I’m writing this for Him more than I’m writing it for me. See, there’s been a lot of shit talking recently when it comes to the will of God. I’d like to ask you all to just shut up for a bit and read what I have to say because this is about the closest you will get to Him. We, all of us, both cherubim and seraphim, know the arguments, hear your speculations; we hear them up here all the time, I mean it isn’t like you guys ever shut up down on Earth.
Yeah, I’m an angel, don’t stress too much about it.
I’ve been up here for a bit less than one thousand years now and I know the celestial plane pretty well. I was a soldier on Earth during the First Crusade or the Invasion as we children of the Seljuks called it.
Again with the surprises, right?
See, up here God could care less about your allegiances. I was at the Siege of Antioch manning the walls when the first ballista began to rain fire and brimstone. I don’t remember the stone that hit me, but Gabriel was gracious enough to inform me at the gate that there was very little left of me to be identified by my family. See, for God, as long as you’re a decent human being you are worthy of Heaven. Honestly, I don’t even know how decent you have to be. Some of the angels up here have done horrible things; only just yesterday I ran into a crusader who I had personally witnessed rape and pillage repeatedly just a thousand years ago.
There’s no accounting for taste is there?
He’s a weird one for preferences, God is. Take, for example, His music tastes. He loves Lady Gaga despite the fact that I’m almost entirely sure she’s devil spawn and we should probably send Michael down there before she brings about the end of the Earth. But I’m just a secretary. And anyway, Michael hasn’t really been on a mission in some time. He just smokes lots of the weed grown over in the Elysian Fields (a fantastic vacation spot for the especially pious humans) and writes horrid poetry that he reads to all of his women. God has been trying to get him back into shape but honestly, he’s usually too stoned to tell the difference.
Oh quiet down, over there, Senor Pope. See? This is exactly what I’ve been talking about. I utter one word about God smoking a joint and the papacy nearly craps itself. I don’t even really understand why. We see everything and I can promise you that Pope Benedict smoked more than a joint or two in his heyday, the Nosferatu looking son of a bitch.
And He doesn’t give a shit, I can promise you that. He used to live down on Earth back in the golden days and he created marijuana so he could smoke it while he thought up the brilliant ideas that encompass this planet. I mean do you think He could have thought up all that diversity if he hadn’t been just a little stoned? I mean most of you people don’t even really appreciate it anymore but I’m pretty sure a good 99% of your population watched Planet Earth, right? Tell me that isn’t the craftsmanship of a profound stoner.
That brings me to you guys. Sorry if I don’t refer to myself as human anymore but it has been nearly` a millennia and you begin to forget yourself when you can fly and disappear any time a jet passes through your particular house-cloud.
Yeah, it happens.
Stop it.
Now.
Now when God makes you guys, he waits about five months before he even begins to consider placing a soul inside the fetus. He and the other writer angels begin work at the conception but in order to ensure that souls aren’t wasted on potential aborted fetuses or miscarriages they wait for a bit. Vonnegut, just the other day, was talking to me about how angry he was about one soul he wrote that died almost immediately after birth. He’d written it so that this girl would have led the world out of the darkness that’s coming in the next few years but leave it to God to place it in an African baby. Now, don’t get me wrong, there isn’t anything wrong with Africans or African babies but there’s always an unfortunate gamble when playing with birth in Africa. She died soon after birth and well, good luck with the next few years.
I like Cervantes’ souls most of all; they’re crazy. Some of my favorite people to watch were written by Cervantes. Churchill? A Cervantes original. Teddy Roosevelt? That man was a badass. As far as the teddy bear story goes? Lies. I watched T.R. shoot that bear in the face. I mean, what’s the point in that? No rug from that baby bear, I can promise you that.
So back to the reason why I’m writing this. I know how often you all fight about abortion and how serious these fights get. Just the other day I watched some religious sect commit a drive by on a local abortion clinic. How that is going to save a baby is beyond me. And don’t think I’m taking sides either. I’ve seen plenty of pro-choicers beat the crap out of a person for wearing cross. I think I just flew by one actually. I’m actually floating over to the big man himself right now.
