a bowl of pudding and Meta sees that there's just one slice left. The minion moves out of the way and as Meta reaches out for the plate and that last piece of chocolately goodness, his hand is swatted away by one of the many arms of Shiva, which then swoops in and steals the plate.
He whirls on the Hindu god. "Did you seriously just smack me so you could get that piece of chocolate cake?" Meta asks, shaking out his injured hand.
Shiva shrugs. He has plates of food in each of his four hands, including the chocolate cake. "Maybe," he says. He licks chocolate frosting off his finger. "Thanks for the cake, Stringbean," he says.
"Considering the size of your stomach, fatso, you might want to have the fruit cup instead," Meta grumbles.
Shiva looks down at his protruding stomach and shrugs. "I don't know. Seems to me the ladies like it," he says and moves to leave the dessert line.
Meta holds his arm out to block Shiva's retreat. "That's my piece of chocolate cake," he says.
"Oh, in that case," Shiva says and holds the plate out. Meta goes to reach for it but Shiva pulls it out of his reach before he can grab it. "Too slow," the Hindu god says, grinning.
Meta, if asked, will always deny that he threw a plate of coconut cream pie in the face of Shiva the Destroyer. He'll say that the pie came out of nowhere, that someone very kind must have seen what happened with the chocolate cake and felt the need to defend The Voice of God's dessert-time honor. He'll call the Hindu god a liar and a cake thief and he'll demand reparations.
He should have instead remembered he was The Voice of God. It would have made things a lot easier.
* * *
His hands are tiny. They are not usually tiny but are instead usually very long and reminiscent of spider legs in the way the last two bones of each finger curl inwards. With his arms at his sides, the tips of Meta's fingers almost reach his knees.
Today, they're barely poking out the sleeves of his jacket.
"My hands!" he hollers as he runs into God's office, holding the offending appendages up so that She can see them.
She looks up from the stack of intake forms on Her desk and shrieks in terror. "Holy hell, what happened to your hands?!" She asks, Her voice high and panicky. He takes a step towards Her desk and She stands quickly, Her chair falling over as She backs away from him. He stops moving.
"I don't know!" he shouts. "I woke up and they were like this." He waves them and She shrieks again, holds Her own hands up to block him out. He pauses, frowns at Her. "What's wrong with You?" he asks.
"Nothing," She says, smoothing out Her toga and attempting to look put together and calm. He takes another step towards Her and She immediately retreats backward, bumping into the card catalog behind Her desk.(3) "Just stop moving," She says. "Please."
He does as She asks and his arms drop to his sides, his sleeves hiding his now tiny hands. With them out of sight, She seems to lose Her manic edge and come back to Her senses.
"Now, let's think about this rationally." She motions for him to sit in one of Her visitor chairs. She stays standing with Her back against the card catalog. "You started a food fight with Shiva in the lunchroom yesterday," She says and he nods. "He has a penchant for making things small, something you might have remembered before you threw a pie in his face."
"I maintain I didn't throw the pie and even if I had, he deserved it. He took the last piece of chocolate cake, Ellie," Meta whines. "And he smacked me." He mimes his hand being smacked by his other hand and the sight of two tiny hands hitting each other has God wanting to hide under Her desk. A muscle in Her cheek twitches and Meta looks at Her funny. "You're afraid of tiny hands, aren't You?" he asks, suddenly understanding.
"No," She says, instantly flustered. "That's ridiculous. Why would you ask Me something like that?"
"Because You're sitting on top of Your card catalog instead of at Your desk across from me. And these." He waves his hands at Her and She screams before She can stop Herself. He smirks.
"Okay, fine" She says, a little breathless. "I may be a little afraid of tiny hands."
"And by little, you mean...?"
"Very. Bordering on terrified."
"Why?"
"I haven't a clue. Now would you please put those damn things in your pockets so I can get the hell down from here?"
He does as She asks. "The easiest thing to do here, for both of us, is for You to fix it," he says.
She eyes him warily. "I wouldn't even know where to start," She says. "It isn't permanent, though. That much I do know."
Meta's eyes go wide. "You've seen this before, then?"
She nods. "He shrunk Jupiter's head after the god had accidentally bumped into him and spilled his coffee."(4) God hops down off the card catalog and cautiously sits at Her desk. In an effort to focus on anything besides the tiny hands across from Her, She begins signing the intake forms once again. "I really wouldn't worry about it, Meta," She says, not looking up. "I give it a day, or two, tops."
"And if they don't go back to normal, then what?"
"Juno is looking for a new administrative assistant," She says, managing a smile. "I've heard the goatskin armor really grows on you after awhile."
* * *
It lasts six days. He's banned from God's office for the duration of it and because he's always been just slightly inclined to certain acts of mischief, he waves at Her whenever he sees Her around the building. Each time, She shrieks in terror and runs in the opposite direction. It loses its novelty, however, after She throws an alarm clock at his head and he ends up with the actual clockface embedded in his forehead for a couple of hours...during which the dials keep perfect time.
He keeps his hands to himself after that.
He's back in the lunchroom on the seventh day, his hands having returned to their normal size, and he finds himself standing behind an oblivious Shiva in the dessert line. As they near the plates of cakes and cups of puddings, Meta sees the prize - one delectable looking piece of chocolate cake, all by itself. Shiva goes to reach for it and Meta smacks his hand out of the way, grabs the plate off the bar, and turns an evil grin on the Hindu god.
"Ha ha!" he shouts. "I win."
"You do know I'm the Destroyer of Worlds," Shiva says, attempting his best menacing glare. Meta thinks he'd look a lot more imposing if there wasn't a bowl of Jell-o in his second left hand. Whenever he shifts his arms, the blue substance wiggles and it makes Meta want to dance.
"Oh, yes, of course. How silly of me to forget." Meta holds the plate out for Shiva to take. He snatches it back at the last minute, though, and the god's face clouds over. Meta, who's since realized the error of his ways since his first cake-snatching encounter with Shiva, leans in close and uses the voice his maker gave him.
"TOO SLOW!" he bellows and Shiva's perfectly coifed (matted) hair blows straight out from his head. He's left teetering on his bare heels, dazed and confused from the full force of (literally) the Voice of the Voice of God. Most of his lunch items have been blown away, including the blue Jell-o.
"Pleasure doing business with you, Destructor," he says, patting the dazed god on the shoulder as he walks past him. "And thanks for the cake."
(1) A few Earthly years earlier, Meta had done some work at a church in Buenos Aires and as a thank you for all his kind words - which were, in fact, his own words because the message God had sent him downstairs to deliver had needed tweaking before he thought it appropriate to say within the confines of a house of worship - Father Amalda had given him a gigantic rosary and a gilded cross. His sense of honor forbade him from getting rid of them; his sense of interior design, however, begged and pleaded with him to turn them over to the Salvation Army and put up a Georgia O'Keefe instead.
(2) Well, if you'd been strung up on a crucifix, left to die, and had subsequently risen from the dead three days later your funny bone might be just a little left of center, too.
(3) Whatever you do, don't open those drawers. Should you ever find yourself alone in God's office and have the urge to open those drawers, just remember I told you so. And for the record, souls are much easier to take out of a drawer than they are to put back into one. Keep it in mind.
(4) Jupiter's never been right in the head - he's a big, powerful god who's afraid of just about everything in the known (and, at times, unknown) universe, including bunny rabbits - but for the three days his head was shrunken, he seemed almost normal. His wife, Juno, has been scheming to have it happen again ever since.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Breaking the Fourth Wall...Sort Of
Hi. It's me, Meg, the author whose photograph is posted to the right (your right, while you're staring at the computer) of this little blurb of chaotic text. I'm taking a moment to break the fourth wall (sort of) and let all my readers (all 22 of you glorious people) know that The Unbelievable Adventures of Claire Elizabeth Rogers is now a Facebook page.
It's hit the big time (seven people like it as of this morning - amazing!).
So, if you're a reader with a Facebook page and you feel like clicking on the Pearly Gates Corporation logo to the right (still your right), you'll be transported to a magical land of still-under-construction-please-bear-with-me Facebook awesomeness. And if you're a fan of the blog, you can become a fan of the Facebook page.
Hell, you can become a fan of the Facebook page even if you're not a fan of the blog...though it begs the question of how you found either in the first place...hmmm.
Anyway, this is a big thank you to all you wonderfully nice people who continue to read Claire and Company's many adventures (some good, some terrible, some hilarious). And I can say, without a doubt, that the third draft of the novel (The [Absolutely, Positively] True Adventures of a Religious Prophet) will be finished by the New Year - if it isn't, I give you all full permission to throw rotten fruit at me.
That's right. Rotten fruit.
Now click on something and have a happy Thursday.
-Meg
It's hit the big time (seven people like it as of this morning - amazing!).
So, if you're a reader with a Facebook page and you feel like clicking on the Pearly Gates Corporation logo to the right (still your right), you'll be transported to a magical land of still-under-construction-please-bear-with-me Facebook awesomeness. And if you're a fan of the blog, you can become a fan of the Facebook page.
Hell, you can become a fan of the Facebook page even if you're not a fan of the blog...though it begs the question of how you found either in the first place...hmmm.
Anyway, this is a big thank you to all you wonderfully nice people who continue to read Claire and Company's many adventures (some good, some terrible, some hilarious). And I can say, without a doubt, that the third draft of the novel (The [Absolutely, Positively] True Adventures of a Religious Prophet) will be finished by the New Year - if it isn't, I give you all full permission to throw rotten fruit at me.
That's right. Rotten fruit.
Now click on something and have a happy Thursday.
-Meg
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
The IDIOT'S Guide to Getting Bounced out of Eden
In the beginning, God created the universe and the Earth and the animals and, eventually, man. So says the Bible.(1)
In actual fact, She really only created the Earth – by accident, no less - before jaunting off for a supposedly much deserved spa vacation and leaving the angels in charge of finishing it off.
Later, after Adam and Eve, who wasn’t even the first Mrs. Adam(2), had been dropped off for playtime in the Garden of Eden, God stopped by and explained the rules: do what you want, eat what you want, and enjoy yourselves. All She asked of them was that they stay away from that one lone shady tree up on the hill – the only tree in all of Eden with big, shiny red apples hanging just low enough to be picked easily by hand. She figured those rules were easy enough to remember so She left the kids to their own devices and headed home to Her Penthouse in the sky.
