Tears began to form at the corners of her eyes, or at least that's what it felt like. She could vaguely feel the warmth in her eyes but there was nothing on her face. Her knees weakened and she quietly wept while kneeling on the floor.
Suddenly, a blindingly-bright other-worldly light appeared outside the window. It easily overpowered the distant street lamp, illuminating the entire attic with its glow. It was like looking directly at the sun. The window where she had been watching the two boys play earlier that day opened and the light came through, letting the fierce snowstorm in with it.
Standing in the direct center of the room was a tall, skinny and incredibly gorgeous woman. The woman had long straight maroon-coloured hair that fell all the way down to her lower back and big, brown eyes. She had astonishingly pale-white skin, almost the shade of milk and seemed to glow brighter than the aura that engulfed her whole body. She was attired in a long white robe with shiny golden trim which was so reflective that it was difficult to look at with the naked eye.
The girl was amazed and stared silently at the almost-alien woman standing before her. She'd never seen anyone so beautiful in all her life. After what seemed like an eternal silence, the woman finally spoke. “Are you Abigail White?” She asked while pressing the screen of a small white tablet with a bright neon apple logo on its back.
“Y-yes..” Abigail replied meekly, still quite shocked at what was taking place.
“Then you get to come with me. Isn't that awesome?!”
Abigail thought for a moment, then replied, “My mama didn't teach me much before she died, but I know better than to go off with strangers because no matter how pretty they might look on the outside on the inside you never know.”
“Oh, you don't get it, do you?” The lady asked with a slight smile. “My name is Elizabeth, and I was chosen to be your guide to a place of eternal happiness.”
“McDonalds?” The girl cried out excitedly.
The woman sighed and said, “Look kid, there's no easy way to explain this. I am an angel. I've been sent to bring you to Heaven. You'll like it there. There's no school and countless children from every corner of the Earth who will be your friends. You'll learn all the secrets of the universe.”
“I thought you just said there was no school in Heaven,” Abigail said suspiciously.
The lady sighed and looked exasperated before speaking again. “You don't have to learn anything about the universe. Just like on Earth there are lots of ignorant, happy people in Heaven.”
“Well... if you really are an angel, they why don't you have my name on a scroll or something?
“Oh, we all use iPads now, I'm afraid,” the lady said in an almost embarrassed tone of voice.
Abigail cocked her head in confusion, she had never heard of an iPad.
“Well, the Kingdom of Heaven tries to keep up with the times. Although I admit it does seem rather silly, doesn't it? Especially since the only wardrobe selection up there are these robes. They don't even have blue jeans in Heaven. Can you believe that?”
Abigail was confused. Is this what angels were really like? Despite the young woman's majestic and otherworldly appearance, she had a demeanor not unlike that of many of the teenage girls she'd seen and overheard at the mall.
The young woman who called herself an angel knelt down and reached out her hand to the little girl. “Now then, Miss White, just grab my hand and I will take you to paradise.”
Abigail stared at the woman's hand doubtfully. Her mind was a jumble of conflicting thoughts. On one hand, she would have all the food, friends, and security she could ever wish for, but what good would it be going to Heaven when she still had big plans for her future? She had actually gotten quite fond of living off the refuse of society, and glanced over at the trash bags filled with empty aluminum cans she'd spent weeks collecting and the backpack of treasures she'd found. Her things meant very much to her.
“No ma'am, thanks for the offer, but I just can't go yet. I've still got quite a lot of living to do. Tell God or whoever is up there that I'll gladly come after I am ready, but it's not my time yet. Sorry.”
Elizabeth was shocked, no one, NO ONE, in the short time that she'd been an angel had ever rejected her invitation.
“Kid, listen to me, you froze to death in an abandoned house during a blizzard. It could be weeks, heck, even months before someone finds your body. It's not like you've got a choice anyway, Abigail, you are dead whether you like it or not and you're going to Heaven.”
