by C. F. Waller
When I arrive at the cart, the line consists of only two customers. A man wearing a long black overcoat and a young woman in pink jogging tights and a matching knit cap. A reddish aurora glows around the man as he struggles to add cream to the styrofoam cup, a newspaper pinned under one arm. So, this one’s going down. In contrast, the woman wears a blueish tinge as she rubs her hands and waits her turn.
“Nice day,” I offer.
She nods, looking somewhat immune to gentlemen offering small talk.
“Trust me Miss. You’re going to have a wonderful day.”
“You a fortune teller?” she sighs, taking her coffee and blowing over the top.
“Of a sort,” I hedge, watching the man shuffle off down the sidewalk. “You’re certainly going to have a better day than he is.”
“Good to know,” she forces a smile and disappears into the sparse crowd heading towards the fountain in the circle.
“Take it on faith,” I mutter, watching her go.
I order a coffee, black, no sugar, then am assaulted by a bird. It swoops overhead, nearly missing the umbrella over the coffee cart. The grey-haired proprietor doesn’t seem to notice, but smiles when I wave off change and step away, eyes on the sky. I dislike birds. A bunch of flying vermin if you ask me.
I sip, burning my tongue at first, as I make my way to the huge fountain in the middle of the roundy-round at Columbus Circle. The fountain, at least twenty yards across, fills the circle. A half-dozen commuters rest on a three-foot-high retaining wall around the fountain’s edge. Granite benches line the outside of the walkway, reminding me of Stonehenge.
I find a quiet spot and sit, legs crossed watching the passersby. There are far more red auras than blue. I nod, trying to get the attention of the latter, but most are looking at their phones and plowing past.
“Stop talking to them,” a deep voice puffs into my ear.
A dirty grey pigeon has dropped onto the smooth granite next to me, one blue eye staring.
“I was expecting a dove.”
“Very funny Gabriel,” it squawks, the voice sounding far too deep and clear for the tiny bird. “He wants to know if everything is going as planned.”
“He’ll be down here this afternoon. He can ask me in person.”
“This is supposed to be over long before the horns blare.”
“Trumpets, the trumpets blare.
“Instrument choice aside, it’s supposed to be over.”
“It will be,” I promise; then look back down 8th Avenue at a line of eateries. “You should be careful in that pigeon disguise. There are quite a few Chinese take-out joints in the city.”
“Again, you’re very funny,” the bird chirps. “So I can report back that all is on schedule?”
“Relax Brother. Two arriving by train and two by air,” I sigh, then look at my watch. “Plane just touched down.”
“That’s only four.”
“Miss Ben-Ahron is on her way,” I reply, sipping my coffee. “She’ll be here just in the nick of time.”
“Make sure she is,” the bird warns, leaping into the air and hovering just to my right.
“Run along, before I’m tempted to call animal control. I require no babysitting. All will be done as the Son requires.”
The bird flaps it’s wings frantically and soars into the cloudless sky. I sip on my coffee and return my gaze to the unknowing crowd. By dinner time some of you will be in heaven and the rest standing in the universe’s longest cue down below.
A scruffy looking homeless man pushes a cart across the street. An electric car slams on its brakes and honks. After a moment to compose himself, the man shoves his cart forward, a blue aurora surrounding it. The car, wearing a red tinge, peels past, one arm out the window showing the middle finger.
“Sometimes they make this too bloody easy.”
Chapter Two
Jennifer Faust
JFK International Airport
“Dad, it’s this way,” I point to a black and yellow checked staircase leading into the terminal. “We have to go through customs.”
I receive a nod, then he follows along, stopping to lower the handle on his rolling suitcase before scaling the stairs. At the top, a sliding door whooshes open revealing a hall running twenty yards to the customs area. We wait for several minutes in a cue, and then toss our bags onto a table.
“Arron Faust,” the customs agent reads aloud as he glances back and forth from the passport to my father. “German citizen, here on business?”
