Friday, 6 November 2015

Something a little different for all you red-necks.

Mike Watson and the Hall of the Lesser Fates
By Andrea McDonald

Getting around in Heaven takes a little getting used to.  The Greater Angels can fly of course.  But Lesser Angels, like me, well, we have to walk.  It’s easy really.  I guess. You put your foot out and the path appears under it.  Look back and there’s just empty sky.  But it can make you a little dizzy.

Running, now that was really scary at first, what with the speed your feet fly.  There’s always that worry that the mechanics of Heaven just won’t be fast enough to get that path down before your foot lands, and dropping through space is not my idea of fun.  Especially as it was a failed parachute that put me here. But I had to learn to run early on.  Due to the fact that I was always late.  Punctuality was the last lesson I was to master before coming here, but the last time I died, one of the Angels let me sneak on up. Figured I’d never get it, and what the hell, being late is not really a mortal sin, now is it.  That’s what he said, but I think he just had to make his quota.

Anyway, I’m running because I’m due at The Hall of the Lesser Fates.  I’m to monitor the final hour of a fellow named Mike Watson.

The Lesser Fates is code for The Little Guys.  You know, the ordinary people.  Not the Ghandis or the Dalai Lamas of the world; they belong in the Hall of the Greater Fates where the Greater Angels look out for them.  Because their lives matter to tons of people, and maybe, just maybe, they might have the power to change the world down there.  The Joe Silvermans, the Mary Dillons and the Ram Ramkumars just don’t rank up there, because their lives are ordinary.  Sure, they might get their fifteen minutes of fame, but that’s it.  And so they get angels like me assigned to them. 

Now, I like Mike.  Others might not, but I do.  He was born to be a skinny dude, with a tiny head full of red-neck ideas, and I’ve got to say, some of the things his brain comes up with are pretty radical.  He dreamed up camouflaged toilet paper.  You know, so the stuff that comes out of a human wouldn’t be as obvious as it is on white toilet paper.  Pretty smart.  And he developed a toilet bowl plunger that is shaped like a gun and fires air with a bang when you pull the trigger.  Unblocks those plugged up toilets like the dickens.  And fun.  I’ve never seen so many men line up to do the dirty deed.  Or undo the dirty deed, to be more precise.

But Mike just doesn’t seem to get the lessons we set out for him this go-round.  I mean, his one big lesson was to learn to think of others before himself.  Seems simple.  But so far he hasn’t got it.  The other things, like patience, tolerance- well, we gave up on his getting those a long time ago.  It would be a miracle if he learned them in his last hour, but hey, I’m an optimist.

I’m here now at the Hall of the Lesser Fates. I pushed aside the mist.  The chairs that floated in the room were empty.  Hmmm.  Maybe I’m so late the other angels left.  Or maybe no one is coming because Mike is just not worth the effort.  I have to admit the thought of determining his fate without opposition is kind of thrilling.  We don’t often get to be headstrong up here.  Cooperation is the name of the game.

But then the mist divided.  Meseo entered.  In this realm of love, he’s the one I love the least, if you get my drift. I swear the powers-that-be named him Meseo because he’s a total mess-up, but they say otherwise. 

He went straight to business.  “I hope this won’t take long. I’ve got a hot new angel waiting for me on Cloud Nine. Who’ve we got?” he asked.

“Fellow named Mike Watson.  I’ve been keeping an eye on him.  Here’s his bio.”  I threw the information to him mentally.  Saves time.

“Hmmm.” Meseo said.  “Seems like a loser.”

“Well,” I said, “he’s had some interesting ideas over the years. He’s not all bad.”

“Shot his dog because it got in his way.”

“To be fair, the dog chased the sheep rather than herding them.”

“Did he ever try to teach the dog to herd?”

“Well, no.  He’s not very patient.”

“Okay, well he failed that test.  I see he was prejudiced, and we manipulated things so those he couldn’t tolerate became his neighbours. Next door, in fact.  How’d that go?  Never mind.  I just read your thoughts.  He threatened to kill them if they so much as stepped on his land.”

“Like I said, Mike’s not very tolerant.”

“How many chances did he have to learn his lessons?” Meseo asked, frowning.

“Let’s see, there was the time his only son came out of the closet.  Hasn’t talked to him since.  And his wife became ill and couldn’t manage to keep the house going anymore.”

“Did he offer to hire help?”

“No, he divorced her.”

“He’s a lost cause.”

“Well, hang on.  He has an hour left.  Let’s see what he’s up to,” I said.  “Maybe we can throw something at him that’ll challenge him.  Maybe he’ll come through after all.”

Meseo and I used our super angel vision to find Mike down there on earth.  “Got him,” I said.  Can you see him? He’s in his pickup truck at the corner of Eldridge Avenue and Main Street.”

“Where’s he heading in such a hurry?”

“Hang on- zeroing in on his thoughts- really excited- going out to the range to shoot with a couple of buddies.”

Meseo frowned again.  “I’m surprised he has buddies.”

I concentrated- got the picture from his brain.  “Antonio Vandez. . . imprisoned for drug dealing.  And ‘Dead Dog Douggie’. . . local drunk, but harmless enough.”