“I am NOT dead!” Abigail yelled angrily, turning away from the young woman. At that moment, the girl suddenly saw something awful lying on the dirty old couch she'd been sleeping on. She screamed in horror and ran over to the small still form of her body. She tried to shake it awake, but her hand merely passed through the frozen little girl. “No! No, it can't be,” she said sobbing. This can't be the end. It shouldn't be the end- I'm not ready to die yet.”
“Aww, I'm sorry you had to find out this way. Look, this isn't a pretty sight now is it? Let's go so we don't have to see it anymore. What do you sa-” She stopped abruptly and stared. There was something in the little girl's eyes- tears. “No, no! This is bad. This is terrible!” Elizabeth shrieked.
“I know! Look at me, so pathetic, I hate being dead!”
“No! Not that, you're crying.”
“Of course I am. I cried when my mama died. I cried when my daddy ran off, and now I'm cryin' because I died!”
“Well, the thing is that I can't take anyone who's absolutely sure that they don't want to go. It's one of the Angelic Rights, 'Thy divine light may not shine upon one who doth not wish to ascend to the Kingdom of Heaven',” Elizabeth said, almost as if she was reading it off a chalkboard.
“Oh, is that so? So if I start crying harder and harder, the likelier it is I'll be taken to Heaven anyway?”
“No! It doesn't work that way, it's impossible for an angel to abandon an assigned client,” The angel said in an annoyed tone. “You can't live as a spirit without extraordinary circumstances either. So you either come with me voluntarily, or I have to do something drastic.”
“Like what?” Abigail asked with a sly scoff.
“Well, in the rare case of something like this happening, I have to grant the deceased one favor. It's one of the oldest rules in the book.”
The young girl's face lit up. She was absolutely certain what her wish would be. She took a deep breath, but was cut off by Elizabeth. “And no wishing to be brought back to life. You've heard of a zombie, haven't you?”
Dang! She's good, Abigail realized in annoyance.
The little girl looked around the decrepit room and spotted the slender piece of paper from the fortune cookie and asked, “Could you please read it for me?”
The angel smiled as the slip of paper floated up to her hand. She looked at the words then laughed in a way that made Abigail feel as if the end of the world wasn't upon her for the first time since awakening from the odd dream.
“It says 'Good things are coming in the immediate future,” The angel said once more holding out her hand to the little girl's ghost.
“Well, I guess Heaven would beat cold rice and greasy Chinese food,” Abigail said reaching up to take the angel's hand in hers.
“Oh kid, it's like a food court at the mall only it stretches out for miles. Name a cuisine and they got it. And the best part is that everything is absolutely FREE.”
“Do they have ice cream?”
As the room with the corpse of a little girl dimmed and finally faded into darkness Elizabeth laughed and said, “Every flavor imaginable and the best part is that it won't make you fat.”
###
Chef's Surprise
The human brain is a hunk of meat typically located snugly in the cradle or prison of a fragile container made of bone which is insulated with layers of skin and typically topped off with a collection of hair follicles. Inside this relatively tiny enclosed space all the ideas that have lead to a rich human history o
f novels, paintings, murders, songs, dreams, wars, and a plethora of other imaginative ideas were born.
Why some of these hunks of meat slowly simmering in their own juices over a lifetime lean toward a healthy, productive, moral, decent banquet of life and others fester and molder into what can charitably be compared to a often salmonella tainted 'meal' at one of the world's countless infamous roadside hamburger stands (that no health inspectors ever seem to visit) is a question perhaps best left for priests, psychologists, philosophers... or perhaps a humble detective.
Is it nature or nurture? Is the meat nestled in the human skull always fresh and untainted at its creation? Or is there something lurking like a mental form of botulism from the outset in certain cases? Perhaps the right set of ingredients is required to bring forth people as disturbed and varied as Ted Bundy, Adolph Hitler, or Osama Bin Laden?