Had God fast forwarded a few thousand years, and read a couple of Brothers Grimm stories, She would have realized just how seriously She had underestimated the appeal of a shiny red apple. Not to mention the fact that She put the tree on display, making it incredibly easy for curious hands to do things they shouldn't. And then there was Leo, the Serpent who lived in the higher branches of the tree - the Serpent God so irresponsibly forgot to mention. And Leo loved his apples, wanted to share them with whoever he could, so when Adam and Eve came close to the tree one afternoon while exploring the Garden, he convinced the pair of them that the shiny red apples were just apples and that the booming voice in the sky didn’t know what It was talking about.
The rest, as they say, is history.
Adam convinced Eve to pick an apple, but then, at the last minute, decided he’d rather have a peach instead. Unfortunately, it was too late; Eve had an apple from the Tree of Knowledge in her hand and, not wanting to waste a perfectly good piece of fruit just because the only man in the whole freaking universe couldn't make up his damn mind, took a bite and handed it over to Adam.
A few bites of apple later and they suddenly realized they were naked (knowledge being carnal at times) and decided they should probably cover up (what, with decency being an issue and all). With the kind of impeccable timing that only a Heavenly creature can have, God chose that precise moment to stop by for a visit and when She saw the fig leaves She lost Her heavenly cool and kicked them out of Perpetual Bliss and into the real world, where they landed on their bare asses with uncomfortable awareness.
Seriously, it’s all in the Bible - Ellie's version of it, at least.(3)
When good old Johan Gutenberg got his hands on it in the mid-14th century, he made a few edits that She never actually approved, edits that always struck Her as terrible bits of writing. Like blaming the whole thing on Eve - not cool, Johan. Not cool at all.(4)
Then there was the fact that he cut out Her favorite bit of the whole story, those last two lines right at the end of Genesis.
As they were leaving the Garden, Eve turned to Adam, smiled sweetly, and whispered, “Next time, pick your own Goddamn apples.”
(1) Well, at least it does in some old guy's Bible. God's own diary tells a much different story. See here.
(2) That would be Lilith. The problem with being God and creating a woman in Your own image is that said woman is most likely stubborn, independent, and headstrong. So was Lilith and after a short while of being told what to do by Adam, she told her 'husband' to kiss off and walked herself straight out of the garden and into the arms of sweet independence. God attempted to bring her back, more out of laziness than true want, but Lilith had seen what lay beyond the Garden and she liked it. So, resigned to actually having to do work, God created Eve from one of Adam's ribs and was a little less liberal with the stubborness. Realizing, however, just what a little twat Adam had become, God breathed a whole heap of independence into Her newest creation and sat back to watch the hilarity unfold below Her.
(3) She'd tucked it away in what would eventually become a pasture in France, with the idea it would be safe from prying eyes (safer downstairs than upstairs), only to have it dug up by a French farmer in the early 8th century, who of course ran off and translated it incorrectly because he spoke three words of Aramaic and just made up most of the rest of it. A few centuries later, it landed in Gutenberg's lap.
(4) When Gutenberg eventually died, and arrived at the Pearly Gates Corporation's front door, God made sure She was there to meet him so She could have a 'polite' conversation with him regarding the difference between artistic license and bullshit.
In actual fact, She really only created the Earth – by accident, no less - before jaunting off for a supposedly much deserved spa vacation and leaving the angels in charge of finishing it off.
Later, after Adam and Eve, who wasn’t even the first Mrs. Adam(2), had been dropped off for playtime in the Garden of Eden, God stopped by and explained the rules: do what you want, eat what you want, and enjoy yourselves. All She asked of them was that they stay away from that one lone shady tree up on the hill – the only tree in all of Eden with big, shiny red apples hanging just low enough to be picked easily by hand. She figured those rules were easy enough to remember so She left the kids to their own devices and headed home to Her Penthouse in the sky.
Had God fast forwarded a few thousand years, and read a couple of Brothers Grimm stories, She would have realized just how seriously She had underestimated the appeal of a shiny red apple. Not to mention the fact that She put the tree on display, making it incredibly easy for curious hands to do things they shouldn't. And then there was Leo, the Serpent who lived in the higher branches of the tree - the Serpent God so irresponsibly forgot to mention. And Leo loved his apples, wanted to share them with whoever he could, so when Adam and Eve came close to the tree one afternoon while exploring the Garden, he convinced the pair of them that the shiny red apples were just apples and that the booming voice in the sky didn’t know what It was talking about.
The rest, as they say, is history.
Adam convinced Eve to pick an apple, but then, at the last minute, decided he’d rather have a peach instead. Unfortunately, it was too late; Eve had an apple from the Tree of Knowledge in her hand and, not wanting to waste a perfectly good piece of fruit just because the only man in the whole freaking universe couldn't make up his damn mind, took a bite and handed it over to Adam.
A few bites of apple later and they suddenly realized they were naked (knowledge being carnal at times) and decided they should probably cover up (what, with decency being an issue and all). With the kind of impeccable timing that only a Heavenly creature can have, God chose that precise moment to stop by for a visit and when She saw the fig leaves She lost Her heavenly cool and kicked them out of Perpetual Bliss and into the real world, where they landed on their bare asses with uncomfortable awareness.
Seriously, it’s all in the Bible - Ellie's version of it, at least.(3)
When good old Johan Gutenberg got his hands on it in the mid-14th century, he made a few edits that She never actually approved, edits that always struck Her as terrible bits of writing. Like blaming the whole thing on Eve - not cool, Johan. Not cool at all.(4)
Then there was the fact that he cut out Her favorite bit of the whole story, those last two lines right at the end of Genesis.
As they were leaving the Garden, Eve turned to Adam, smiled sweetly, and whispered, “Next time, pick your own Goddamn apples.”
(1) Well, at least it does in some old guy's Bible. God's own diary tells a much different story. See here.
(2) That would be Lilith. The problem with being God and creating a woman in Your own image is that said woman is most likely stubborn, independent, and headstrong. So was Lilith and after a short while of being told what to do by Adam, she told her 'husband' to kiss off and walked herself straight out of the garden and into the arms of sweet independence. God attempted to bring her back, more out of laziness than true want, but Lilith had seen what lay beyond the Garden and she liked it. So, resigned to actually having to do work, God created Eve from one of Adam's ribs and was a little less liberal with the stubborness. Realizing, however, just what a little twat Adam had become, God breathed a whole heap of independence into Her newest creation and sat back to watch the hilarity unfold below Her.
(3) She'd tucked it away in what would eventually become a pasture in France, with the idea it would be safe from prying eyes (safer downstairs than upstairs), only to have it dug up by a French farmer in the early 8th century, who of course ran off and translated it incorrectly because he spoke three words of Aramaic and just made up most of the rest of it. A few centuries later, it landed in Gutenberg's lap.
(4) When Gutenberg eventually died, and arrived at the Pearly Gates Corporation's front door, God made sure She was there to meet him so She could have a 'polite' conversation with him regarding the difference between artistic license and bullshit.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
A Beginner's Guide to Hell, Hades & Purgatory, Ltd.
Good afternoon and welcome to the lower levels of The Pearly Gates Corporation. My name is Hecate, Miss Tress for those of you new to damnation.* I'd like to take a moment to review the intake process with you before I begin the tour.
When we begin the tour, please mind your step and keep your hands - whatever may be left of them - in your pockets. If you are without pockets, then you've obviously misjudged the needs of your afterlife attire and should have paid more attention to your fashion sense while alive. If you're without hands, just wave a stump and we'll see what we can do for you.
Now, to your right is the hallway leading to Hades and his subsidy company, the Aelysian Fields Agricultural Volunteer Group, or AFAVG for short. Please note that the AFAVG is behind the Great Green Door, not the red door. Do not open the red door unless you fancy starting out the afterlife as a pile of dog poo in the morning, as Cerberus has absolutely no sense of humor and believes everything standing in front of its three heads is either a bouncy toy or a midnight snack.
To the left are the primary offices of Hell and Purgatory. These include the Minion and Demon Lounges, both Lucifer and Mephisto's offices, all training classrooms, and the lower level kitchens. Some of you may have been given forms to fill out regarding head size and overall posture. Please report to the Quartermaster to be outfitted with horns and tails - this is to your right, the first door on the left.
Those of you who will not be joining the demon ranks, please note the color coding on your index cards. This will tell you which door to knock on. For instance, if you're holding a blue card, please move to your right. You'll be joining the offices of Purgatory. These offices are easily recognizable by the number of faces bearing bored expressions and the fact that the doors are blue. If you're unsure of whether or not an office is associated with Purgatory, you're not trying hard enough.
Now, if you're holding a yellow or purple card and have the nagging feeling you forgot to repent your sins whilst you were still alive, you'll be joining the offices of Hell. These are the doors that are neither blue nor green nor red nor paisley. And before you ask, no one has a paisley card but yes, there are paisley doors.** Yellow and purple card holders should knock on the yellow and purple doors corresponding to the number indicated in the upper right hand corner. If you knock on a door that does not match the number on your card, you will be politely referred to the taxidermist at the end of the hallway and your head will be fitted for a coat rack. Or some other handy piece of home decor, depending on the mood of the taxidermist.
Now, I believe you've all got index cards and have some idea of where you're heading. If you're still unsure of why you're down here instead of upstairs, you should take a minute to consider your most recent actions and ask yourself if you could have done anything to prevent your current predicament. Not that asking yourself this question will help - you'll still be standing in the Underworld - but it might help you to better understand just how big a shit you were when you were alive.
Now, should any of you have any questions - any questions at all - please hesitate to contact me and remember it's Hell. It's hot, it's uncomfortable, and there's the greatest possibility you'll be bunking with a horned demon whose idea of a good time is ripping you limb from limb. And for anyone preparing to question anything I've just said, please read the fine print on those index cards.