See, this is exactly why I’m telling you all this. I’m on my way right now to deliver a rather important soul blueprint to Him right now. This one was a humongous collaboration and He just needs to proofread it and send it on its way. What I have under my arm isn’t just any soul but THE soul. This one’s going to prove to be a prophet I think but I’m not really sure. I don’t get to read these packages, I only deliver them but even Poe, the poor morbid soul, told me that this one gave him hope.
So here I am at God’s office, knocking on the door which of course opens before I’ve even laid my hand on it. For a second, it was impossible to see anything as my eyes worked to adjust to His radiance. I’d like to apologize here for the use of male pronouns when addressing Him. It isn’t so much that He is a man so much that there is no better way to address him. I could call Him Her for a bit here too if you like but it would make no difference. It wouldn’t capture the magnificence of His power. Anyway, this day he had taken the form of a female gorilla, a form that he quite liked. The gorilla was sitting behind a massive bronze desk that made even the largest of all primates look small. She was smoking a humongous cigar from between stubby black fingers and beckoning me inside with the others. I floated in and settled, cross legged on a cloud that had assumed the shape of an E-Z Boy. Leaning back, I sailed the manila folder over to the gorilla, which snatched it delicately from the air. Ripping the flap off the top not so delicately, God placed the blueprints on the table and began to read them. The female gorilla was quiet for a moment and then glanced up at me. She opened her mouth and began to speak with a voice both soothing and terrifying.
“Sorry, Mustafa. I didn’t even notice you. I’ve been smoking blunts to the face all day with Michael.” The gorilla offered its most shamefaced brow furrow and then shrugged. “I can’t help it. He’s crazy and I just can’t seem to get the fool into shape. So I just smoke with him. It’s better than wasting my efforts trying to make him into the archangel he should be. Wanna smoke something? Or feel free to have a drink. You know where everything is by now, don’t you?”
Rising from the cloud with a gentle flutter of my wings, I ride a small air current over to God’s personal stash. Now I know how excited you humans on Earth get when you smoke weed out of California or hashish from Afghanistan but you wouldn’t believe the stuff the big guy smokes. I mean even the hash I used to smoke as a Turk was significantly better than what you people are smoking and God’s stuff usually just leaves me in a state of retardation. Taking a small handful, I floated over to the bar at the back of God’s mahogany office and poured myself a glass of wine. Returning to my seat I found a low glass coffee table in front of my cloud. On it rested a nearly three foot bong wrought of the finest glass and so thin that it appeared to be made of mist. Dropping some of the marijuana into the slide, I offered it towards the gorilla.
“Would you like to start this?”
“Oh heavens no.” The gorilla chuckled and shooed the bong towards me. “You go ahead. I have to read this soul and I don’t want to be too high for it. Go ahead. This shouldn’t take me too long.”
I nodded my thanks and snapped my fingers, creating a flame. Another common misconception about evil spawn is that only they can create flame by snapping their fingers. God created flame, not the Devil so we get first dibs.
Suck it.
I inhaled deeply and held in the smoke for a few seconds. Looking around the office, I began to exhale little smoke rings slowly. Again I return to my point about God’s taste in things. The decorations were odd to say the least. In one corner was a statue of Zeus that God usually explained with this: “You gotta remember where you come from. I mean not that I directly come from Zeus. He isn’t real. But…you know what I mean.” Against the far left wall was a painting of Joan of Arc. This one always made me a little uncomfortable in the telling. “It was Prank Earth Day up here. What do you expect? Michael thought it would be funny to tell a random human girl that she could lead an army. He didn’t actually expect that she would…” I finished exhaling and put the bong down gently on the table. The female gorilla was still poring over the blueprints meticulously and I was pretty high.
“So, how’s it looking? As good as all the writers are saying? Do you have a DNCB yet?” That’s Designated Non Celestial Body for you humans who don’t happen to work for God.