What the exhausted middle-aged chef knew for certain was that such deep philosophic thoughts were currently supremely unimportant as the man standing before him, who was half his age and somehow had been appointed as the restaurant manager at Ramone's, continued ranting about a very dissatisfied guest. The chef continued nodding even as he envisioned several creative ways to put an end to the annoying young man.
“Quit nodding, and pay attention. Mr. Hickey described what you prepared as tasting like, and I quote... “an incinerated, not blackened, rack of horse shit, not lamb.”
The chef idly wondered how Mr. Hickey knew precisely what horse shit blackened or otherwise tasted like, but let the thought pass as he adopted an arms crossed over his chest posture and continued to listen.
“He was here with his wife, Maresela, to celebrate their twentieth wedding anniversary. Hickey is one of our most loyal customers and influential businessmen in New Orleans. When he says something about your food being unfit for human consumption what do you think that means?”
“That he's pissed off at having been married to a fat old cow of a woman for twenty years and needs someone to bitch at who won't divorce him and take half his money?” The chef almost said, but decided to let the young pip squeak of a manager continue to vent his meaningless venom.
“Hickey is very influential with the city elders here in New Orleans, and if he starts spouting off about horse shit food at this restaurant to his wealthy friends it would be a nightmare- an absolute nightmare.” The manager wasn't exactly yelling but his voice was dripping in threatening tones and having him only inches away from the chef's face was considerably more than unpleasant. The young manager's overpowering cologne might have been expensive but its valiant struggle to overcome his body odor had failed utterly.
The chef stared at the young man's mouth, watching in fascination as his yellowed and stained teeth exposed themselves as he continued rambling in a semi-coherent way about how many competent chefs would be more than happy to take his job at half the salary here in The Big Easy. The speech was getting boring and the manager's breath reeked even worse than his body odor.
Something felt odd to the chef. He'd been angry countless times before over his fifty years of life on earth, but something about the situation plus the aromas of foul sweat and even nastier breath seemed to increase the heat from simmer to boil deep inside his brain. Something about the whole infuriating situation made his stomach feel as if it were curdling and slowly the boiling sensation felt more like someone had set his mind on broil.
The frequency of intense headaches and desires to commit acts of intense violence, sometimes over the littlest of things, had been growing over the last few months. He'd even consulted with his doctor and finally had a series of tests performed just that day, before coming in to work. But the chef's doctor told him the results would not be deciphered and interpreted for at least a week.
The scent of strong peppermints trying to disguise the foul breath and the young man's close proximity mixed with the general foulness radiating from the manager was making coherent thought more difficult by the second. The chubby chef tried stepping back to get fresher air from somewhere, but the young manager followed. Slowly he was backed into the corner between the walk in freezer and wash sinks. It was an impossible thing but the scent of his burning brain cells was the only thing the chef could think of as he found himself wishing to strangle the manager, and perhaps toss him into the open fire pit oven that took up a good portion of the kitchen..
From behind the manager, who was still angrily spouting words that may have had meaning, the chef saw the kid washing the dishes trying desperately not to laugh out loud as he continued scrubbing something hidden from view under the bubbles and foam covered water.
Paco the dishwasher had often been a pain in the ass about doing his job. And on more than one occasion he’d managed to piss off the chef in a wide variety of ways.
Paco was still what the chef considered a kid; maybe in his late twenties, covered in tattoos and piercings, and muscular but still just a kid. His tattoos were made while he’d been in prison. The kid often bragged that he'd only served ten months on a five year sentence. What exactly he'd done was something the chef neither knew, nor cared to learn. He only knew Paco seemed to be immensely enjoying the manager's pointless tirade.
Grinning hugely, Paco leaned over the sink so the chef could see him and produced from the soapy water a long sharp butcher’s knife. He gestured it toward the manager's back as if he wanted to stab him while raising his middle finger and sticking out his tongue at the red faced chef.