There is, indeed, a special room in Hell for complainers, corporate executives with spending accounts, and people who talk loudly on their cellular phones while standing in line at the grocery store.
* When God assigned positions in the Underworld, She didn't realize just how seriously Hecate would take her job. Nor did she realize just how much of an acquired taste the goddess' humor was. Ellie supposes that's what ambivalence gets you.
** They're bathrooms. Paisley doors, paisley walls, and paisley fixtures. Nothing screws with your head more than attempting to pee while in a room completely decorated in a swirling multi-colored pattern.
When we begin the tour, please mind your step and keep your hands - whatever may be left of them - in your pockets. If you are without pockets, then you've obviously misjudged the needs of your afterlife attire and should have paid more attention to your fashion sense while alive. If you're without hands, just wave a stump and we'll see what we can do for you.
Now, to your right is the hallway leading to Hades and his subsidy company, the Aelysian Fields Agricultural Volunteer Group, or AFAVG for short. Please note that the AFAVG is behind the Great Green Door, not the red door. Do not open the red door unless you fancy starting out the afterlife as a pile of dog poo in the morning, as Cerberus has absolutely no sense of humor and believes everything standing in front of its three heads is either a bouncy toy or a midnight snack.
To the left are the primary offices of Hell and Purgatory. These include the Minion and Demon Lounges, both Lucifer and Mephisto's offices, all training classrooms, and the lower level kitchens. Some of you may have been given forms to fill out regarding head size and overall posture. Please report to the Quartermaster to be outfitted with horns and tails - this is to your right, the first door on the left.
Those of you who will not be joining the demon ranks, please note the color coding on your index cards. This will tell you which door to knock on. For instance, if you're holding a blue card, please move to your right. You'll be joining the offices of Purgatory. These offices are easily recognizable by the number of faces bearing bored expressions and the fact that the doors are blue. If you're unsure of whether or not an office is associated with Purgatory, you're not trying hard enough.
Now, if you're holding a yellow or purple card and have the nagging feeling you forgot to repent your sins whilst you were still alive, you'll be joining the offices of Hell. These are the doors that are neither blue nor green nor red nor paisley. And before you ask, no one has a paisley card but yes, there are paisley doors.** Yellow and purple card holders should knock on the yellow and purple doors corresponding to the number indicated in the upper right hand corner. If you knock on a door that does not match the number on your card, you will be politely referred to the taxidermist at the end of the hallway and your head will be fitted for a coat rack. Or some other handy piece of home decor, depending on the mood of the taxidermist.
Now, I believe you've all got index cards and have some idea of where you're heading. If you're still unsure of why you're down here instead of upstairs, you should take a minute to consider your most recent actions and ask yourself if you could have done anything to prevent your current predicament. Not that asking yourself this question will help - you'll still be standing in the Underworld - but it might help you to better understand just how big a shit you were when you were alive.
Now, should any of you have any questions - any questions at all - please hesitate to contact me and remember it's Hell. It's hot, it's uncomfortable, and there's the greatest possibility you'll be bunking with a horned demon whose idea of a good time is ripping you limb from limb. And for anyone preparing to question anything I've just said, please read the fine print on those index cards.
There is, indeed, a special room in Hell for complainers, corporate executives with spending accounts, and people who talk loudly on their cellular phones while standing in line at the grocery store.
* When God assigned positions in the Underworld, She didn't realize just how seriously Hecate would take her job. Nor did she realize just how much of an acquired taste the goddess' humor was. Ellie supposes that's what ambivalence gets you.
** They're bathrooms. Paisley doors, paisley walls, and paisley fixtures. Nothing screws with your head more than attempting to pee while in a room completely decorated in a swirling multi-colored pattern.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Are You Experienced...And Other Terrible Pick-Up Lines
Claire is a month away from her 29th birthday and she's home in Boston, visiting her parents for a few days while she waits for her things to arrive from Detroit. She's found a place to live in the tiny lakeside town of Tuttle, Maine but she can't do much without furniture and the last time she checked the truck carrying most of her material life was slowly crossing the great (not really) state of New York, with an estimated arrival time of three days from now. She's not exactly sure when the distance from New York to Maine became a three day drive, but she thinks the truck might actually be a horse-drawn carriage instead.
"I'm bored," Claire says while sitting on the couch next to her father. When Harry chooses to ignore his eldest child and instead buries his head even deeper into his newspaper, Claire throws something at him. And edge of the newspaper curls down of its own volition.
"Ah, Claire," Harry says, glaring at her over the top rims of his glasses, "I didn't see you there. You were being so quiet, so well behaved."
"I'm bored," she repeats with a small smile at her father's sarcasm.
"We live in one of the most interesting cities in the world and you're bored." He straightens the newspaper and continues reading. "I know for a fact you haven't explored this entire city. Take my Metro card and go adventuring."
"I've never been to the South End," Claire says, actually considering it. The newspaper edge curls down once more, only this time Harry's hand has helped it.
"Planning on joining the Irish mob, are you?" he asks.
Claire shrugs. "I've done stranger things," she says. Her father's smile is somewhat cryptic and not for the first time Claire thinks he knows and understands more than he's letting on.
Harry closes the newspaper and folds it up, sets it aside, and stands.
"Dad?" Claire asks, confused.
"I'm not letting you wander around the South End by yourself, Claire," he says. "You're a gorgeous red head and the freckles on your face might as well be a map of Ireland. They'll kidnap you for sure."
She laughs and gets up from the couch. They step into the mudroom, just off the front hallway to the house, and begin pulling on winter gear. It's early February and the city's just dug itself out from under a Nor'easter that left an Arctic gale in its wake. Any exposed skin is likely to either freeze and fall off or stick to something.
"There's a record shop down there I've been meaning check out," Harry says, pulling on his parka. "Can't remember where I heard about it*, but supposedly it's the premiere seller of punk and rock vinyl in the city."
"I'm not giving you grandpa's RCA," Claire says with a smile.
Harry opens the door and they cringe at the blast of cold air. "Well, then," he says as they step outside. "I'll just have to survive the apocalypse and steal it when you're not looking."
* * *
It's late when they finally make it down Massachusetts Avenue. Harry insisted on driving, even though he knew there would be rush hour traffic, and so instead of taking fifteen minutes by T, it's taken them an hour by car. The record store doesn't look like much from the outside - in fact, it looks like an old garage from the outside, complete with two large bay doors and a faded sign painted onto the brick above them proclaiming the space to be Paddy's Auto Repair.
A bell above the door rings as they walk inside and the two men at the center register of the store look up at them, one with a vacant expression and the other with something in between disgust and hopefulness. Harry and Claire are the only people in the shop.
"Are you getting ready to close up?" Claire asks, taking her hat off. She can practically feel her hair getting bigger in the warm store.
The younger man, wearing a Rogue Brewery t-shirt and dark jeans, steps down from the register and makes his way across the store to where they're standing. His expression no longer resembles a sour lemon; in fact, he appears to be smiling.
"It's just a slow night." He holds out his hand. "I'm Jack Hardcourt, the owner."
Claire pulls her mitten off and takes his hand. It's warm and slightly calloused. "Claire Rogers." She points over her shoulder to where Harry is already flipping through albums. "That's my dad, Harry. He's a Pink Floyd fan," she says.
"45s only, though," Harry says, looking up from the records to smile at Claire. He looks at Jack, takes stock of the unshaven jaw, dark jeans and obnoxious t-shirt. As a father, he's unimpressed; as a beer drinker, he's appreciative. "Nice to meet you, Jack," he says and immediately goes back to sorting through the records.
"So, Claire, anything I can help you find?" He smiles fully at her and she takes a minute to notice the difference in his face. The smile makes him look younger, smarter somehow, and definitely more attractive.
Definitely.
"Hendrix," she says. "'Are You Experienced?'"
"Depends on what we're talking about," Jack says and Claire feels the blush all the way down to her toes.
"The album, on a 45," she says and he smiles.
"Ah, well, that I can absolutely help you with." He leads her away from her oblivious father** and they weave their way through the sales racks of records to a black bookshelf near the back of the store. "If it came out before 1978 it's back here," he says.
Claire stares at the wall of music and feels overwhelmed. "It's incredible," she says. She turns and smiles at him. "You have an amazing job," she says.
He shrugs. "I'm sure yours is pretty amazing."
"I'm a librarian...sometimes a prophet."
He laughs at this. "A prophet librarian?" he asks. She grins, shrugs. "I've met stranger people in the universe." He points over his shoulder towards the older guy at the cash register. "Like him." The clerk is staring off into space and twirling the fringe on his suede vest. "He used to be a business man, until he was introduced to the late sixties and forgot all about his MBA."
Claire knows that Jack doesn't believe her - half the people she talks to don't believe her, including some of the ones who really should - and she's okay with that. She's there to buy a record, not convert an atheist - which Claire knows he is because he is so obviously an atheist it makes her want to laugh.***
He pulls a record down from the top shelf and hands it to her. It's Jimi Hendrix and he's definitely experienced. She smiles and hugs it to her chest.
"What else?" he asks.
"Van Morrison. And maybe some Cream. Or Jethro Tull."
Jack looks at her, arm outstretched and poised to grasp a battered looking Van Morrison album. He looks a little dumbfounded.
"What?" she asks, suddenly self-conscious.
"A librarian with a love of classic rock," he says and she nods. "Will you marry me?" he asks and he almost sounds serious.
She tilts her head to the side and considers him. He definitely looks serious. She files it away for further analysis later on when she's home.
"Maybe later," she says. "For now, though, let's just listen to some music that won't make my ears bleed."
* * *
She's in the car with her father headed back to the house in the Back Bay. There are six albums in total in a very large paper bag in the back seat of Harry's old Volvo, a paper bag that bears the Hardcourt Records label and a very large phone number, handwritten in permanent marker just underneath it. Claire smiles, first at the bag then at her father.
"You seem awfully pleased with yourself," Harry says.
"Most of those are one-of-a-kind, dad," she says, "and Jack practically gave them to us."
"Jack is it?" he asks, struggling with an impish grin.
Claire shrugs. "He seemed nice," she says.
"You should check back in a couple weeks when you come down for your birthday," Harry says, turning onto Arlington. "See if he's gotten in any new vintage collections."