God raised her furrowed brow at me as if really noticing me for the first time. “As it so happens, I do. This one is going to be born in New York City. At the highest point.”
It took me a moment to grasp this in my clouded state but it was hard not to understand. “You’re sending your son back to Earth? That’s pretty intense. You think they’re ready for that? Last time they messed your boy up pretty bad.”
God shrugged and rose from behind the desk. Knuckle dragging over to the bong, she took a hit and held it, staring at me. Right before I found myself melting under her stare she blew out the smoke and turned away. “It doesn’t really matter whether or not they take him. If they don’t take him this time then they will die. Period. I’m tired of being nice to them. I mean they actually repealed Prop 19 in the United States and that Sarkozy clown is still in office. So this is their last chance. If they don’t’ listen then I don’t really give a crap.”
I was falling into my high now and some of what God was saying to me wasn’t making all too much sense but I nodded anyway. You don’t acknowledge misunderstanding God. Just nod. Always nod. The gorilla had returned to its seat and I was trying to remain focused.
“So when’s the due date? When are you starting all this up?”
Scratching its head with a knuckle, the gorilla shakes its head. “Actually I’m not really sure. Let’s see…Due date…due date…” Running its fat fingers along the paper, the gorilla suddenly yelped, an unexpectedly high pitched sound from an animal so large. “What the shit! It’s today! Damn the baby is coming today!” A moment later I had a table flying straight for me as God threw a divine tantrum. “Why the hell didn’t anyone tell me this?” I waited patiently for the tantrum to pass. See, once you’re dead there isn’t much to be afraid of. She would calm in a moment. As the moment passed, the gorilla began to gather the scattered papers off the ground, shoulders heaving. Taking a pen off the ground, she ran her pen loosely over the page and hands it to me.
“You need to deliver this. Now.”
And that’s how I came to be flying through the middle of New York City with a knapsack on my back holding the blueprints for the soul of God’s only son. You would think that would be the end of the story, that I would just whizz over the skyscrapers and hurry over to Staten Island.
Yes, God’s only son is going to be born on Todt Hill, the highest point on the Eastern seaboard. Staten Island, for those of you who don’t know the place, is a dump, literally. Fresh Kills Landfill is New York City’s primary garbage deposit and it shows. Now the Bronx; that would have been ideal for the birth. I heard that an old woman many years back built houses for Jesus and all his disciples upon his return in the Bronx. She’d been a little confused by the Russian embassy which had assumed that Riverdale, Bronx, New York held the highest point in the city. They were wrong but no one had to know that. I had attempted to convince the lady gorilla to change up the plans but she was adamant about following the rules. That of course included me and my entrance into the city.
See, when an angel enters your world we lose our wings and regain our corporeal bodies, which, frankly, is a bit of a hassle since I was a bit pudgy. I ate much too much lamb when I resided in Antioch. There is also the danger of sensory overload. Since I’ve become an angel, I only eat when I wish. We don’t really get hungry up there; mainly we just eat because it tastes good. So when you return to Earth, you’re suddenly overwhelmed by hunger and exhaustion and all number of bullshit. Also, don’t forget I was still super high from God’s weed so munchies were actually real now.
God dropped me off in a little alleyway down by Battery Park. Now, let me explain something about losing one’s angel status: when I say drop I mean literally drop. See, we have to die in order to become full human again, cut our wings off, and then and only then are we ready. The drop hurts like a bitch. I couldn’t move for about ten minutes and me with a deadline that was only two hours from now. I spent a few minutes picking out teeth that had fallen out and then grabbed the celestial knife that God had so graciously lent me. If I thought that the drop hurt, that was nothing compared to severing my wings. I was never much of a fighter; I mean, there’s a reason I didn’t even last beyond the breaching of Antioch’s walls. So I spent another five minutes screaming behind a dumpster while I sheared my wings off at the joint and then another ten screaming while I stitched myself up sloppily.