“Yes.”
“This says you’ll be here just today?” he mutters, looking confused. “Your visa is only for one day?”
Dad nods, not revealing that by tomorrow neither of us plans on being in New York or anywhere else on earth. No one needs a visa after the Rapture.
“There’s no mention of your return flight?” the Customs Agent demands.
“I don’t have one yet.”
“Not likely to get one at the last minute,” he grumbles. “You will have to wait here while I get my supervisor.”
“You can go,” a second agent cuts in, frowning at his co-worker. “Stop trying to be agent of the month.”
He allows my father to pass, then hauls my bag onto the table,
“Jennifer Faust,” he reads. “Are you only here for one day as well?”
“As you can see from my passport, I am an American citizen.”
“You don’t need to pass through customs then.”
“We are travelling together,” I shrug.
“It doesn’t matter,” the second agent cuts in, pulling my bag off the table and dropping it to the floor. “Off you go miss.”
Leaving the annoyed customs agent behind, we drag our bags through the terminal in silence. Near the street exit, we stop to buy two bottles of water from a newsstand. A wide variety of knick-knacks and snacks line the shelves. Tee shirts with New York City skylines and sports team logos hang on tall racks. I step outside and look up, reading the neon sign.
“I heart New York,” I mutter as my father joins me in the wide hallway. “Gifts for every occasion.”
“This whole city used to be a sewer, but it’s much cleaner now.”
“Never been here,” I sigh, twisting off the cap and taking a drink. “Guess it doesn’t matter.”
“It will matter to the people left behind.”
“You’re still arguing a pre-trib rapture?” I suggest, pointing my water bottle at him. “If so, why pack a bag?”
“In case we fail.”
“But if we succeed, the whole gang’s in heaven by dinner time.”
“And everyone else is stuck here to suffer for seven years,” he points outs. “Let’s try to avoid that if we can.”
“What if it’s post-trib? What if we hold up our end of the Agreement, then have to ride out Hell on earth with everyone else?”
“Thus, why I packed a bag,” he smiles.
“A clean pair of socks will be little comfort,” I chuckle, starting towards the line of glass doors leading to the street. “We would be burned with fire from the sky, infested by insects and decimated by plague.”
“You have been reading the Bible?”
“No, I saw that in a movie.”
“It’s not post-trib,” he declares confidently, pushing the door open, then waiting for me to go through. “Trust your father on this.”
I follow, then watch while he puts our name on the list for a cab. Two scantily dressed women wander down the line of travelers, stopping to whisper in several men’s ears. Women of the night working in broad daylight. What has the world come to?
“If we pass the test, then we go up, no matter how great our sins?” I mutter, watching the ladies pass behind us.
“That’s the Agreement.”
“Then you should take advantage of it,” I snicker, nodding my head at the prostitutes. “I won’t tell Mom.”
“Speak of the devil,” he groans, his mood turning serious. “You talk to her lately?”
/>
“Nope, when did you see her last?”
“Must be five years, this Christmas.”
“What did she look like?” I inquire.
“Good,” he mutters, gazing off to my left. “Older, but still good.”
“So, she’s not immortal. Resurrected twice, but still ageing?”
“If you count the time below ground, she’s a hundred and ten years old,” he points out, stepping back when the hookers circle back on the line. “She still looks awfully young for her age.”
“She suggested time runs slower in Hell inferring her seventy years was closer to several thousand.”
“Your mother says all sorts of things.”
“Be nice,” I warn. “No one likes a sore loser.”
I regret this before the words hit the air. My father loved my mother, but after she came back from the dead the first time, the feeling wasn’t mutual. Once she dealt with the fallen angel, she abandoned us, leaving him heartbroken. I can be insensitive at times, but I attribute this to frustration. No matter our relation, she is a most difficult woman to like. His face wears a sullen frown, eyes droopy, due to my comment.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he sighs, waving back at the valet who’s calling our name. “She’s got her own problems.”