She'd never tell him, because he's her father and his ego would swell far too much, but there are times when Claire thinks Harry Rogers is the most wonderful human being in the world.
"We'll see," she says. Almost as an afterthought, she kisses her mittened hand and pats his cheek with it. "Thanks, dad."
He winks at her as he pulls into their driveway. "Anytime, kiddo. Anytime."
* * *
"That chick was groovy, Jack man," George says as they close up shop.
Jack rolls his eyes. "Indeed she was, George." He takes a moment to pray that the old man leaves it alone, but he's never been that lucky...which is why he's an atheist.
"You should take her out," George says. "I think she'd dig the Clary House."
"The Clary House is a pit where good food goes to die. It's fit only for the likes of you and me, my friend," Jack says as he pulls on his coat. His apartment is just above the store, but he has to go outside and up a fire escape to get to it and it's just cold enough and he's just that much of a wuss that he needs a jacket. He opens the front door and George steps out into the dark Boston night. "Do you need a cab?" Jack asks. He drives him crazy, but Jack often worries about the old stoner. Good help is hard enough to find; mediocre help is impossible.
"Naw, man. I rode my bike in." He points over his shoulder and Jack looks, expecting a Harley or a scooter. Instead, he sees a Schwinn three-speed that's an obnoxious orange. "The streets are pretty clear. Just gotta watch out for those icy spots is all." Jack nods, forces himself not to ask why George is riding a bike in the middle of winter. "I've got good vibes about that girl, Jack," George says in a moment of sure clarity - even his eyes look clear. "If she calls you, go for it."
At that moment, a man in a long duffel coat rides up on a battered road bike. He waves at George and George waves back. Jack can't be certain, because it's dark and the street lamps near the shop never throw off enough light, but the man's helmet looks almost like a halo above his golden head.
"What's up, my man?" George says.
"Gettin' my bike on, that's what," the man says with a lopsided grin. "You ready to roll?"
George pulls a helmet out of his backpack and straps it on, which alleviates some of Jack's worry. He grins at Jack. "That's my bike buddy," he says, unlocking the Schwinn. "Michael," he calls over his shoulder, "this is the Boss Man, Jack."
Michael stares at him for an odd second - during which Jack feels as though he's a book being opened and perused - before grinning and nodding. "I've heard good things, Boss Man Jack."****
Jack watches as the two men ride off down the street and he thinks that he must be more tired than he realized because for just a second, he thinks he sees wings hanging out the bottom of Michael's coat.
* Harry read about it on a $20 bill one day. Written next to Jefferson's bulbous head was the following: HARDCOURT RECORDS, FOR HARD ROCK PEOPLE. Little did Harry know that it was in Michael's handwriting. Archangels...they meddle.
** Fathers are never as oblivious as their daughters think they are. Case in point, Harry has already started a mental catalog of all the things wrong with Jack Hardcourt. He does, however, give the man a few credits because of his excellent taste in music and beer.
*** He's either an atheist or a domestic terrorist "against the establishment". She prefers to think he's far too handsome to be a terrorist, but she's been known to be wrong before. She did date a minion for awhile in college, afterall...
**** He has heard good things from George, but also from Porrima, one of the Roman seers. She keeps telling him about a man named Jack who will help Claire at a trying and difficult time. She failed to mention that he was also a record store owner, which makes Michael a whole lot more willing to accept the fact the guy's an atheist because he's an atheist with good taste in music.
"I'm bored," Claire says while sitting on the couch next to her father. When Harry chooses to ignore his eldest child and instead buries his head even deeper into his newspaper, Claire throws something at him. And edge of the newspaper curls down of its own volition.
"Ah, Claire," Harry says, glaring at her over the top rims of his glasses, "I didn't see you there. You were being so quiet, so well behaved."
"I'm bored," she repeats with a small smile at her father's sarcasm.
"We live in one of the most interesting cities in the world and you're bored." He straightens the newspaper and continues reading. "I know for a fact you haven't explored this entire city. Take my Metro card and go adventuring."
"I've never been to the South End," Claire says, actually considering it. The newspaper edge curls down once more, only this time Harry's hand has helped it.
"Planning on joining the Irish mob, are you?" he asks.
Claire shrugs. "I've done stranger things," she says. Her father's smile is somewhat cryptic and not for the first time Claire thinks he knows and understands more than he's letting on.
Harry closes the newspaper and folds it up, sets it aside, and stands.
"Dad?" Claire asks, confused.
"I'm not letting you wander around the South End by yourself, Claire," he says. "You're a gorgeous red head and the freckles on your face might as well be a map of Ireland. They'll kidnap you for sure."
She laughs and gets up from the couch. They step into the mudroom, just off the front hallway to the house, and begin pulling on winter gear. It's early February and the city's just dug itself out from under a Nor'easter that left an Arctic gale in its wake. Any exposed skin is likely to either freeze and fall off or stick to something.
"There's a record shop down there I've been meaning check out," Harry says, pulling on his parka. "Can't remember where I heard about it*, but supposedly it's the premiere seller of punk and rock vinyl in the city."
"I'm not giving you grandpa's RCA," Claire says with a smile.
Harry opens the door and they cringe at the blast of cold air. "Well, then," he says as they step outside. "I'll just have to survive the apocalypse and steal it when you're not looking."
* * *
It's late when they finally make it down Massachusetts Avenue. Harry insisted on driving, even though he knew there would be rush hour traffic, and so instead of taking fifteen minutes by T, it's taken them an hour by car. The record store doesn't look like much from the outside - in fact, it looks like an old garage from the outside, complete with two large bay doors and a faded sign painted onto the brick above them proclaiming the space to be Paddy's Auto Repair.
A bell above the door rings as they walk inside and the two men at the center register of the store look up at them, one with a vacant expression and the other with something in between disgust and hopefulness. Harry and Claire are the only people in the shop.
"Are you getting ready to close up?" Claire asks, taking her hat off. She can practically feel her hair getting bigger in the warm store.
The younger man, wearing a Rogue Brewery t-shirt and dark jeans, steps down from the register and makes his way across the store to where they're standing. His expression no longer resembles a sour lemon; in fact, he appears to be smiling.
"It's just a slow night." He holds out his hand. "I'm Jack Hardcourt, the owner."
Claire pulls her mitten off and takes his hand. It's warm and slightly calloused. "Claire Rogers." She points over her shoulder to where Harry is already flipping through albums. "That's my dad, Harry. He's a Pink Floyd fan," she says.
"45s only, though," Harry says, looking up from the records to smile at Claire. He looks at Jack, takes stock of the unshaven jaw, dark jeans and obnoxious t-shirt. As a father, he's unimpressed; as a beer drinker, he's appreciative. "Nice to meet you, Jack," he says and immediately goes back to sorting through the records.
"So, Claire, anything I can help you find?" He smiles fully at her and she takes a minute to notice the difference in his face. The smile makes him look younger, smarter somehow, and definitely more attractive.
Definitely.
"Hendrix," she says. "'Are You Experienced?'"
"Depends on what we're talking about," Jack says and Claire feels the blush all the way down to her toes.
"The album, on a 45," she says and he smiles.
"Ah, well, that I can absolutely help you with." He leads her away from her oblivious father** and they weave their way through the sales racks of records to a black bookshelf near the back of the store. "If it came out before 1978 it's back here," he says.
Claire stares at the wall of music and feels overwhelmed. "It's incredible," she says. She turns and smiles at him. "You have an amazing job," she says.
He shrugs. "I'm sure yours is pretty amazing."
"I'm a librarian...sometimes a prophet."
He laughs at this. "A prophet librarian?" he asks. She grins, shrugs. "I've met stranger people in the universe." He points over his shoulder towards the older guy at the cash register. "Like him." The clerk is staring off into space and twirling the fringe on his suede vest. "He used to be a business man, until he was introduced to the late sixties and forgot all about his MBA."
Claire knows that Jack doesn't believe her - half the people she talks to don't believe her, including some of the ones who really should - and she's okay with that. She's there to buy a record, not convert an atheist - which Claire knows he is because he is so obviously an atheist it makes her want to laugh.***
He pulls a record down from the top shelf and hands it to her. It's Jimi Hendrix and he's definitely experienced. She smiles and hugs it to her chest.
"What else?" he asks.
"Van Morrison. And maybe some Cream. Or Jethro Tull."
Jack looks at her, arm outstretched and poised to grasp a battered looking Van Morrison album. He looks a little dumbfounded.
"What?" she asks, suddenly self-conscious.
"A librarian with a love of classic rock," he says and she nods. "Will you marry me?" he asks and he almost sounds serious.
She tilts her head to the side and considers him. He definitely looks serious. She files it away for further analysis later on when she's home.
"Maybe later," she says. "For now, though, let's just listen to some music that won't make my ears bleed."
* * *
She's in the car with her father headed back to the house in the Back Bay. There are six albums in total in a very large paper bag in the back seat of Harry's old Volvo, a paper bag that bears the Hardcourt Records label and a very large phone number, handwritten in permanent marker just underneath it. Claire smiles, first at the bag then at her father.
"You seem awfully pleased with yourself," Harry says.
"Most of those are one-of-a-kind, dad," she says, "and Jack practically gave them to us."
"Jack is it?" he asks, struggling with an impish grin.
Claire shrugs. "He seemed nice," she says.
"You should check back in a couple weeks when you come down for your birthday," Harry says, turning onto Arlington. "See if he's gotten in any new vintage collections."
She'd never tell him, because he's her father and his ego would swell far too much, but there are times when Claire thinks Harry Rogers is the most wonderful human being in the world.
"We'll see," she says. Almost as an afterthought, she kisses her mittened hand and pats his cheek with it. "Thanks, dad."
He winks at her as he pulls into their driveway. "Anytime, kiddo. Anytime."
* * *
"That chick was groovy, Jack man," George says as they close up shop.
Jack rolls his eyes. "Indeed she was, George." He takes a moment to pray that the old man leaves it alone, but he's never been that lucky...which is why he's an atheist.
"You should take her out," George says. "I think she'd dig the Clary House."
