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  Angel

  Shawn Michel de Montaigne

  Copyright 2015 by Shawn Michel de Montaigne

  Smashwords Edition

  Thank you for supporting me and for respecting my hard work.

  ~~*~~

  The manuscript to

  Angel

  has been time stamped.

  All rights reserved.

  Cover designed by Shawn Michel de Montaigne

  ThePiertoForever.webs.com

  Other Books by Shawn Michel de Montaigne

  Young Adult and Epic Fantasy

  Melody and the Pier to Forever

  Sole Survivor: The Story of Kaza of Theseus

  Melody and the Pier to Forever: Book Two

  Melody and the Pier to Forever: The Adventure Begins …

  Women’s Contemporary Fantasy

  The Candle

  Memoirs

  Reflections of Connie

  Horror

  Slum

  Free-Verse Poetry

  For It All

  The Shadow or the Leaf

  Fractalverse

  Dedicated to one of my all-time favorite TV shows,

  the short-lived (2003--2004) Bryan Fuller masterpiece "Dead Like Me."

  College philosophy programs could teach an entire course

  with that series as a basis, perhaps as a palliative

  for the lifeless, sterile, and convoluted Boolean twistings

  that pass for philosophy today.

  I also want to dedicate this story to my pea,

  whose love and devotion are nothing short of angelic.

  Angel

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter One: Calliel

  Chapter Two: Googled

  Chapter Three: Alone in the Living Room

  Chapter Four: The Day We Met

  Chapter Five: Floyd

  Chapter Six: Intimidated

  Chapter Seven: Terminated

  Chapter Eight: One Visit, Two Visits … Dead

  Chapter Nine: “My Life Is …”

  Chapter Ten: Justice

  Chapter Eleven: The Ace

  Chapter Twelve: Time Stopped

  Chapter Thirteen: Trying On New Boots

  Chapter Fourteen: The Pond

  Chapter Fifteen: The Hanging of Calliel Hiccum

  Chapter Sixteen: Raven Ray

  Chapter Seventeen: Compass

  Epilogue

  Come an' sing me down

  Give my conscience a poundin'

  Come an' shake my ground, Lord

  With the sound of Heaven's houndin'

  --from "Clogger" by 16 Horsepower

  Love, and do what thou wilt.

  --Augustine of Hippo (354 - 430)

  Enter by the narrow gate.

  For the gate is wide and the way is easy that leadeth to suffering,

  and those who go through it are many.

  But the gate is narrow and the way is hard that leadeth to true life,

  and those who find it are few.

  --Jesus of Nazareth (c. 2 BCE - c. CE 33)

  Prologue

  THE CROWD along Fifth Avenue in San Diego, California, did not see him appear. But no one in that shithole town ever sees anything. Assholes. All of them. The whole fucking city.

  I should know. I was one of them—an asshole. Blind, deaf, and goddamn dumb.

  He told me that God doesn’t mind strong or harsh opinions. He shared my opinion of this town and its citizens and its dusty, desolate, corporate, polluted, gang-tagged ugliness. I remember what he said about it. He said cursewords aren't a problem either.

  I sure hope he's right, because I'm about to die.

  The little girl—Carrie—smiled at me, and then unbuckled her seatbelt and left to rejoin her guardian. The FASTEN SEATBELTS sign had just gone off. I said good-bye to her. And then I knew my time was up.

  I almost wasn't surprised when the plane exploded.

  BOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!—and the whole front of it peeled back over me and was gone. There was an ear-piercing burst of sound— shrieks of mortal horror, violently decompressing air, metal twisting and snapping, the hot, blinding roar of the fuel tanks ... and then only the steady sound of wind howling in my ears. I'm falling. I'm strapped to my seat and I'm falling.

  Slow motion. I’m flipping and twisting in mid-air. The orange lights of the city and Tijuana to the south spin around me, as does the sliver of a new moon rising over the Laguna Mountains. It reflects in the giant blackness following it. The Pacific. That’s where gravity is taking me. I’ll die when I smash down into it.