The cab driver holds the door open for us. Dad lets me go first, then climbs in. He instructs the driver to take us to Columbus Circle, then swipes his card in the reader bolted to the wire screen divider. We pull away from the curb, the hum of the electric motor loud in the backseat.
“You think she will show?” I ask.
“I think she needs the forgiveness more than any of us,” he nods, staring out the side window. “She’ll be there.”
Rahnee Ben-Ahron
Bayonne, New Jersey
“Come on Rahnee,” his deep voice groans from the bedroom. “Just tell me why?”
“It doesn’t matter why. I have to go.”
I can hear the rustling as he fights his way out from under the covers. If he’s as hung over as me, it might be awhile. I pull my hair back and force it into a short ponytail. The grey at the roots looks a mess. How did I get this old?
“You can’t just leave?” he complains, still stumbling about in the bedroom.
I flop on the couch and pull on my boots. I leave them untied. rolling the cuffs of my jeans over the top. My leather jacket hangs over a chair in the dining room. I rifle the pockets, finding no lighter and a pack of cigarettes holding only two smokes. It’s an hour drive into Manhattan and two won’t be enough.
“Are you even listening to me?” he bellows, emerging from the bedroom, but hanging off the doorframe.
“Trying really hard not to,” I mutter, putting my arms in the jacket and flipping it over my head.
“Dammit Rahnee,” he complains. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“You wouldn’t believe me.”
Alex is shirtless, his caramel skin tight over his muscular frame. He wears a ripped pair of jeans covered in stains of unknown origin. A silver crucifix, the size of a cell phone, dangles from a thick chain. He tries to hug me, but I side step him and shuffle into the kitchen. In the sink, along with the previous weeks unwashed dishes, sits my travel mug. I pour the thick muck collected inside out and give it a haphazard rinse. I have to dig under Corel ware plates covered in marinara sauce to find the lid. The glass coffee pot is half full of yesterday’s brew and I pluck up the handle and toss it in the microwave, setting the timer for one minute.
“Well, you’re not going until we hash this out,” he shrugs, leaning on the door and crossing his arms.
Placing a cigarette in the corner of my mouth, I watch the green number on the timer count down. Across the apartment Alex stares back, looking much tougher than he actually is. I don’t know if it’s the tattoo’s or the dull look in his green eyes, but people often perceive him as menacing. That’s a laugh.
We have only been together five months, hardly a relationship tested by time. He’s half my age, although my age can’t really be measured in his terms. I might be close to fifty, but I have had a few do overs.
I only moved in here to stay close to New York. I turn my wrist over and pull up the cuff of my jacket. Glowing on the underside of my arm are yellow numerals. It reads 1:46.35 and is counting down. It’s not under the skin and not on top, it just is. Gabriel put it there three years ago when I agreed to his offer. He didn’t want me to be late.
“I’m serious, “Alex barks. “I’m not playing.”
“Yeah,” I nod. “I got it the first time.”
The buzzer sounds and I pull the mug down and start to press the cover on. My temples throb and I pause, feeling faint. Behind me on the kitchen table is a mess of ashtrays and beer bottles. A deck of playing cards is strewn on the floor, abandoned in a drunken haze. I have to lean over the table to reach the nearly full fifth of Jack Daniels. The cap eludes me for a moment, then I find it under a pizza crust.
“Just tell me what I did?”
“It’s not you, it’s me,” I whisper under my breath.
I raise the bottle and take a long swig, then cough and put my arm across my mouth to cover the gag reflex. I set the bottle just to the right of my coffee mug and lean over the counter feeling dizzy.
“We got anymore smokes?” I cough, still looking at the counter.
“I might,” he croons. “Just talk to me, and I’ll see what I can do.”
I start to put the lid on my travel mug, then pause. This is the beginning of a really long day. I tip the mug over into the sink and get my fingers around the neck of the bottle. This is a straight whiskey sort of day.
“Cigarettes?” I ask again, clearing my throat.