"The Clary House is a pit where good food goes to die. It's fit only for the likes of you and me, my friend," Jack says as he pulls on his coat. His apartment is just above the store, but he has to go outside and up a fire escape to get to it and it's just cold enough and he's just that much of a wuss that he needs a jacket. He opens the front door and George steps out into the dark Boston night. "Do you need a cab?" Jack asks. He drives him crazy, but Jack often worries about the old stoner. Good help is hard enough to find; mediocre help is impossible.
"Naw, man. I rode my bike in." He points over his shoulder and Jack looks, expecting a Harley or a scooter. Instead, he sees a Schwinn three-speed that's an obnoxious orange. "The streets are pretty clear. Just gotta watch out for those icy spots is all." Jack nods, forces himself not to ask why George is riding a bike in the middle of winter. "I've got good vibes about that girl, Jack," George says in a moment of sure clarity - even his eyes look clear. "If she calls you, go for it."
At that moment, a man in a long duffel coat rides up on a battered road bike. He waves at George and George waves back. Jack can't be certain, because it's dark and the street lamps near the shop never throw off enough light, but the man's helmet looks almost like a halo above his golden head.
"What's up, my man?" George says.
"Gettin' my bike on, that's what," the man says with a lopsided grin. "You ready to roll?"
George pulls a helmet out of his backpack and straps it on, which alleviates some of Jack's worry. He grins at Jack. "That's my bike buddy," he says, unlocking the Schwinn. "Michael," he calls over his shoulder, "this is the Boss Man, Jack."
Michael stares at him for an odd second - during which Jack feels as though he's a book being opened and perused - before grinning and nodding. "I've heard good things, Boss Man Jack."****
Jack watches as the two men ride off down the street and he thinks that he must be more tired than he realized because for just a second, he thinks he sees wings hanging out the bottom of Michael's coat.
* Harry read about it on a $20 bill one day. Written next to Jefferson's bulbous head was the following: HARDCOURT RECORDS, FOR HARD ROCK PEOPLE. Little did Harry know that it was in Michael's handwriting. Archangels...they meddle.
** Fathers are never as oblivious as their daughters think they are. Case in point, Harry has already started a mental catalog of all the things wrong with Jack Hardcourt. He does, however, give the man a few credits because of his excellent taste in music and beer.
*** He's either an atheist or a domestic terrorist "against the establishment". She prefers to think he's far too handsome to be a terrorist, but she's been known to be wrong before. She did date a minion for awhile in college, afterall...
**** He has heard good things from George, but also from Porrima, one of the Roman seers. She keeps telling him about a man named Jack who will help Claire at a trying and difficult time. She failed to mention that he was also a record store owner, which makes Michael a whole lot more willing to accept the fact the guy's an atheist because he's an atheist with good taste in music.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
The Big Bang Theory...For Beginners
God wakes slowly, the sunlight filtering through Her bedroom window warm on Her face. She shifts under the weight of the blankets and is immediately reminded of the evening before, the multiple shots of something called alcohol and the bright red tie Lucifer had decided to wear tied around Her head while She demonstrated the yet-to-be-named Running Man dance move.*
She feels like Her limbs are not necessarily attached to Her corporeal body. Deciding to test Her theory that Her arms got up and walked away in the middle of the night, She attempts to move Her left arm. It drags across Her chest like a weighted sand bag.
Her naked chest.
Her naked chest which appears to be just to the right of Her other naked chest.
Since when do I have two naked chests?
Her green eyes fly open and She bolts upright in Her bed, limbs suddenly awake and very much attached. Beside Her, a body stirs as She smacks it with a newly functioning hand and She turns Her head to look at Her bed mate.
"Oh holy Me," She says and immediately begins to push at the body next to Her.
Lucifer grumbles as God finally pushes him off the mattress. There's a loud smack and snort as he lands face first on the marble floor of Her bedroom.
"Ow," he says, pulling himself into a kneeling position at the edge of Her bed. He rubs his forehead, a purple mark appearing on his pale skin where it connected with the floor. "What happened?"
"Out!" God yells, pointing at the door to Her room. She's on the verge of hysterics and getting closer every second.
He starts as though slapped and quickly stands, wrapping the discarded comforter around his waist. "Why are You yelling at me?" he asks. "And did You just throw me out of bed?"
"No, I pushed you out of bed and I did so because it's My bed and because you aren't supposed to be in it!" She grips the sheet wrapped around Her tighter. "I'm your boss, Lucifer. You're not supposed to sleep with your boss."
"Says who?" he asks, awfully indignant for an angel who just did a naked face plant on a marble floor.
"You," She says. He looks at Her, confused. "It's in the Employee Manual you helped My Father write, or don't you remember that little side project you took on a few years ago?"
"Oh," he says. His eyes seem to catch sight of something in the window behind Her and they wander from Her face to a point just over Her left shoulder. "Oops..." he says quietly.
"That's all you can say? Oops?" She asks.
He sighs, points at the window behind Her. She turns and, upon seeing the giant blue and green ball sitting outside Her bedroom window, squeaks in a very non-professional, non-Godly way.**
"Oops," he says again.
"What the frick is that?!" She screeches, no longer just on the verge but instead mid-way into a full on hysterical fit. Lucifer says nothing and She whirls on him, golden afro flying around Her head like angry springs. "Lucy, what the hell is that?!" She stabs the glass behind Her, wincing slightly when a crack sounds through the room.
He crosses his arms over his pale chest and glares at Her. "It's a planet and don't call me Lucy."
"A planet?" She asks, turning to look out the window again at the little green and blue orb. There are white clouds swirling around and it looks inviting, far nicer than the gaseous balls Her Father left behind. Something in Her chest (Her actual chest, not the chest She mistook for Her own) tugs and She puts Her hand up on the glass, smiles in spite of everything.
"Technically, our planet," Lucifer says.
The smile disappears and She bangs Her forehead against the window glass. "Shit."
* * *
Lucky for them both, the Archangel Michael came of age a few hours earlier. Yahweh had designed His archangels to be level-headed problem solvers. Raphael and Gabriel were still in training, but Michael had managed to con the seraphim teaching him into letting them out of class a little early. Hence, why it was lucky - otherwise, Lucifer and God would have spent another hundred years fighting over who had the right to the little blue and green planet God had immediately named Earth.
"The planet is Hers," Michael says around a mouthful of ambrosia. "This is fantastic," he says to God. "Like Heaven on a spoon." God smiles, flattered, and Lucifer (now dressed in a three piece suit, pink tie, and pointed loafers) almost immediately turns purple with rage.
"Bullshit! That planet is half mine! I helped create it!"
Michael shrugs, keeping an eye on the pointed purple guy. He doesn't trust anything that turns purple when it's angry.*** "That may be the case, Pointy, but She's not only the Earth's Mother, She's also the boss up here, which means that if She wants the planet, She gets the planet."
"I can't believe You're doing this," Lucifer says to God. "First You get the company and now You get the planet." He crosses his arms over his chest. "Is there anything You don't have control over?"
"You still have the ability to walk and speak, so yes, it looks like there are a few things I can't control." She frowns at him, mimics his stance. "It's not like I asked for the damn thing," She says. "How was I supposed to know that what happened between us was going to lead to this?"
"How did you think Mercury and Venus were created?!" Lucifer asks, incredulous. "Or did Your Father never tell You about the Planets and Planes?"****
"He was a little busy being a single father and running Heaven!" God hollers, Her patience running out. "Cut the poor guy some slack!"
Michael looks between Lucifer and God and props his chin in his hand on the table in front of him. "Are you two always this annoying?" he asks.
"Yes!" they shout in unison.
"Right, then." He stands, shakes our his newly matured wings, and rolls his neck. The bones crack audibly in the quiet of God's office. "I'll be back in a little bit."
"Where are you going?" Lucifer asks. He looks at God and She shruggs, just as confused as he is.
"To check it out," he says, pointing at the planet. "I want to see why this place is such a big deal." He opens the door to God's balcony, stretches his wings out as far as they'll go, and leaps off the edge. They hear him shouting in glee the entire way down.
"That's impressive," God says, Her green eyes following Michael's descent to the world below.
"Please," Lucifer says, "anyone can do that."
"Maybe you should go with him, then," She says, still watching the angel fly towards Earth.
Lucifer straightens his tie. "I just had my suit pressed." God smiles but says nothing. Lucifer frowns at Her. "Wrinkles are very hard to get out of wool."
"Of course they are," She says and hops over the edge of the balcony to follow Her new archangel down.
* * *
When God catches up to him, Michael is lounging under a shady tree, eating a red ball. He throws one to Her as She approaches.
"I'm calling them apples," he says. "Don't know why, but it seems to fit."
She takes a bite, smiles. "It's good."
He motions to the land around them. "There are millions of trees on this planet. Some big, some little, all green and wonderful." He grins widely at Her. "I'm kind of diggin' this place. There's room to stretch my wings down here."
She settles on the ground next to him, takes a bite of Her apple. "What am I going to do with it?" She asks.
"Fill it with animals and mortals and see what happens." She looks at him, surprised. "What?" he asks. "You can't just leave a place like this empty. It's far too fertile."
"Mercury and Venus are empty," She says.
"Because Your Father accidentally made them uninhabitable," he says.
"You weren't even alive when those things happened. How would you know?"
He smiles. "Archangels know everything, Boss." He bumps Her shoulder with his own. "We're born with the knowledge of the universe packed tightly into our thick skulls." He taps the side of his head. "Mind like a steel trap, whatever that is."
"Lucky Me," She says, laughing.
He points up. "That pointy guy is a pain in the ass," he says.
She sighs. "Lucifer has his moments." She frowns at the sky above them. "He used to work for My Father. I think he thought he was getting the keys to the kingdom when Yahweh retired." She shrugs. "Dear old Dad had other ideas."
"Probably a bad idea, then, for the two of you to get involved."
"We're not involved," She says a little too quickly. His left eyebrow arches up. "It was a one time thing. A one time, absolutely terrible thing." She looks at him, frowns. "Never get involved with co-workers, Mike."
"Duly noted, Boss."