Being God’s secretary is a bitch.
I searched through the garbage for some sort of garment for me to dress myself in and was fortunate enough to find a peacoat and some ragged jeans. I have no doubt that I looked worse than the worst homeless man but I could care less; there are deliveries to be made. Stepping out of the alley, I walked over to the Staten Island Ferry, ignoring the disgusted looks and wrinkled noses of passersby. Walking is horrible after a millennia of flying everywhere and I’m sure I looked like I was strung out and drunk all at once. People gave me a wide berth until a police officer came over to talk to me.
“Good afternoon, officer.” I said cordially, bowing a little. “You wouldn’t happen to know when the next ferry departs do you?”
The police officer looked at me askance and then scowled. “I don’t speak Arab, buddy and even if I did, I wouldn’t help you.” I was confused for a moment until I realized I had never actually learned English. Up in heaven, language is irrelevant; we just understand each other. “Let’s say you and I take a walk for a bit to make sure you’re ok?” I wasn’t going anywhere with this man. I have no time for any of this and so I did the only thing I could do.
I kicked that cop right in the nuts.
As a man, I know I should be super ashamed of myself but God’s son is on the line so you can all judge me some other time. The cop was tough, I’ll give him that. He didn’t let go of me even after he was down on the ground and I am ashamed to say I had to kick him twice more before he finally went down in a pile of male indignation and vomit.
Now I was running and my legs were beginning to make sense to me. People were screaming and pointing at me and a few other policemen had begun to chase me, drawing their guns. This was getting ugly quick so I again did the only thing I could do: I dove into the East River.
I immediately regretted this as I remembered cold was a sensation I could now appreciate in all its glory. Having grown up on the Orontes River, I am proud to say that I am a strong swimmer but even I was daunted by the distance I would have to swim to get to Staten Island. I paced myself for as long as I could but after half an hour of straight swimming I was spent and needed to rest or I would die along with the blueprints.
I dragged my body onto the shore of Governor’s Island and began to look around desperately for some kind of vessel. Wouldn’t you know that the only boat was a police cruiser and the three police officers who operated this fine vessel were now bearing down on me. Word travels quickly in New York City. I was exhausted but I had a little over an hour to get to Staten Island and Todt hill.
They say that when a mother senses her child in danger, she gains superhuman power. There is little that can stop a mother when her child is danger. Picture me as the mother and the blueprints as my child and I think what happens next will make a little more sense.
The three policemen had their guns drawn by this point so I approached them slowly with my hands up. They kept yelling at me to stop approaching but as long as I kept my hands up, I was pretty safe. Leave it to me to find the only squad on Governor’s Island with a rookie. A bullet grazed my shoulder and I almost fell backwards if not for adrenaline. Taking advantage of their confusion, I dropped them one by until all three of them were down on the ground. Maybe I would have been okay at Antioch if I’d made it past the ballista. No way of knowing now. I jumped into the boat and quickly tried to figure out the controls. Thankfully, I had watched enough television up in heaven to understand the throttle and I pulled out of the dock at top speed.
It only took me twenty minutes to make it to the northeastern coast of Staten Island. From there I was fortunate enough to meet an old hippie who still picked up hitchhikers. He asked me where I was going and when I said Todt Hill he was overjoyed. “Yeah, man? That’s where I’m going! My son’s having a kid over at the hospital there. Feel free to come along. Birth is an experience every man should witness at least once.” I nodded my consent, afraid to confuse him with my Arabic, and we were on our way.
It was only another fifteen minutes to the hospital and when we got there I jumped out of the car with the old man, whose name turned out to be Jesus. Go figure. I followed him into the hospital hoping to avoid security since I had no way to explain why I needed to get into the emergency room. The attendant at the front desk attempted to stop me from going into the emergency room with Jesus but I was lucky. “Whoa, whoa! He’s with me, lady. He’s my adopted son. Don’t worry ‘bout it.” The attendant gave me a skeptical look but shrugged her shoulders and sat back down at her desk.