“If you stay.”
“At least tell me you have a light?”
“You know it doll,” he nods, digging in his jeans pocket. “I’ll light you up.”
I swerve around the living room, hooking my car keys out of a bowl on an end table. A copper colored pair of Aviator sunglasses lies on the dirty shag carpet in front of the closet. I pluck them up and place them on the top of my head like an old man reading the newspaper.
Alex flicks his Zippo and I walk over, leaning forward as he lights the cigarette in my mouth. It’s wet from hanging there too long. I have to suck hard to get it to light.
“Can we talk about this now,” he sighs. “Like adults?”
“Hold this,” I order, but force a smile and hand him the bottle.
“Yeah, right babe,” he grins, unscrewing the cap and taking a drink. “Let’s get this party started.”
Pulling the closet door open, I roust about, tossing an empty guitar case and a gym bag full of concert tee shirts onto the floor. In the back of the closet is a shotgun wrapped in clear plastic. The sight of it gives me a reflexive stabbing pain in my abdomen. Some things you can’t forget.
“What cha got there?” he demands. “Tennis rackets or something?”
I untie the string holding the plastic, letting it slide to the floor.
“Whoa,” he stutters. “I didn’t know that was in there.”
“I know babe,” I flash a fake smile. “Here, this is for you.”
I take the half burned cigarette out of my mouth and place it between his lips, then snatch the whisky bottle by the neck. I motion for him to open the door, but he shakes his head and exhales smoke to the right.
“This is how it’s gonna be then?” I protest.
He nods and I smile, puckering my lips. When he leans towards me, I whack his privates with the butt of the shotgun, then back up a step as he drops to his knees. He turns on his side, revealing an open pack of smokes poking out of his front jeans pocket.
“Perfect,” I whisper, taking them.
I pull the door open, but it catches on his bare feet and I have to step over him to exit. I get a few steps down the hall, before he drags himself upright, hanging onto the door frame.
“What am I
supposed to do now?” he whines.
“You should go to church and confess,” I suggest, pulling the glasses down over my eyes. “You have a little over an hour to repent for your sins.”
“You’re crazy,” he yells. “Fine go, but don’t come back. I’ll be putting your crap out for the garbage man.”
I keep walking, working my way down a set of switchback stairs from the third floor. When I get to the bottom, a cigarette butt misses me by inches, thrown from above.
“You can go straight to hell,” he shouts.
“I’m working on it,” I sigh, pushing out the glass doors into the parking lot.
Edward Grey
Grand Central Station, New York City
Annie stumbles ahead of me in the dimly lit underground rail station. Throngs of people push past us on either side. I walk with one hand on her shoulder from behind. I had been in front of her, but she feared someone would try to steal her bag off her shoulder. It’s a twenty-yard push to the stairs, and then we come out into a wide open hall.
“Oh Edward, it’s beautiful,” she mutters, eyes scanning the ceiling a hundred feet overhead.
“It’s nearly two hundred years old.”
“Not as old as you,” she elbows me, then pulls the strap of her bag up on her shoulder. “Do we have time to eat?”
“Hungry again?”
“Starved.”
Poor Annie survived being starved to death, check that, she didn’t survive it. After coming back, with Jennifer’s help, she’s become a voracious eater. I follow her through the crowd as she sniffs the air coming from a food cart, her dress swooshing along the ground. She’s full figured and beautiful to me, even though the emaciated image of her appearance when we first met haunts me.
“Sorry,” she turns, watching me struggle along with my cane and briefcase. “I’ll slow down.
“We should stick together. This can be a dangerous city.”
I convince her to wait for a sit down meal, even though the Philly cheesesteaks at the food cart do look appetizing. We stroll arm-in-arm down the sidewalk enjoying the sunshine. It’s chilly, say sixty, but a blue cloudless canvas hangs overhead. People pass us on the street, but only a few smile or nod. These city people are a busy lot. I wonder how many will be following us up?