In-Between Days

by Nicholas Desjardins

  3

  Michael was sitting at his desk, rigid and statue-like, gazing at the entryway as if God himself might walk through the door at any moment and plop down to fill the chair in front of him. When he saw it was me, he smiled wide, rolling up his sleeves and kicking his feet up on his desk.

  “Owennnnn! Alright, I was dying for a smoke.”

  I pulled the pack of cigarettes from my pocket and flung them at his waiting hand. Like a well-oiled machine, he caught them, packed his smokes, ripped open the cellophane wrap, and placed one between his chapped lips. With a snap of his fingers, the dry brown tobacco at the tip turned into a bright red cherry. One deep hit left the whole room with the unmistakable stench that I’d come to associate him with.

  “Lucy taught me that, y’know? Long time ago, before all the bullshit happened.”

  I would be impressed if I hadn’t seen it a thousand times before, though I’d have eaten that cigarette before I even contemplated telling him that. This had been our routine for years. Michael promised to try and expedite my sentence if I played cigarette courier, muttering about some “bullshit law” barring angels from purchasing certain vices in “lesser planes of existence.”

  “I’m surprised he lets you call him Lucy,” I murmured, my mind elsewhere.

  “Yeah well, he ain’t got much choice all the way down there, does he?” Mike laughed at his own non-joke, his suspenders taut, struggling to contain the Archangel’s deep belly laugh until it fizzled out into a smoker’s cough. He reached into his top drawer and removed a golden platter, placing it on his desk. The thing was gaudy and ornate, ancient rulers dancing around the edges, surrounded by some archaic script—Aramaic, I guessed. Michael wasted no time ashing his cigarette into it, smothering and suffocating the little golden kings of yore. Divine power at its finest. He took a long, deep pull before looking me up and down, exhaling his smoke with a big smile.

  “I’m telling you, kid, the smokes you got down here kick the shit out of what we’ve got upstairs.” He pulled the cigarette back and examined it, turning it over in his fingers before resting it again between his lips. “We don’t have none of the bad shit in ‘em up there. But it’s the bad shit that makes ‘em worthwhile, you know what I mean?” He laughed, a slight cough sneaking its way in between ha-ha’s.

  “So?”

  “So, sound more excited, kiddo,” he interrupted, sounding more Mafioso than messenger of God. “You’re bustin’ out today, remember? You get to mosey on down to that train station, let ‘em punch your card, and by the end of the night, you can be sitting up in the clouds drinking Gin Rickeys with Marilyn Monroe and Jayne Mansfield. And kid, lemme tell you, that is where you want to be. There’s lots of beautiful things to see up there, but those are a sight you’ll never forget.”

  I looked off, ignoring the crude breast gesture he made with his hands, and studying the office that hadn’t changed a bit since I’d first been there. The walls were lined with photographs, all amateurishly framed, of Michael with various celebrities—sitting poolside with Elvis Presley, handing a book to Martin Luther King Jr., smoking a cigar with Winston Churchill.

  “Right about that . . .” I fidgeted with the lighter inside my pocket, flicking the lid open and closed, the muffled clicks timing up surprisingly well with the rapid beating in my chest as my eyes darted around the room. In the pictures, he was missing his wings, and I always wondered just when they’d been taken, and who’d been behind the camera lens.

  “Yeah! About that, did you see the tits on the girl before you? I’m tellin’ you Owen, she’ll be causing car wrecks while she’s here, and when traffic moves at a crawl, you know that’s a mighty impressive feat.”

  He held his hands out in front of his chest, like before, and I did my best to focus on the trail of smoke coming from between his pointer and middle fingers. Blood pumped into my fists as I clenched them around my knees. My scars throbbed and my thoughts raced. What gave him the right? What would happen if you punched an angel? Shit, what was I doing? This was Michael. The Archangel. Calm down! I leaned forward, letting my fingers relax.