  How did I survive the explosion? The force of the wind should've ripped my head from my shoulders. The tons of metal flying back—how did it miss me? How can I be conscious?

  The scientist in me can't believe it. The probabilities ...

  Oh, fuck the probabilities. For years I wore them like blinders. I'm falling; I'm conscious; and I'm about to die. I'm not even all that frightened about it.

  The explosion. Just after it the vision came—Calliel appearing suddenly in the crowd walking up Fifth Avenue. There was no flash of light with his appearance, no sounds of angelic trumpets blaring, no choir of celebration. He was just there between the lady with the poodle and the skinny bearded man with the Bob Marley beanie hanging precariously on his huge 'fro. Did I just laugh? I believe I actually did! Laughing—at the moment of my death! Calculate that probability, motherfucker!

  It's a miracle. It’s a proper goddamn miracle.

  All of this is.

  I think it finally sank in, for good and forever, when Carrie was talking to me. Everything Calliel had said was right.

  Carrie. She's safe. Infinitely safe. There's not a single atom of doubt in me that she is. It was quick for her. Painless. She'll get another shot.

  Slow motion. The spinning sea is coming to kill me. The vision of Calliel is inviting me back. The dizzy lights of the city are spreading like glittering garbage over the cresting black wave of the horizon.

  Will they find my body? I don't believe I give a shit if they do.

  It's a miracle—all of it.

  The vision is calling. I think as my final act on this Earth, I’ll let it take me.

  Chapter One

  Calliel

  ~~*~~

  FIFTH AVENUE, San Diego. I was there now, and I couldn't help but laugh. For Calliel ... he's just there, occupying space where a nanosecond earlier there was nothing but space!

  No one on that fucking sidewalk notices! No one looks his way, no one blinks in surprise, no one rubs their eyes, dumbfounded—nothing!

  He's surrounded by people on all sides! How can no one not have noticed that?

  Then again, I wouldn't have noticed either. Not then. I was just like these people. I found myself almost as fascinated by them as him. I reminded myself that I was witnessing the past, and stopped trying to interact with it. It was dead and gone—just like I was about to be.

  Of that, I knew it—death—was coming: me hurtling down into the dark sea, and that it was only moments away, in the present. But this wasn't memory I was experiencing. I never experienced this in the past—Calliel's appearance. I was having a vision, one that gently pushed me to trust it and let it engulf me fully.

  "I want to be there when it comes. When death comes," I said. "I want to be there for that last moment. I want to see myself splash down into the sea."

  I couldn't believe myself. I couldn't believe I actually wanted to be there, falling in blackness, to feel that fatal, final burst of pain. I briefly entertained the notion that my faculties had been taken over (by Calliel? by God?), and that I was no longer myself, or sane. I took a moment to remind myself: Calliel said I would feel no pain when death came. I clung to that and went back
to the notion that I was insane.

  But I knew I wasn’t. If anything, here and now, at the very end, I was more myself than I had ever been at any other point in my life.

  "I want to be there when it comes. When death comes." That's what I had said. And I felt in answer a very gentle, almost grandfatherly reply:

  Yes.

  I felt it. And it wasn't just a yes. What it was I can't describe, and don't care to try. In any case I was swallowed—no, cradled—by the vision, and I trusted.

  The sensation of falling, of flipping and twisting, of cold howling wind dissipated, disappeared.

  ~~*~~

  He was dressed in a dark brown longcoat and cowboy boots and carried himself like a hero. The drizzle falling on him didn't seem to affect him one way or the other. He marched up to the intersection, where he waited with a gathering crowd. The WALK sign flashed, and he crossed. At the other side a man loudly accosting passersby for change approached and said, "Dollar?"

  Calliel smiled. "What would a dollar buy you?"

  "That's none of your fucking business!" yelled the man, who stalked away.

  Calliel followed him. "Wait! Hold up!"

  The man stopped and wheeled about, glaring.

  "You're not homeless," said Calliel.