The chef was snapped back to paying attention to the manager as he finished up his long tirade with the words that caused his mind to cease functioning properly. “I'm sorry, James, but I'm going to have to let you go. Get your things out of the locker and-”
What he meant to say next was something that no one would ever know. With a shocking quickness the shiny butcher’s knife was yanked from Paco's hand, swiftly lifted and brought down forcefully into the manager's neck. The thick blade blocked the young man's entire throat as the chef giggled and the intense shooting pains in his brain subsided. Sprays of blood shot out against the white tiled wall, dribbled into the wash sink, and coated the chef's right hand that was still firmly clutching the knife handle.
The manager's eyes opened impossibly wide as Paco stood in stunned shock and confused disbelief.
Just the three of them were in the back corner of the busy kitchen as the rest of the staff continued busily preparing meals for the upscale famished patrons of Ramone's, in the adjoining dining room. The manager reached up with one hand and felt the tip of the butcher’s knife protruding out of one side of his neck. It was as if he needed some form of final confirmation that he'd just been stabbed before he could accept the unexpected bad news that he was dead. He swayed unsteadily while his hands opened and closed as if he were uncertain what he should grab for in his last mortal moments.
He swayed even more as the chef released the handle and spoke softly in French. “Jesuis de sole.” (I'm sorry) Then shook his head and continued in English with a heavy Cajun accent. “I understand and appreciate our little talk.”
The chef finished speaking at the same moment the manager's legs collapsed and he landed head first into the foamy sink. As his legs spasmed briefly and his leather shoes tapped an energetic but odd sort of tune on the stone floor tiles, Paco finally snapped out of his shock.
“Easy Amigo, be cool. I... uh don't want no trouble,” he said, backing away from the chef. Unwilling to turn his back even briefly, he stumbled over a cart filled with dirty plates and cutlery that hadn't yet been washed. He might have caught his balance had the floor not been so wet with soap water and a fresh slick sheen of blood, but instead he only managed one word before tumbling backwards- “Shit!”
When his head struck the old iron pipe that went from the sink to a drain in the floor there was a hollow thunk sound that the chef was uncertain of. Did the hollow sound emanate from the pipe or from the dishwasher's head?
The alarming noise caused by the dozens of broken p
lates summoned a sizable number of the kitchen staff to investigate.
“Someone hurry and call the police! Paco just stabbed the manager!” The chef shouted without looking at the newcomers. Instead, he reached into the soap water filled sink and yanked the manager's head and torso out. He slid the butcher’s knife out of his neck and set it aside, before gingerly laying the manager's body onto the tiled floor.
Kneeling beside the soap foam covered corpse's chest, he shouted, “Someone get some towels! Maybe we can save him!”
As the remaining kitchen staff went to call for help and fetch towels, the head chef spit into the suds filled staring yet unseeing eyes of the manager when no one could witness it.
*****
The rest of the police had seemingly gone back to their regular duties after the ambulance crew took the unconscious Paco to the hospital, and the crew from the New Orleans morgue removed the manager's corpse. The rest of the employees also left for the evening when the restaurant was ordered closed for the evening.
Only one inspector remained in the kitchen with the chef. He was taking a series of digital photographs from virtually every angle around the dish washing station and occasionally muttering under his breath. “How does this thing work?” and “Well, that certainly doesn't look right,” were the only things the chef had managed to understand in all the time they'd spent together.
The chef was seated on a tall stool located near the almost antique looking time clock bolted to the wall near the rear door of the kitchen. Outwardly he seemed calm and relatively relaxed, but the constant ticking noise and hum emanating from the clock seemed to grow inexplicably louder with each passing second. Every now and again he'd shake his head sadly and sneak a peek over at the nearby emergency exit. He hadn't been asked too many questions, but after the manager’s body was taken away to the morgue time seemed to have stopped its forward progression. If not for the steady monotonous hum and ticking from the clock he would have sworn that time actually had somehow ceased altogether.