Angels Don't Cry Read online



  ANGELS DON'T CRY

  by

  Gabriel Archer & Jack Canaan

  Copyright©2012 MetaFic, Inc.

  All rights reserved.

  It's strange, God created only two luminaries, the Sun and the Moon - I know, I was there to throw the light switch on - but here I find myself awash in the light of a third. Times Square is perhaps the brightest place on earth. I glance at my crossword puzzle. What's a seven letter word for a city dedicated to materialism and sensual pleasure? With my pencil I fill in "BABYLON." Or were they looking for New York? Oh well, the Y is in the same place anyway.

  I love it here. The stock quotes run on a digital ticker tape, proper red letters and numbers - the EKG of the economy. Fifty-foot women on billboards offer people products they don't need. Cute, memorable logos on Jumbotrons substitute brand for quality. This place is where vulgarity and tackiness battle creativity. The fluorescent lights of the city pulsate and flare, drilling, drilling deeper and deeper into minds. Photoorgasmic delights for the eye.

  It's warm here tonight though the time is approaching 3 A.M. Car-headlights stream by like tracer bullets, adding yellow streaks to the blue and white and orange that live in this place. There's a strong scent of garbage and exhaust; I suck in as much of it as I can. Screens that say "Sony" under them advertise a new reality series. "What happens when you put four prostitutes in a convent?" the caption asks, followed by a scene where an ethnically diverse quartet of scantly clad ladies bang on heavy gates set in a gothic looking wall. "House of God, Home of Sin." The first part is all shining in immaculate white while the second half is engulfed in flames. Very cute. "Watch the drama unfold next Monday on Fox." You bet your sweet corporate stocks I will. Last time I saw blasphemy like this was Rome under Nero. God is gonna have a fit when he hears about this.

  I love Times Square, I'm drawn to it like a moth to a flame. It's the lack of genitalia. It forces a divine being to seek more intellectual stimulants. That's why I have three hobbies in my eternal life: crossword puzzles, music, and people.

  The first two are accommodated easily enough. I have a rolled-up magazine of crossword puzzles in one hand and a pencil in the other. I also have an iPod in my back pocket holding close to ten thousand tracks, all set on 'shuffle.' Since angels are omnilingual, I have music from all over the world on it. Russian bards are followed by French chanson, 2Pac's urban lyrics by the angelic chants of Buddhist monks, Bach and pop and rock and doo wop, Metallica and Romanian gypsies and evangelical and chamber music. A cornucopia of emotion condensed into electronic bits. We angels love music.

  Humans are highly inarticulate beings. Their inner worlds remain hidden because they don't know how to express themselves properly. But music can be charged with feeling. For me it's a map of human emotional evolution, a glance into the holy of holies – the human heart.

  My third hobby is a little harder to accommodate. The Bible is right when it says that angels didn't want God to create humans. Well, obviously we were afraid that he'd get preoccupied with them and forget all about us. Obviously we were jealous of the twinkle in his eyes when he set out his plans for Adam and Eve. But here's a little inside information that's not in any of the holy books. As it turns out, God was disappointed pretty quickly by his new creations, while we fell in love. It's a 'good girls like bad boys' type of thing. We're angels, we're all pristine and unblemished. By definition we can't be bad. But humans - - hell, they can do whatever they want. Their imperfections drove us wild. We got hooked on the unpredictability of free will. Vicarious choice. Vicarious love. Vicarious evil.

  That's why I come here. For me, this place is the navel of the world, the arena of human complexities. I myself try to be as inconspicuous as possible. I've got this metrosexual vibe going. A vibrant silk shirt tucked into extremely tight leather pants (I use a roll of quarters to compensate for my inherent physiological limitations). I've got these shiny black shoes with a slight heel and a pair of Gucci wraparound sunglasses. I feel so cool. The wind ruffles my hair and disperses the smoke from my cigarette. The dim, gray cloud rises above me as it dances with the gust, diffusing the bright rays of the screens and monitors and light bulbs. My ears are filled with Queen's Princes of the Universe. The cherry of my cig flares as I tug on it. My mouth fills with the soothing, bitter smoke. I just wish I had a pair of lungs to actually gulp it down.

  Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture bullies through Freddi Mercury's dulcet voice. I pull an earpiece out and look at my cell phone. Michael's calling me. We angels usually eschew each other's company - more interested in mingling with people. I silence the ringtone and push the bud of the headphones back into my ear. Nothing can drag me away from here now. I do wonder what he wants, though.

  A young girl separates herself from the shadows and offers me her provocative services. I glance at the crossword puzzle. Five letters for a woman who engages in sexual acts for money? That's easy. "WHORE." Then I turn and give her my best photogenic smile. She's stricken; she offers to do me for free. Yeah, I have that effect on people, angelic beauty and all. I wish I could, sweetie. But we angels are androgynous, and there's no way around it. Hell, look at Lucifer, he's been trying to grow a penis for two millennia now, and nothing.

  But if I can't have her physically, maybe I can spiritually. I look at her; I mean, really look at her. Beyond the hoop earrings and fake eyelashes, beyond the knee-high boots and the track marks on her arms, through the blush she uses to cover up the beatings her pimp gives her. My gaze slices right into her soul. And then -- seven letters for overwhelming manifestation of ecstasy? "RAPTURE." I did not expect to find what I did in a New York hooker. Lisa fell in love, and I mean real love, with some guy. That guy's her pimp now. He just used her affection to get her to turn tricks. Her brother is in a wheelchair, paralyzed in a gang shootout. But the most unexpected feature is her unadulterated faith in God and her unvarnished spirituality. Every time some horny customer huffs and puffs over her, dripping sweat and cum in unison, she closes her eyes and chokes away the tears, and the only relief from the guilt is the thought of redemption. Mary Magdalene was a whore too once, Lisa consoles herself. How utterly delicious, how adorably human.

  I take her soul. Well, not really. I just kinda take a spiritual photograph of it. Boy, will the others be impressed with this one. See, that's what we do, we collect and trade images of souls. They're our trading cards and this one's a collectable. Lisa's soul is perhaps my best find of the last decade. I might even be able to trade her for one of Raphael's 'Early Martyrs of Christendom' that he always flaunts in front of us.

  The cell rings again, vibrating and flashing, and urgently grumbling 1812. It's Mike again. I don't have a good feeling about this. I don't pick up. Tonight has already brought so much joy and I'm not going to spoil it by getting sucked into some years-long divine managerial dispute.

  Satisfied, grinning as if I just helped Moses up the Mountain of Sinai, I continue my trek. The huge center Jumbotron is advertising some new television event, and this one's a little more serious than hookers and nuns. In two days time there will be the televised launch of the first interstellar manned ship. Eight people have volunteered to be cryogenically frozen and shot to Alpha Centauri, a trip that is estimated to take no fewer than three hundred years. I am less than optimistic about the success of the mission. Wayward asteroids, poor stellar cartography, and computer malfunctions all but guarantee the ship becoming a flotsam tomb in the middle of cosmos, somewhere on the crossroads of nothing.

  The ringing of my cell interrupts my further contemplations. I sigh. Yeah, Mike again. Goddamn it. Third time – this must be important. I press the flashing "talk" button that fits in so well with the rest of the multicolored craziness of the City
.

  "'Sup, Mike?" I answer, forcing down irritation.

  "Yeah, Gabe, you better get up here." His voice is demure, kinda like it was for a century after Sodom and Gomorrah. Man, what a place that was to hang out. Sometimes we think God destroyed the cities just to punish us for enjoying them too much.

  "What's going on?"

  "He's pissed."

  "Golden Calf pissed or 'I-can't-believe-they-ate-the-apple!' pissed?" I ask, already sprouting wings and taking flight.

  "What?" His voice is distracted, like he's reading something. "Oh. No. It's worse. He's - - look, just get over here."

  "Be right there." I sigh, reluctantly leaving behind the lights and noises of New York. And this night promised so much.