  “Mike. What if I’m not ready yet?” I spat the words onto his desk like spoiled milk. I didn’t have to try to be convincing; my leg was shaking fast enough for the heel of my boot to pound out a breakbeat. Eye contact was impossible during this act of rebellion, even in this familiar place I only found a modicum of comfort. The tops of his filing cabinets were coated with the same thick layer of dust as day one. Strangely, his bookshelf was absolutely spotless, everything organized and tucked away. It seemed out of place. This was an office put together without any knowledge of interior design, more film-noir than feng shui form.

  “Not ready for what?” Michael raised his eyebrows. He lowered his feet to the floor, set his cigarette on the rim of the antique platter, and brought his elbows to the edge of the desk. Then he pressed his fingertips together and stared. I couldn’t tell if this was an attempt to size me up or to make me piss myself. I did my best to control my bladder. With a snap of his fingers, the filing cabinet behind me sprang open. My personal file flew high over my head and onto the desk between us. His eyes shot down to the plain manila packet, my name written in red in the right-hand corner. Clearing his throat, he brought his gaze back to me and repeated himself.

  “Not ready for what, kid?”

  “To go,” I blurted, pressing my heel down hard into the floor to stop the restless shaking. Even after twelve years of biweekly meetings and a friendly rapport, he was still capable of intimidation with a simple look and change of tone. Breathing became a herculean task, my lungs screaming and straining to get their fill. Michael pinched his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his wide nose, closing his eyes.

  “It’s just jitters,” he said. “You get used to this place, and then suddenly you’re afraid to leave. Happens to the best of ‘em. Buck up, champ. You did your time, you learned your lesson. You’re not half as impulsive as you used to be.”

  “No way, Mike,” I said. “I’m not ready to go.”

  “Twelve years, kid. You’ve been here twelve years,” he sighed. “You ain’t sliced yourself open again, you never once tried to make a deal with the devil. You only tried the one time to get out of here. You don’t get in fights anymore. It took you a little time, but now you’re practically a model citizen. You’re reformed, bud. Two weeks ago, I couldn’t get you to shut the hell up about getting out of here, and now you want to stay?”

  “I just don’t think I’ve made up for everything yet. Oh! And I almost got into a fight on the bus,” I lied.

  “Key word, kid. Almost.” He looked at me, stupefied, and took a long drag off his cigarette, turning nearly a quarter of it to ash. His free hand flipped through the file, stopping on the last page: STATEMENT OF RELEASE.

  His swooping signature was scrawled at the bottom.

  “Kid, I already signed the papers. You’re in the system. Can you imagine the amount of work I’d have to do to keep you here now? Not a chance. You’re goin’.”

  I looked at him, defeated. My stomach was falling away, as if I hadn’t eaten for weeks and a giant had wrapped his hands around it to squeeze the empty contents out. All I could do was lean back in my seat and sigh, resigning to myself to the promised Paradise.

  “Her name was Mia, by the way.” Smirking, he leaned back too, resting his shined loafers once more on the corner of his desk. He pulled another cigarette from the pack, lighting it with another snap as it touched his lips.

  “Who?”

  “Thin Lizzy shirt—great band by the way—nice tits. Walked in here before you. Pale skin, glassy blue eyes, blonde hair. Kind of smelled like she just walked out of the ocean. You’ve been sitting there this entire time with her on your mind, except for that brief moment you’s thinkin’ about punching me in the face.” He stretched out his wings, his smirk now a smug smile, knocking a potted plant off kilter in the process.

  “W–w–wait what!? The girl who wa
s in here before me!? I hardly even noticed her.”

  “Oh yeah, that girl you hardly noticed. The same one you asked to meet you at the bowling alley tonight. Gonna be a hard engagement to keep with you in a passenger car on your way to the Pearly Gates, don’t you think?”

  “Fuck,” I sighed. “How do you even know that?”

  “Really, kid?” He laughed, sucking down smoke. “Do I look like a total schmuck? I’m not some joker sittin’ across from you here. I knew what you were gonna say before you said it.” He stubbed his cigarette out on some ancient Babylonian’s face and pulled another from the pack. “Lighter?”

  “Are you sure?” I reached into my front pocket.

  “Just kiddin’,” he said, cigarette clamped in the side of his mouth, his finger pointed at me like a pistol. With a quick snap, the smoke began to trail again. “Love doin’ that,” he chuckle-coughed.