I smiled at Jesus who began to run down the hall to the maternity ward where I could hear screaming. I sped up, running ahead of the old man until I came upon a room that was full of doctors and a screaming woman holding the hand of a man I assumed was her husband.
“Joe I don’t think I can do this!” The woman was simultaneously sobbing and cursing at her surroundings. “Fuuuuck! Why hasn’t he come out yet? It’s been nearly six hours!”
“I know baby. I’m so sorry.” The husband, whose name was Joe, looked horrified but I gave him credit for not once stepping away from his wife’s side. “Just a little more. They said he’s crowning right? That’s not too far off.”
Jesus ran into the room and then stepped back out as the wife pushed again, roaring her pain at everyone near. “Shit. Nevermind, man. You hang around here if you want. I’m gonna go smoke some weed. Once is enough for any man.” See, even Jesus smokes weed. The old man returned down the hall and I entered the room silently. I drew forth the blueprints from my coat and stepped towards the mother. No one heard me approach until I had already gently placed the papers on the mother’s stomach.
“Who the hell are you?” Joe looked at me and then at his wife. “Who the hell is he? You have been cheating on me haven’t you! I knew it.”
The wife looked at me with confusion in her eyes and then suddenly she nodded. “Calm down, Joe. It’s gonna be ok.”
I smiled at her and the husband and took a deep breath.
They, sometimes, up in heaven call me the voice of God. And I guess that is what I am primarily. My voice has set many other events in motion and this would be no different.
I opened my mouth and began to sing.
The doctors who had originally been yelling that they were going to call security became silent. From my mouth poured sounds that I unfortunately do not have the skill to place on paper. Imagine that Niagara Falls and all the brass instruments in all the world had converged in one spot to make music. That is the closest I can come to explaining to you what I sang for the mother and her child. The blueprints began to glow and suddenly they were gone. With another great heave, the baby popped out.
He was beautiful.
Silence reigned in the hospital for a moment and then the baby began to cry and so did everyone in the room. And amidst all the tears, the mother looked at me and smiled. “What is your name?”
“Mustafa.”
“Thank you Mustafa.” The baby was brought over by the doctors who were all crying and ignoring me by this point. “He will have your name. I promise.”
I shrugged and suddenly felt an itch at my shoulder blades. My wings were back which always meant a mission was complete. I threw off the peacoat and made a display of stretching my wings. Again silence. I turned to the baby and looked down on it. I uttered only one thing.
“As-Salamu Alaykum.”
Then I opened my wings and flew out through the window and back to heaven.
“Another job well done, Mustafa.” God was smoking again. I was too. Heaven had been in a state of elation the past few days as news got around that God’s only son had been born again. Michael was in the office too, smoking out of a hookah and looking for all the world like maintaining focus was impossible. Despite millennia of peace and letting himself go, the commander of heaven’s army was still an impressive site. He wore gold plate mail and had an eight foot spear sitting by his side.
“I wrote another poem.” He looked up from the hookah. “Wanna hear it? It’s pretty good.”
God shrugged and I nodded. “Sure, why not.”
Clearing his throat, Michael rose from his cloud and put his hand over his gold breastplate. “It’s called ‘We Don’t Give A Shit’”. At this I tried hard not to laugh and then Michael took a hit from his hookah and began.
What you expect from us is not what we expect from us.
What is our will is not always your will.
Bibles, Torahs, Qur’an’s
They’re all the same to us.
And maybe you don’t even remember we exist anymore
And that’s fine
Because some of us don’t even remember you exist anymore.
So when you wage wars and kill each other in our name
We don’t really remember where these edicts come from.
As we have forgotten you, so have you forgotten us
And that’s fine.
Because
We don’t give a shit.
God applauded and I just nodded and Michael exhaled the smoke. It rose up into the heavens and will always rise up into the heavens.
And seriously, we don’t give a shit.
So let the smoke continue to rise. And keep your eyes out for a boy named Mustafa. Because he’s going to change it all.