She stands, holds Her hand out to him. "Call me Ellie," She says and he takes Her hand. She helps him to his feet. "My Father always did and I like it better than Boss or God."
"Sounds good, Ellie."
"I'm going to need help getting this place ready. Think you can help Me?"
He shakes his wings out. "Your wish is my command."
She's not completely certain, but She thinks Her archangel winks at Her as he takes off from the ground. She also thinks he's all kinds of trouble.
* * *
Lucifer is waiting for Her in Her office when She gets back upstairs. He looks even more disgruntled than he did earlier. In fact, She thinks there might be smoke coming out of his ears.
"Well?" he asks.
"I'm going to fill it up with animals and mortals," She says, pulling bits of cloud out of Her afro. There was a weather system moving as She headed up and She had to climb through a pack of cumulonimbus. "I'd like all the angels to help, at the direction of Michael."
"He just came of age a few hours ago!"
She sighs. "And he seems very responsible and capable of the task."
He plants his hands on Her desk and leans forward. "I've worked here since the beginning," he says quietly. "Your Father trusted me most of all."
She sits down and looks up at him, Her green eyes losing their earlier mirth. "My Father no longer runs this joint, Lucy, so I suggest you suck it up and move on."
He straightens. "You'll regret this, Ellie."
"Probably not, Lucy." She smiles sweetly and sits in Her chair at Her desk in Her office. "Now be a good boy and run along."
He turns on his heel and stalks out. She watches him leave and wonders if She will, someday down the line, regret it. Then She begins to think of all the different things She can do with Her new planet and Lucifer's warning is forgotten.*****
* * *
Lucifer, however, is just getting started. He's had a thought on his way back to his office, a thought that requires a detour to the Heavenly Library so he can consult the Heavenly Dictionary. He flips to the "E" section and scans the pages. When he finds what he's looking for, he taps his hand on the page.
"Evident," he says to the empty room. "That sounds badass." He scans a little further and happens upon the word "evil". When he reads the definition, he rolls his eyes. "Or evil. I could go with evil." He reads the definition again, comes to a conclusion. "In fact, I think I'll reinvent the definition of evil."
He nods to himself, pleased, and takes a couple steps away from the book. Yet another thought strikes him and he stops. He reaches back and steals the Dictionary to take with him. He flips to the "R" section as he walks out of the sparsley populated room.
"Reinvent means what, again?"
* You know you saw that one coming.
** Eeek! In the words of Yahweh: This shit just got crazy, yo.
*** Michael doesn't trust anything purple, period. He doesn't know why but he thinks it might have something to do with Gabriel. Most everything does.
**** Birds and bees, for all you mortals out there. Immortals have planets and planes, for existential and philosophical reasons only Socrates will eventually understand. And you all know what happens to him.
***** Thank goodness the Home & Garden channel hadn't yet been invented. The Garden of Eden might have turned out far differently if God had been given access to a Home Depot.
She feels like Her limbs are not necessarily attached to Her corporeal body. Deciding to test Her theory that Her arms got up and walked away in the middle of the night, She attempts to move Her left arm. It drags across Her chest like a weighted sand bag.
Her naked chest.
Her naked chest which appears to be just to the right of Her other naked chest.
Since when do I have two naked chests?
Her green eyes fly open and She bolts upright in Her bed, limbs suddenly awake and very much attached. Beside Her, a body stirs as She smacks it with a newly functioning hand and She turns Her head to look at Her bed mate.
"Oh holy Me," She says and immediately begins to push at the body next to Her.
Lucifer grumbles as God finally pushes him off the mattress. There's a loud smack and snort as he lands face first on the marble floor of Her bedroom.
"Ow," he says, pulling himself into a kneeling position at the edge of Her bed. He rubs his forehead, a purple mark appearing on his pale skin where it connected with the floor. "What happened?"
"Out!" God yells, pointing at the door to Her room. She's on the verge of hysterics and getting closer every second.
He starts as though slapped and quickly stands, wrapping the discarded comforter around his waist. "Why are You yelling at me?" he asks. "And did You just throw me out of bed?"
"No, I pushed you out of bed and I did so because it's My bed and because you aren't supposed to be in it!" She grips the sheet wrapped around Her tighter. "I'm your boss, Lucifer. You're not supposed to sleep with your boss."
"Says who?" he asks, awfully indignant for an angel who just did a naked face plant on a marble floor.
"You," She says. He looks at Her, confused. "It's in the Employee Manual you helped My Father write, or don't you remember that little side project you took on a few years ago?"
"Oh," he says. His eyes seem to catch sight of something in the window behind Her and they wander from Her face to a point just over Her left shoulder. "Oops..." he says quietly.
"That's all you can say? Oops?" She asks.
He sighs, points at the window behind Her. She turns and, upon seeing the giant blue and green ball sitting outside Her bedroom window, squeaks in a very non-professional, non-Godly way.**
"Oops," he says again.
"What the frick is that?!" She screeches, no longer just on the verge but instead mid-way into a full on hysterical fit. Lucifer says nothing and She whirls on him, golden afro flying around Her head like angry springs. "Lucy, what the hell is that?!" She stabs the glass behind Her, wincing slightly when a crack sounds through the room.
He crosses his arms over his pale chest and glares at Her. "It's a planet and don't call me Lucy."
"A planet?" She asks, turning to look out the window again at the little green and blue orb. There are white clouds swirling around and it looks inviting, far nicer than the gaseous balls Her Father left behind. Something in Her chest (Her actual chest, not the chest She mistook for Her own) tugs and She puts Her hand up on the glass, smiles in spite of everything.
"Technically, our planet," Lucifer says.
The smile disappears and She bangs Her forehead against the window glass. "Shit."
* * *
Lucky for them both, the Archangel Michael came of age a few hours earlier. Yahweh had designed His archangels to be level-headed problem solvers. Raphael and Gabriel were still in training, but Michael had managed to con the seraphim teaching him into letting them out of class a little early. Hence, why it was lucky - otherwise, Lucifer and God would have spent another hundred years fighting over who had the right to the little blue and green planet God had immediately named Earth.
"The planet is Hers," Michael says around a mouthful of ambrosia. "This is fantastic," he says to God. "Like Heaven on a spoon." God smiles, flattered, and Lucifer (now dressed in a three piece suit, pink tie, and pointed loafers) almost immediately turns purple with rage.
"Bullshit! That planet is half mine! I helped create it!"
Michael shrugs, keeping an eye on the pointed purple guy. He doesn't trust anything that turns purple when it's angry.*** "That may be the case, Pointy, but She's not only the Earth's Mother, She's also the boss up here, which means that if She wants the planet, She gets the planet."
"I can't believe You're doing this," Lucifer says to God. "First You get the company and now You get the planet." He crosses his arms over his chest. "Is there anything You don't have control over?"
"You still have the ability to walk and speak, so yes, it looks like there are a few things I can't control." She frowns at him, mimics his stance. "It's not like I asked for the damn thing," She says. "How was I supposed to know that what happened between us was going to lead to this?"
"How did you think Mercury and Venus were created?!" Lucifer asks, incredulous. "Or did Your Father never tell You about the Planets and Planes?"****
"He was a little busy being a single father and running Heaven!" God hollers, Her patience running out. "Cut the poor guy some slack!"
Michael looks between Lucifer and God and props his chin in his hand on the table in front of him. "Are you two always this annoying?" he asks.
"Yes!" they shout in unison.
"Right, then." He stands, shakes our his newly matured wings, and rolls his neck. The bones crack audibly in the quiet of God's office. "I'll be back in a little bit."
"Where are you going?" Lucifer asks. He looks at God and She shruggs, just as confused as he is.
"To check it out," he says, pointing at the planet. "I want to see why this place is such a big deal." He opens the door to God's balcony, stretches his wings out as far as they'll go, and leaps off the edge. They hear him shouting in glee the entire way down.
"That's impressive," God says, Her green eyes following Michael's descent to the world below.
"Please," Lucifer says, "anyone can do that."
"Maybe you should go with him, then," She says, still watching the angel fly towards Earth.
Lucifer straightens his tie. "I just had my suit pressed." God smiles but says nothing. Lucifer frowns at Her. "Wrinkles are very hard to get out of wool."
"Of course they are," She says and hops over the edge of the balcony to follow Her new archangel down.
* * *
When God catches up to him, Michael is lounging under a shady tree, eating a red ball. He throws one to Her as She approaches.
"I'm calling them apples," he says. "Don't know why, but it seems to fit."
She takes a bite, smiles. "It's good."
He motions to the land around them. "There are millions of trees on this planet. Some big, some little, all green and wonderful." He grins widely at Her. "I'm kind of diggin' this place. There's room to stretch my wings down here."
She settles on the ground next to him, takes a bite of Her apple. "What am I going to do with it?" She asks.
"Fill it with animals and mortals and see what happens." She looks at him, surprised. "What?" he asks. "You can't just leave a place like this empty. It's far too fertile."
"Mercury and Venus are empty," She says.
"Because Your Father accidentally made them uninhabitable," he says.
"You weren't even alive when those things happened. How would you know?"
He smiles. "Archangels know everything, Boss." He bumps Her shoulder with his own. "We're born with the knowledge of the universe packed tightly into our thick skulls." He taps the side of his head. "Mind like a steel trap, whatever that is."
"Lucky Me," She says, laughing.
He points up. "That pointy guy is a pain in the ass," he says.
She sighs. "Lucifer has his moments." She frowns at the sky above them. "He used to work for My Father. I think he thought he was getting the keys to the kingdom when Yahweh retired." She shrugs. "Dear old Dad had other ideas."
"Probably a bad idea, then, for the two of you to get involved."
"We're not involved," She says a little too quickly. His left eyebrow arches up. "It was a one time thing. A one time, absolutely terrible thing." She looks at him, frowns. "Never get involved with co-workers, Mike."
"Duly noted, Boss."
She stands, holds Her hand out to him. "Call me Ellie," She says and he takes Her hand. She helps him to his feet. "My Father always did and I like it better than Boss or God."
"Sounds good, Ellie."
"I'm going to need help getting this place ready. Think you can help Me?"
He shakes his wings out. "Your wish is my command."