“He’s really keen,” Meseo said, “judging by the speed he’s going.  Who have we got in the area who’s reached the end of their time?  We can throw that somebody in his way.  He’ll plough into them.  Bammo!  Kill two with one stone.  Our work will be done and I can get back to my- pleasures.”

“Hang on, hang on,” I said.  “Surely he deserves one more chance.  He doesn’t know it’s his last chance, so it’ll be a true test.”

“What have you got in mind?”

“His father, Gerald Watson- how old is he now?”

Meseo scanned for the data.  “Seventy six.”

“In poor health?”

“No.  Quite healthy in fact, but we can change that-“

“How long before his term is up?”

“Three years, four weeks, five days and two hundred minutes, but we can shorten it-“

I felt his vibrations- Gerald Watson’s- and they were pure and bright.  It wouldn’t be fair to sacrifice him to save his son.  He’d done his best to raise him well.  “No,” I said.  “But we can use him anyway.”

“What are you thinking?”

I smiled.  “Let’s give him a heart attack.  Does Mike have his cell-phone with him?”

Meseo concentrated.  “Yeah.”

“Good.  Here goes.”  I put my fist to my heart and squeezed hard while concentrating on Gerald’s energy.  I felt it go from strong and white to tight and a queer shade of burgundy.  The man fell on the sidewalk about four kilometers from his son’s position en route to the shooting range.

We watched.  A crowd gathered.  One man stooped to help.

“Bonus points for that one.  Remind me to advise his angel,” I said.

Another man rummaged in his pocket, but pulling them out empty, he gazed imploringly around the crowd.  “He’s asking if anyone has aspirin,” Meseo pointed out.  “He’s got some from the woman in the blue suit.  He’s telling Gerald to chew them.”

“Good,” I said.  “I wouldn’t want Gerald to die.  The Man Upstairs would hear about it, wouldn’t he Meseo, and have something to say about that. You almost cost me my wings.”

“You misjudge me.  Hey, if I was a rat, I wouldn’t be up here, now would I? In fact I’m making notes of the good deeds…”

I let it go.  Heaven and all that. 

“That one-“ I concentrated hard to locate her energy signature and her assigned name- “Ellen Fraubaum- she’s phoning 911.”

It wasn’t long before the paramedics arrived with their sirens screaming.  They strapped Gerald onto a gurney and lifted him into the ambulance.

“But, it’s not working,” Meseo said.  “No one has asked him for an emergency contact.  No one has called the son.”

I concentrated hard.  I wrote the words In case of emergency, call my son, Mike Watson @ 725-3611, on a slip of paper and made it fall out of Gerald’s pocket.  No one noticed.  

“Sh-t, I mean, golly,” I said, “help me get someone to notice.  That woman, Ellen Fraubaum, concentrate on her with me!”

We watched as she turned to leave, then stopped, and looking down, scooped up the scrap of paper.  She pulled out her cell phone and dialed.

“Whew, that was a close one.”

“Yeah well, I don’t know why I bothered to do that,” Meseo said.  “That Mike character isn’t going to change.  He’s a lost cause.”

Which is another reason why Meseo is the one angel I love the least.  “Come on,” I said, “everybody deserves another chance.”

Down below us Mike’s phone rang.  His radio was thumping out tunes so loud his windows were shaking and he was singing like a has-been country star.  Just before I conspired to shut down the radio signal, he looked at the phone laying there on the seat.  Hung his hands on the wheel and ignored it. 

“See? Told you.  Lost cause.  Let’s see who can crash into him.”

“No, wait.  He has ten more minutes.”

I took over the phone signal.  Turned up the volume and just let it ring and ring.  Finally Mike swore and took the call.

“Is this Mike Watson?” Ellen asked.

“Yeah.  Who wants to know?”

“My name is Ellen Fraubaum.  I’m sorry to tell you this, but your father has just had a heart attack.”

We watched Mike curse and slap the steering wheel.  He looked over at his rifle case.

“Mr. Watson? Did you hear what I said? Your father has had a heart attack.  He’s being taken to Ellesmere Memorial Hospital.”

“Yeah, yeah.  I heard you the first time.”  He hung up.  Kept driving.  In fact he sped up.

Meseo rolled his eyes.  “Told you.  His buddy Antonio is just as bad.  He’s driving to the range from the opposite direction.  I’ll just make him speed up too.  They can meet at the corner of Main and Eldon.  They’ll take each other out.  Boxed and bowed.”

I sighed.  I hated to lose a soul.  Worse, I hated to lose to Meseo.  Just because I’m up here doesn’t make me a saint.

I was about to close the clouds on the scene below when I got a curious buzz from Mike’s energy flow.  I looked down.  He was squealing the tires of his truck in a U-turn.  Laying rubber down Main Street.  Then I heard his voice through his cell phone.

“Antonio? Yeah.  Look.  I can’t make it to the range today. Yeah.  My old man.  He’s had a heart attack.  I got to go to the hospital.  Yeah.  Call Dead Dog for me, will ya?  Let him know.  Yeah.  Hope so. Thanks man.  I’ll call you later and let you know.”

I grinned as Meseo stood up, shrugged, and walked out into the mist. 

Boxed and bowed?  Nah. 

Betted and bested.

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