  “O, lemme tell you, I think this is a piss-poor decision. You’re acting on impulse. There’s nothing good here. Can’t get a good beer, can’t watch a damn movie all the way through, can’t even get an honest slice of pizza. You realize it’s so much better in Paradise, right? There are plenty of girls up there too. Cleopatra’s up there. You’re a pretty alright looking kid. Get rid of those scars and maybe you can woo yourself a Pharaoh.”

  I wasn’t worried about wooing a Pharaoh. I didn’t care if Michael thought I had a chance with Catherine the Great, Rita Hayworth, or Audrey Hepburn. I’d seen the pictures; I’d read the books. These were women I knew, even though we’d never met. I had met Mia, yet I knew nothing about her. I had to be at that bowling alley tonight. I was empty and starving and convinced she was the only way to get my fill.

  “I know this is a last-minute decision. And it’s clearly not something I’ve even remotely thought through. But give me a couple of days. I’m not asking for some kind of permanent residence here. I know that’d be insanity. But just a few days. Let me get to know her. Please?”

  Michael shrugged, ashing again into the golden platter. Lifting his head to look me in the eyes, he inhaled deeply.

  “I get it kid. She’s the drink that slurred your speech. ‘Course you can stay. I knew you were gonna ask before you walked in.” He exhaled. “I’ll fudge the paperwork. Say you had a brief relapse. That’ll buy you two weeks. Any longer ‘n that and we’re gonna have to work out some real shady shit that’ll probably burn both our asses.”

  “So what do I do?” I tried to contain my excitement.

  “You get the fuck out of my office for starters. You find your happy ass a way to work, and you tell Jonas that you aren’t leaving yet. You figure out what you’re doing, and you have a game plan when you walk back in here in two weeks.”

  “I can do that!” My thoughts were in a manic rush of plans and ideas.

  “And the next time you’re sitting in that chair, I expect you to tell me how she stacks up to Marilyn.” He coughed his way into a laugh.

  As he pointed toward the door, it swung open, muffling the string of curse words I flung in his direction. He leaned forward, his gut pulling at his white button-up, the buttons stressing and straining to keep all that holy body fat in, and extended his hand to me. Our hands met in firm, fervent agreement. I’d be back in two weeks, and even now I was wondering what I’d have to say, what trials I’d have to endure to stay longer. In the grand scheme of things, I was getting ahead of myself. Just that morning I’d leapt out of bed at the thought of a long train ride, and plush seats in a carriage with an eventual stop at the Pearly Gates. Now I was putting liberation on hold.

  As our hands parted, a searing pain shot up the ridges on my arms. The worst part was how familiar it felt. I couldn’t look down. I knew the jagged peaks had split open like some agonizing earthquake on the surface of my skin, and I tilted my head back, closing my eyes to hold in the tears. My mouth was locked half-agape in an effort not to scream out, and Michael looked at me ruefully. It was the first time I’d seen his tough-guy shtick waver.

  “Sorry kid. I gotta have something to put on the paperwork. They’ll close back up. It’ll be fine the minute you walk out the door.”

  4

  I walked all the way to Sullivan Street rather than face the bus driver, his grotesque rope-burn ascot, and the curious eyes of my fellow passengers. I needed time to collect my thoughts, or at least that’s what I told myself. I wanted to stare at the train through the chain-link fence. If it hadn’t been for impulse, I might be on the other side. I rubbed at my forearms the entire time, grateful that the jagged peaks had returned to normal.

  The station looked almost as regal as the courthouse, and was nearly as busy. It was the only way in and out of the In-Between, and the train never seemed to be at rest for long. It would arrive in the mornings, storming in through great clouds of steam, whistling to let the angels know fresh meat was coming. The recently departed who hadn’t managed to make it upstairs or down below stepped off onto the gray, splintered wood of the platform. They’d be bum-rushed by winged men with important-looking hats and name tags, who were eager to hustle the new arrivals into buses headed toward the courthouse.