  "What the fuck you want with me, man?"

  "You're living with your sister and haven't found work in three years."

  "Now how the fuck would you know that?" demanded the beggar, who drew up close, his eyes crazy.

  "You're an artist—a poet."

  The man pulled in even closer. "I don't know who the fuck you are, but I'll cut you and let you bleed out all over this sidewalk, you hear me? I don't give a fuck if I go back into the system, fuck you!"

  Calliel didn't seem intimidated. (Why would he be?) He reached inside his pocket and pulled out a clean, crisp twenty dollar bill.

  He didn't take it out of his wallet. I don't know if he even had a wallet. He pulled the cash out of his pocket just as if he'd wished it there, or knew in advance that he'd be facing this man.

  "Tell you what," he said. "Take this twenty. But don't spend it on food or rent or booze. Spend it in there—"

  He motioned with his head at the used record and CD store just a couple doors away.

  The man looked, turned back around. "Why the fuck would I do that? I need to eat. And my sister is about to kick my black ass to the curb if I don't give her rent!"

  "Take this twenty and spend it in there. Get a CD. Take it home and listen to it. Then write a poem—the first poem that comes to mind. Work on it till it’s finished. I don't care if it takes you all night or the rest of the week. Do it with all the love that's in your heart, and I promise you all your worldly needs will be taken care of, your sister's too."

  The man stared at him as though at a lunatic. He backed up a step. I yelled, "Do it! Do it, you dumb motherfucker! C'mon! Take it! Take it!"

  Of course, no one could hear me. Because I wasn't really there.

  Calliel extended his hand with the twenty in it. "Take this twenty, write that poem, and then come back here with it and have the first person you see at the cash register read it. I promise you this twenty dollar bill will come back to you ten thousand times over."

  I'm not sure the man actually heard the end of Calliel's declaration, because he snatched the twenty out of his hand before he finished speaking and hurried out of sight, shouting, "You're a crazy motherfucker!"

  "Do it!" I repeated. "Do it, you ... god-damn!"

  Being an angel is a high-stress occupation, I decided right there. It must be like social work or teaching (which was my chosen career), with just as much rejection and burn-out. I wondered if God had to deal with frazzled cherubs coming to Him and saying, "I can't do this anymore. Those asshole humans don't listen!"

  But Calliel didn't seem fazed by the encounter. He watched the man disappear into the crowd and then kept walking. At the trolley stop he sat. The southbound Blue Line pulled up minutes later; he boarded it and sat again.

  He seemed to know where he was going, and why wouldn't he? The trolley lurched forward and he visibly relaxed.

  I watched him from my vantage point over the empty seat across the aisle from him. I floated like a helium balloon. Or—it felt like floating. In any case, I didn't have a body. I was more like an unseen point of consciousness, one that was attached to him. Where he went I went.

  I used to ride this trolley five days a week. I wondered how many times other "points of consciousness" were there in times past, and if they saw me, and if so what they thought of me, if I'd made an impression on them. What would they have seen?

  I didn't want to think about it anymore, because I knew, and compared to the angel sitting there, gazing out, I had to have looked pathetic, hopeless. Because I had been.

  Oh, don't get me wrong. I wasn't a gangster, and I didn't dress like a bum. I had spent my life as a researcher and teacher, and dressed as such: usually a nondescript sweater over a long-sleeved shirt, usually white, and brown slacks, usually corduroy. I washed every day and smelled clean. I was a citizen, harmless and harmlessly attired.

  And being a citizen means having a body that merely takes up space and is in no way remarkable. It means anonymity and conformity and dressing appropriately in order to maximize both. It means doing what all citizens are supposed to do, which is to simply and quietly wait for death.

  For most of the latter half of my life I was a great citizen.

  Calliel wasn't dressed as a businessman, nor was he dressed like a tourist. And he certainly didn't look like the riff-raff everywhere around him: the gangsters with pants halfway down their asses, the hobos and bums, or the rest—of which I had been a card-carrying member—in their forgotten and forgettable get-ups.