She's not completely certain, but She thinks Her archangel winks at Her as he takes off from the ground. She also thinks he's all kinds of trouble.
* * *
Lucifer is waiting for Her in Her office when She gets back upstairs. He looks even more disgruntled than he did earlier. In fact, She thinks there might be smoke coming out of his ears.
"Well?" he asks.
"I'm going to fill it up with animals and mortals," She says, pulling bits of cloud out of Her afro. There was a weather system moving as She headed up and She had to climb through a pack of cumulonimbus. "I'd like all the angels to help, at the direction of Michael."
"He just came of age a few hours ago!"
She sighs. "And he seems very responsible and capable of the task."
He plants his hands on Her desk and leans forward. "I've worked here since the beginning," he says quietly. "Your Father trusted me most of all."
She sits down and looks up at him, Her green eyes losing their earlier mirth. "My Father no longer runs this joint, Lucy, so I suggest you suck it up and move on."
He straightens. "You'll regret this, Ellie."
"Probably not, Lucy." She smiles sweetly and sits in Her chair at Her desk in Her office. "Now be a good boy and run along."
He turns on his heel and stalks out. She watches him leave and wonders if She will, someday down the line, regret it. Then She begins to think of all the different things She can do with Her new planet and Lucifer's warning is forgotten.*****
* * *
Lucifer, however, is just getting started. He's had a thought on his way back to his office, a thought that requires a detour to the Heavenly Library so he can consult the Heavenly Dictionary. He flips to the "E" section and scans the pages. When he finds what he's looking for, he taps his hand on the page.
"Evident," he says to the empty room. "That sounds badass." He scans a little further and happens upon the word "evil". When he reads the definition, he rolls his eyes. "Or evil. I could go with evil." He reads the definition again, comes to a conclusion. "In fact, I think I'll reinvent the definition of evil."
He nods to himself, pleased, and takes a couple steps away from the book. Yet another thought strikes him and he stops. He reaches back and steals the Dictionary to take with him. He flips to the "R" section as he walks out of the sparsley populated room.
"Reinvent means what, again?"
* You know you saw that one coming.
** Eeek! In the words of Yahweh: This shit just got crazy, yo.
*** Michael doesn't trust anything purple, period. He doesn't know why but he thinks it might have something to do with Gabriel. Most everything does.
**** Birds and bees, for all you mortals out there. Immortals have planets and planes, for existential and philosophical reasons only Socrates will eventually understand. And you all know what happens to him.
***** Thank goodness the Home & Garden channel hadn't yet been invented. The Garden of Eden might have turned out far differently if God had been given access to a Home Depot.
Friday, August 6, 2010
In Which God (Maybe) Learns Her Lesson (Sort Of)
This is dedicated to all the new moms, the women who just pushed watermelons out of pinholes, the unrecognized saints of the universe. What the hell was God thinking, anyway?
She likes to stand outside nurseries at random hospitals throughout the world and admire Her handiwork. She usually does it on bad days, when the paperwork on Her desk has piled up to the ceiling (literally) and Metatron won't shut up about signatures and PG-98 forms and how hard he works to make Her look good.* Today was one of those days so when Meta's back was turned, She slipped out the side door to Her office, took the express bus down to Earth, and popped into the Maternity ward of a little hospital in Glasgow, Scotland.
There are ten little babies wrapped in alternating pink and blue blankets inside clear plastic cribs and each of them is asleep, their faces slack with the dreams of the newly born. They look peaceful, wonderful, and God leans Her forehead against the glass and sighs.
"Just wait until they wake up," Michael says from right beside Her and She's so susprised She bangs Her head against the glass.
"Ow," She says, rubbing the pink mark on Her caramel skin. "I've told you a million times, don't sneak up on Me."
"You're supposed to be omnipotent," the Archangel says with a knowing smirk and She frowns at him.
"We both know that statement is ninety-seven percent false." Not for the first time, She wonders who started that ridiculous rumor about Her omnipotence. She wouldn't be surprised if Gabriel had something to do with it or, worse yet, Lucifer. "What are you doing here?"
"Meta sent me to look for You."
"Since when do you do My Voice's dirty work?"
Michael shrugs. "Since You started shirking Your duties as the so-called Known Creator of the Universe."
"Hey, Zeus and I agreed to share that title, thank you very much. As such, I can disappear from My office whenever the Hell I want to." She turns back to look at the nursery. "I couldn't take another day of paperwork and that whiny voice Meta uses when he thinks I'm not paying enough attention to him."
"The one that sounds like a three year old on helium?" Michael asks and She nods.
"I feel like slapping him when he starts with that voice," She says. She turns, then, and looks at Michael. She's in a place where no one - mortal or immortal - should have known to look for her and yet, here he is. "How exactly did you find Me?" She asks.
Michael grins. "You're predictable," he says, "and a lot less complex than you think you are."
She smooshes Her lips together in an exaggerated frown. "I hate you." He laughs.
She doesn't, actually. She couldn't. Of all the angels in Heaven, Inc. Michael is by far Her favorite. He's...normal. He has flaws and vices and an unhealthy obsession with the mortals living on Her accidental planet and if She gave him just an ounce more of freedom, he'd run amok and break something, but for some reason She likes him. It helps that he isn't perfect, like his Archangel counterparts Gabriel and Raphael. Thankfully, those two broke the mold. Literally.**
"So why the babies?"
"I like to admire My handiwork."
He steps up to the glass and She looks at him from corner of Her green eye. He's wearing a dusty green overcoat over what She suspects are jeans and a t-shirt and his wings. He looks vaguely like a homeless person, especially with the beard he's started sporting recently.
"Have You seen the kind of work that goes into getting one of these little bundles of joy?" he asks.
She rolls Her eyes. "Duh. I'm God. Of course I know what goes into making a baby." Without verbally agreeing to do so, they both decline to mention Her own adventures in Motherhood, i.e., the Earth.***
He chuckles and the sound echoes in the quiet of the hospital corridor. "Not making a baby; delivering a baby."
She laughs and it's awkward. "Of course I know about delivering a baby. I'm an expert on deliveries."
"Oh really?" he asks and She nods. He checks his watch. "Well then. The other reason I came down here is You scheduled me for an onsite at 6:08 pm. The McConnells and Baby Abigail." He holds his hand out. "If You're such an expert, You should really see this. I have it on good authority that Baby Abigail has big things in her future."
She narrows Her eyes. "The Moirae or the Parcae?" She asks.****
He grins. "Both. I like to hedge my bets when it comes to newborns." He wiggles his fingers at Her. "Come on," he says. "We're already three minutes late."
* * *
Michael rubs circles on Her back while She tries to get Her breathing under control. She hyperventilated a few minutes earlier and passed out on the delivery room floor. Thankfully, no one can see them, so it wasn't too big of a deal, but Michael will never let Her live it down. They're sitting on a bench outside Baby Abigail's room and Michael has magically produced a can of Orange Slice and a straw and God is slowly, but surely, feeling better.
"That was horrible," She says and She can tell without looking that Michael is silently laughing at Her because his circular hand motions take on a decidedly free form. "Stop laughing at Me. It isn't that funny."
He leans forward so She can see him without having to sit up. "You're absolutely right. It isn't funny. It's fucking hilarious."
She scowls at the floor and hopes he can see it. She holds Her hand out for the can of soda and he gives it to Her. There are few things in the universe that make Her feel better than a can of Orange Slice. It's the drink of the Gods - literally. There are cases of it in the cafeteria at the Pearly Gates.
"Who would volunteer to go through that?" She asks, finally sitting up. Michael moves his hand away from Her back and She has to stop herself from whining at the loss of contact. I shall not have unprofessional feelings towards my employees, She chants in Her head. Look where it got Me the first time.
"Unfortunately, it's the only way to get one of those tiny bundles You thought were so adorable twenty minutes ago."
She looks at him. "Tell Me the truth, Mike - did I do that to women?"
He begins to laugh again and She punches his arm, hard. "Ow. Yes, Ellie. You did that to women."
She leans her head back against the wall behind them and frowns. "I am a terrible diety. I don't even remember doing that! I wonder if I can get it reversed..."
Michael shakes his head. "No dice. That was a PGX-007 order. Not even Yahweh himself could get one of those reversed." He steals the can of soda from Her hand and takes a long sip. "I'll bet it was one of those forms Meta dropped in front of You and demanded You sign."
"I never read those forms," She says.
"No kidding." He points over his shoulder to the delivery room. "Probably why Mrs. McConnell is currently pushing something the size of a watermelon out of something the size of a pinhole."
God takes a moment to think about the logistics of it, remembers She, too, is a woman, and moans in sympathy for the heroic Mrs. McConnell. "I'll say it again - I am a terrible, terrible, terrible diety!" She rolls Her head to the side and stares at him. "Planets are so much easier. I went to sleep, woke up, and BAM. Planet."
"That happened to me once," Michael says.
"You woke up and had a planet outside your bedroom window?"
He winks at Her. "Where do you think Saturn came from?"
* * *
Metatron is waiting in Her office with a stack of intake forms, a green pen, and an attitude problem. He doesn't even wait for Her to sit down before he starts talking.
"Where have You been?" he asks and She hopes it's rhetorical. "I've been collecting intake forms from that train crash in Russia since ten this morning. Zeus and Hera have called three times, as have Jupiter and Juno - You know how those four have to do everything equally. Joan gave up around lunchtime and went in search of the French Army to convert. I've been here on my own the whole day and You've been doing who knows what down on Earth with Michael!"
God stares at him for a moment and comes to a decision. She reaches out, knocks his hands, and sends the stack of intake forms flying through the air. The office is covered in a rainfall of paper and in the middle of it all, Meta stands with his mouth open, apparently trying to scream but not sure how it'll be received.
"Meta, darling," God says in Her sweetest tone of voice. Meta nods, still silent. "I've had a tiring day. Go away before I strangle you with your cravat and sell you to the British Museum as a dress-up doll." She cocks Her head to the side and smiles, reaches out and pats the top of his head. "Okay, pumpkin?"