  In the evening, the train would sit with its doors open. If you looked close enough, you could see color peeking out through the graywash—beautiful crimson with gold accents, Charon painted in an elegant font on the boiler. It hadn’t seemed so beautiful coming in, but with the thought of leaving in my future, it was nothing short of magnificent. Those lucky souls who’d done their time would crowd in through the turnstiles to get primo seating on the overnight trip up above, trampling over one another and any unlucky divine presence that might be in the way.

  ***

  My first year here, I jumped the fence. I couldn’t stand the great big dismal for one more miserable day. I’d planned it out perfectly. I ran straight through traffic like I was in a bad action movie, crossing the pavement with reckless abandon and total commitment. With a great leap, I ascended the fence, monkeying up like it was second nature, tumbling down the other side with as much grace as a hood-rat could muster. Standing. Staring. Fifty yards from freedom. I broke into a dead sprint. This was not sport, this was salvation, and every stride hit hard enough to pack the gravel beneath my boots. They might as well have given me the gold medal in escape. I’d have crawled across naked if I had to.

  Two angels wearing constable helmets and nasty looks managed to grab me, and within an hour, I was sitting in Michael’s office. It was late in the evening, and he made it clear that he’d rather have every single feather slowly plucked from his wings while listening to disco than be sitting in his office after hours. He mentioned something about a cocktail party with some beat poets, and though I wanted to pump him for information, I sat in child-like silence as he scolded me.

  “Irresponsible. Immature. Infantile. We’re giving you a second chance here! To be a better person, to learn what you missed out there in the living world. Instead, you get all churlish and try to take the easy way out.” He snarled at my recalcitrance. “You’re too damn impulsive, how do you not get that? I gave you all the tools, all the rules.” He pulled a cigarette out of his breast pocket and lit it before continuing to admonish me. “I practically gave your little punk ass written instructions. Curb your impulses, think before you act, do your time, get out of here.”

  He’d seemed much thinner then, his hair slicked back, his white shirt well-tailored. All I could do was nod as he rattled on about the chance I was being given, and cringe when he threatened to send me straight down into the abyss if I was caught trying to sneak out again. Then he went in for an awkward hug, patting me on the back. It was confusing, and I was unsure where to place my hands. I didn’t want to touch his wings, certain they’d be at least as greasy as his hair.

  “I like you, kid,” he said. “You got spunk.” It was a nice sentiment, but I felt even more helpless, especially when I found out I’d added another two years to my stay. One year of this place had turned my stomach, as if it
were lined with ulcers, already reminding me far too much of what I’d left behind. If this was what I was condemned to, the experience wasn’t worth it. Ten years was enough to inspire a mighty, crushing sense of dread; another two was extra weight on top. When I got out of here—if I got out of here—I’d be paper-thin.

  Eleven years had passed since then, but the urge to escape never did. Perhaps it was inherent to everyone stuck In-Between. You couldn’t look at the train without an insatiable feeling of longing. They say everything gets better, but that’s a bitter pill to swallow when you’re wallowing in shit. When you can see the proof—look at that train and know that Paradise, whatever it might be, is only a journey down the tracks—you start to believe, if only a little. The tiniest shred of hope can carry you through any darkness; it was the loss of hope that got me here.

  ***

  I dipped along the uneven path of the sidewalk, hopping over gashes in the pavement that were never going to be fixed. Sullivan Street was close to the tracks; you could always hear the train, even through constant traffic congestion. The impatient drivers would honk, yelling and cursing, never getting anywhere, but they did nothing to drown out the sound of the steam-whistle signaling new arrivals, or the heartbreaking chug-a-chug of the train leaving without you.

  Jonas had named the bowling alley “The Depot” because of the proximity. Even if they didn’t care to bowl a few frames, people stopped in for a last drink before they departed—one last taste of beer that even the hardest alcoholic in the middle of an Oktoberfest bender wouldn’t touch.

  The neon sign flickered and fizzled; it showed a miniature facsimile of Charon dragging the bowling alley’s name behind it as it hurtled toward a pyramid of pins. In its better days, the sign was a sight to see, but today the wheels remained unlit and the train still. The weathered wooden door swung inward with a gentle push, and I stepped into the closest thing I had to a home.