  Calliel was no citizen, and his clothes, and the way he wore them, showed it.

  The trolley stopped, and on it stepped a woman with wild, frazzled brown hair and deep wrinkles under a heavily made-up face. She spied him and sat next to him as the doors closed and the trolley got on its way.

  I wondered what would happen if someone sat in the empty seat I invisibly hovered over. Would I be inside the person? Would I feel what they feel, hear their thoughts? I wished someone would come and sit here so I could find out. But as luck would have it, no one did.

  "Have you heard the Word of God?" asked the frazzled woman.

  Calliel glanced at her. "What Word would that be?"

  "The Word!" she cried, happy at the chance to preach. "The Word!"

  "The Bible," said Calliel. "Is that what you're referring to?"

  " 'For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believeth in Him shall not perish but haveth eternal life.' That Word!"

  "God has only one son?" he asked, puzzled.

  "One and only one," said the woman solemnly.

  He nodded contemplatively. “No daughters?"

  "Only a Son," said the woman with a trace of irritation in her voice.

  "But aren't we all children of God?"

  "Of course ... of course we are," said the woman with more irritation.

  "But if God had one son and no daughters, how is that possible?"

  She held up, exasperated, then just pretended not to have heard the question.

  "Have you acknowledged Jesus Christ as your Lord and Sav—"

  "Your husband drank himself to death five years ago," he said.

  During my life, I was accosted by these religious whackjobs probably twice a month. You didn't make conversation with them or look even remotely in their direction. They'd try to make me talk or look at them, and I refused. Eventually they’d get up and leave. Not all the time, but enough to tell me it was an effective strategy.

  Never had I seen one of them speechless like this woman was now.

  "You remember him fondly," Calliel went on, "but you really shouldn't. Carl was an asshole, which is what you thought of him when he was alive. He is no more."

&nb
sp; He patted her hand, which rested on her knee.

  "Neither belief nor the Bible nor going to church will get you into Heaven, Kendra. Want to get into Heaven? Have the courage to be a quiltmaker. That's what you've always wanted to be ever since you were sixteen and your grandmother showed you how. That's what you were put on Earth to be—"

  And that’s all the advice he got out.

  Kendra lit up like a July Fourth fireworks display that goes up all at once. It isn’t worth recalling everything she shrieked save the repeated (and I do mean repeated) charge of, "STALKER! YOU'RE A STALKER! YOU'VE BEEN FOLLOWING ME AROUND! STALKER! STALKER!"

  Calliel sat unfazed. He gazed at the woman, his countenance a mix of pity and annoyance.

  The trolley got to the next stop, and it was there that police boarded and hauled her off in handcuffs. She had lost her mind, or what was left of it. "DEVIL! YOU'RE THE DEVIL! SATAN! SATAN! HE'S SATAN!"

  The trolley's doors closed, muting her shrieks, and the train lurched forward once again. Calliel gave short smiles to folks who turned to look and identify "Satan." One woman couldn't keep from staring at him; for her trouble he held up both index fingers to his temples and gave a playful growl, baring his teeth. She turned away, horrified. He chuckled.

  Ten minutes later, at one of the stops in National City, an MTS security guard boarded. Like a kennel full of Pavlov's dogs, the entire car pulled out their trolley passes or ticket stubs. All but Calliel.

  The guard got to him, grunted lifelessly, "Ticket or pass, please.”

  Calliel gazed up at him, then produced a pass from the same pocket that he had the twenty dollar bill.

  The security guard took it and swiped it in his handheld verifier-thingy. He stared at the thingy's screen for a long time, his eyes growing steadily wider, then goggled at him in amazement.

  "Really?" he said breathlessly, and absentmindedly handed the card back.

  "Really," said Calliel, pocketing it. "Tomorrow morning, eight o’ clock, Qualcomm. Can you make it?"

  "Of course," said the guard, whose face now fairly glowed. "Thank you ... Thank you so much ..."