Meta nods and silently leaves Her office. She cleans the mess up with a flick of Her finger and sits down at Her desk, pulls the bottom left drawer all the way out and roots around in it for a minute or two. Her hand finally finds what it's looking for and She pulls out a nearly full bottle of Glenlivit.
Orange Slice may make Her feel better, but Glenlivit makes Her feel spectacular. And as Her holy hoo-ha cringes at the thought of what She witnessed today, She decides that there is absolutely nothing wrong with spectacular.
She pours Herself a glass and turns to Her giant window. "Cheers, moms," She says and clinks the glass against the window. "May they be worth all that trouble."
* PG-98 Forms are the worst. It's sixty pages of bureaucratic hell with lots of check boxes, text fields, and places to initial and sign. And it's all so the newly damned get their due process. God personally thinks that being a dick in one's life is all the due process for an eternity in Hell one needs, but She was overruled by the Council. Hence the PG-98.
** Gabriel and Raphael popped out, perfect and wonderful, and before Yahweh had a chance to change the settings, the mold literally broke into six solid pieces and He had to create Michael from scratch. If nothing else, it explains why Mike is the only of the three Archangels who can grow a beard and who doesn't know all the words to "Bat out of Hell".
*** Babies and planets have a lot in common. One unprotected drunken indiscretion later and BAM. You've got a baby or a planet. And one hell of a hangover.
**** He gets along better with the Parcae, the Roman Fates, but the Moirae, the Greek Fates, serve better cakes with their tea so he usually stops by both offices whenever possible.
She likes to stand outside nurseries at random hospitals throughout the world and admire Her handiwork. She usually does it on bad days, when the paperwork on Her desk has piled up to the ceiling (literally) and Metatron won't shut up about signatures and PG-98 forms and how hard he works to make Her look good.* Today was one of those days so when Meta's back was turned, She slipped out the side door to Her office, took the express bus down to Earth, and popped into the Maternity ward of a little hospital in Glasgow, Scotland.
There are ten little babies wrapped in alternating pink and blue blankets inside clear plastic cribs and each of them is asleep, their faces slack with the dreams of the newly born. They look peaceful, wonderful, and God leans Her forehead against the glass and sighs.
"Just wait until they wake up," Michael says from right beside Her and She's so susprised She bangs Her head against the glass.
"Ow," She says, rubbing the pink mark on Her caramel skin. "I've told you a million times, don't sneak up on Me."
"You're supposed to be omnipotent," the Archangel says with a knowing smirk and She frowns at him.
"We both know that statement is ninety-seven percent false." Not for the first time, She wonders who started that ridiculous rumor about Her omnipotence. She wouldn't be surprised if Gabriel had something to do with it or, worse yet, Lucifer. "What are you doing here?"
"Meta sent me to look for You."
"Since when do you do My Voice's dirty work?"
Michael shrugs. "Since You started shirking Your duties as the so-called Known Creator of the Universe."
"Hey, Zeus and I agreed to share that title, thank you very much. As such, I can disappear from My office whenever the Hell I want to." She turns back to look at the nursery. "I couldn't take another day of paperwork and that whiny voice Meta uses when he thinks I'm not paying enough attention to him."
"The one that sounds like a three year old on helium?" Michael asks and She nods.
"I feel like slapping him when he starts with that voice," She says. She turns, then, and looks at Michael. She's in a place where no one - mortal or immortal - should have known to look for her and yet, here he is. "How exactly did you find Me?" She asks.
Michael grins. "You're predictable," he says, "and a lot less complex than you think you are."
She smooshes Her lips together in an exaggerated frown. "I hate you." He laughs.
She doesn't, actually. She couldn't. Of all the angels in Heaven, Inc. Michael is by far Her favorite. He's...normal. He has flaws and vices and an unhealthy obsession with the mortals living on Her accidental planet and if She gave him just an ounce more of freedom, he'd run amok and break something, but for some reason She likes him. It helps that he isn't perfect, like his Archangel counterparts Gabriel and Raphael. Thankfully, those two broke the mold. Literally.**
"So why the babies?"
"I like to admire My handiwork."
He steps up to the glass and She looks at him from corner of Her green eye. He's wearing a dusty green overcoat over what She suspects are jeans and a t-shirt and his wings. He looks vaguely like a homeless person, especially with the beard he's started sporting recently.
"Have You seen the kind of work that goes into getting one of these little bundles of joy?" he asks.
She rolls Her eyes. "Duh. I'm God. Of course I know what goes into making a baby." Without verbally agreeing to do so, they both decline to mention Her own adventures in Motherhood, i.e., the Earth.***
He chuckles and the sound echoes in the quiet of the hospital corridor. "Not making a baby; delivering a baby."
She laughs and it's awkward. "Of course I know about delivering a baby. I'm an expert on deliveries."
"Oh really?" he asks and She nods. He checks his watch. "Well then. The other reason I came down here is You scheduled me for an onsite at 6:08 pm. The McConnells and Baby Abigail." He holds his hand out. "If You're such an expert, You should really see this. I have it on good authority that Baby Abigail has big things in her future."
She narrows Her eyes. "The Moirae or the Parcae?" She asks.****
He grins. "Both. I like to hedge my bets when it comes to newborns." He wiggles his fingers at Her. "Come on," he says. "We're already three minutes late."
* * *
Michael rubs circles on Her back while She tries to get Her breathing under control. She hyperventilated a few minutes earlier and passed out on the delivery room floor. Thankfully, no one can see them, so it wasn't too big of a deal, but Michael will never let Her live it down. They're sitting on a bench outside Baby Abigail's room and Michael has magically produced a can of Orange Slice and a straw and God is slowly, but surely, feeling better.
"That was horrible," She says and She can tell without looking that Michael is silently laughing at Her because his circular hand motions take on a decidedly free form. "Stop laughing at Me. It isn't that funny."
He leans forward so She can see him without having to sit up. "You're absolutely right. It isn't funny. It's fucking hilarious."
She scowls at the floor and hopes he can see it. She holds Her hand out for the can of soda and he gives it to Her. There are few things in the universe that make Her feel better than a can of Orange Slice. It's the drink of the Gods - literally. There are cases of it in the cafeteria at the Pearly Gates.
"Who would volunteer to go through that?" She asks, finally sitting up. Michael moves his hand away from Her back and She has to stop herself from whining at the loss of contact. I shall not have unprofessional feelings towards my employees, She chants in Her head. Look where it got Me the first time.
"Unfortunately, it's the only way to get one of those tiny bundles You thought were so adorable twenty minutes ago."
She looks at him. "Tell Me the truth, Mike - did I do that to women?"
He begins to laugh again and She punches his arm, hard. "Ow. Yes, Ellie. You did that to women."
She leans her head back against the wall behind them and frowns. "I am a terrible diety. I don't even remember doing that! I wonder if I can get it reversed..."
Michael shakes his head. "No dice. That was a PGX-007 order. Not even Yahweh himself could get one of those reversed." He steals the can of soda from Her hand and takes a long sip. "I'll bet it was one of those forms Meta dropped in front of You and demanded You sign."
"I never read those forms," She says.
"No kidding." He points over his shoulder to the delivery room. "Probably why Mrs. McConnell is currently pushing something the size of a watermelon out of something the size of a pinhole."
God takes a moment to think about the logistics of it, remembers She, too, is a woman, and moans in sympathy for the heroic Mrs. McConnell. "I'll say it again - I am a terrible, terrible, terrible diety!" She rolls Her head to the side and stares at him. "Planets are so much easier. I went to sleep, woke up, and BAM. Planet."
"That happened to me once," Michael says.
"You woke up and had a planet outside your bedroom window?"
He winks at Her. "Where do you think Saturn came from?"
* * *
Metatron is waiting in Her office with a stack of intake forms, a green pen, and an attitude problem. He doesn't even wait for Her to sit down before he starts talking.
"Where have You been?" he asks and She hopes it's rhetorical. "I've been collecting intake forms from that train crash in Russia since ten this morning. Zeus and Hera have called three times, as have Jupiter and Juno - You know how those four have to do everything equally. Joan gave up around lunchtime and went in search of the French Army to convert. I've been here on my own the whole day and You've been doing who knows what down on Earth with Michael!"
God stares at him for a moment and comes to a decision. She reaches out, knocks his hands, and sends the stack of intake forms flying through the air. The office is covered in a rainfall of paper and in the middle of it all, Meta stands with his mouth open, apparently trying to scream but not sure how it'll be received.
"Meta, darling," God says in Her sweetest tone of voice. Meta nods, still silent. "I've had a tiring day. Go away before I strangle you with your cravat and sell you to the British Museum as a dress-up doll." She cocks Her head to the side and smiles, reaches out and pats the top of his head. "Okay, pumpkin?"
Meta nods and silently leaves Her office. She cleans the mess up with a flick of Her finger and sits down at Her desk, pulls the bottom left drawer all the way out and roots around in it for a minute or two. Her hand finally finds what it's looking for and She pulls out a nearly full bottle of Glenlivit.
Orange Slice may make Her feel better, but Glenlivit makes Her feel spectacular. And as Her holy hoo-ha cringes at the thought of what She witnessed today, She decides that there is absolutely nothing wrong with spectacular.
She pours Herself a glass and turns to Her giant window. "Cheers, moms," She says and clinks the glass against the window. "May they be worth all that trouble."
* PG-98 Forms are the worst. It's sixty pages of bureaucratic hell with lots of check boxes, text fields, and places to initial and sign. And it's all so the newly damned get their due process. God personally thinks that being a dick in one's life is all the due process for an eternity in Hell one needs, but She was overruled by the Council. Hence the PG-98.
** Gabriel and Raphael popped out, perfect and wonderful, and before Yahweh had a chance to change the settings, the mold literally broke into six solid pieces and He had to create Michael from scratch. If nothing else, it explains why Mike is the only of the three Archangels who can grow a beard and who doesn't know all the words to "Bat out of Hell".
*** Babies and planets have a lot in common. One unprotected drunken indiscretion later and BAM. You've got a baby or a planet. And one hell of a hangover.
**** He gets along better with the Parcae, the Roman Fates, but the Moirae, the Greek Fates, serve better cakes with their tea so he usually stops by both offices whenever possible.
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