Terrible Fear and Humming
***
Beginning.
***
It is of great interest to know that the refrigerators at Cabana Liquors emit a humming noise that sounds like a chorus of chilly cherubim. That is to say, the sopranos within are singing quite customarily, but their vibrato is exaggerated by quivering lower lips and chattering teeth. Because of this, every note sounds as important as the last canon burst of a boisterous opera.
It is also of great interest to know that humming is, in fact, angels singing.
On Monday, the humming was relatively quiet, primarily because all but two of the angels were on vacation. Barnaby, with eyes of great width and glimmer, had a busy, busy mind.
“Do you know Jason?” asked Barnaby.
Jason is quite the drinker. So much so that Fredric, the owner of Cabana Liquors, easily recognized by his strangely scarred bald head, is always pleased to see him. Jason has a pleasant enough demeanor. He always smiles when he makes eye contact with strangers and he would never kick a pregnant dog in the stomach. Oddly, though, he is not ever fooled by bartenders, bootleggers, or booze-peddlers’ niceties. He knows that if his wallet were empty, he would no longer be greeted by perched eyebrows and un-jiggered pours.
Barnaby knew this. Barnaby does not mind being left alone with Mr. Peanut, the other angel.
All of this was normal. Only one thing was different this day. The previous evening, Barnaby had received his new evening assignment. After leaving the liquor store in the late evening, Barnaby’s second assignment has been, for years, making a clicking noise in a broken television in a college frat-house. Since the TV had been unplugged, Barnaby had been out of work. It’s not so much that he minded, because he now has more time to go home and bang his wife, but with the new angel-baby constantly vomiting all over herself and needing new clothing, it seemed that money was more important than banging.
All angels are aware, of course, that it is illegal to come into contact with a human in more than one capacity. It is the law.
At this point, I feel compelled to mention to you one more item that is of great interest to know:
All noises that seem to have mysterious sources, the bzzzzz of a freezer, or the cha-chink of a showerhead, or the waaaoooaoaaaaa of a microwave…
These noises are made exclusively by angels. It is their job.
Barnaby was delighted when a telegram came on Sunday eve informing him of his new position.
“1900 PST Monday 8 September 2003 — Angel Barnaby — Henceforth shall report to the residence of Jason Sumner — 12006 Benefit St. #8, Sherman Oaks, CA 91423 — Between twilight and dusk, reportee is to make little whirring/clicking sound in and around ceiling fan– Pension approved.”
Barnaby’s wife was very happy. But Barnaby sensed something odd. He recognized this name, this Jason. He recognized that sound, that noise of name, that call of identification! Yes! Perhaps!
That night, he sat in his parlor, gently flittering-fluttering his wings.
***
Monday morning came with all the glory of a thousand chromed-out chariots. Cabana Liquors was again teeming with the flying dust specks of dawn. Fredric’s bald head glistened with sweat and smelled of baby lotion. He wiped himself down with one hand as he opened the door with the other. Barnaby flew in with him, awaiting the flicking of the switch that would light, and significantly cool his workspace over the next several hours.
Flick. Crizzle, crackle. And a zing, zing, zing.
“Good morning, Mr. Peanut,” said Barnaby.
“Good morning, Barnaby,” said Mr. Peanut.
Then there was a moment of silence.
“You look like shit,” said Mr. Peanut.
“Yeah, you know, I couldn’t sleep last night. I got my new evening route.”
“No good?”
“No, it’s fine, it’s fine, it’s just that for some reason, I think I recognize the name. It just seems like a sign.”
“A sign?” inquired Mr. Peanut.
“Something tells me I’m being set up.”
And with that, Fredric opened the door to the refrigerator, to test the cooling airs as they yearned to escape. Barnaby and Mr. Peanut quickly ceased their conversation and began to sing. It sounded like something between a Latin hymn sung by Italian children and the sound of badgers fornicating in a tin field.
It is also of great interest, here, to note that angels (as well as their boss, Gerald) think it’s amusing that humans don’t realize that it is them that is making the noises in their appliances. “Ha!” they say. “Ha!” indeed.
“Hey, hey, look who it is!” yelled Barnaby, just as the door sucked shut before him. Fwoosh!
(The sound of a refrigerator closing, it is of interest to know, is made by air moving and compressing.)
“How do you know it’s the same guy?” asked Mr. Peanut.
“I don’t know. I know his name is Jason because the man at the counter who gives him things in exchange for paper calls him that.”
“Is Jason a common name?” asked Mr. Peanut.
“Well, not as common as yours or mine, Mr. Peanut, but in their world, who knows?” said Barnaby, as he stretched his translucent wings, indicating the vastness of it all.
It is, of course, of great interest to know that angel wings are not used for flying. They are merely used for turning. Angels do not fly, as they are not affected by gravity, as people like Jason are. Angels simply move through space without any weight or friction. As a matter of fact, angels find this extraordinarily convenient.
“Well, it shall all be settled tonight,” said Barnaby.
“What are you going to do?”
At this, Barnaby closed his eyes and imagined his most crippling fear…
Social Awkwardness. Since boyhood, Barnaby despised speaking to angels he did not know very well, because when things took a turn for the awkward, silent, and disconcerting, it was impossible for Barnaby not to blame himself.
As Barnaby tightly clenched his lids, Jason made his way through Cabana Liquors, being watched, quite carefully, by Mr. Peanut.
Jason had a structured way of selecting beverages, it had begun to seem. His fingers would slide gently across the transparent walls that separated the angel world from Jason’s world. Perhaps he was feeling for temperature, or perhaps, like a divining rod, he was being drawn towards the beverage du jour… beer or whites in the dread fridge, reds or cheap whiskeys in the aisles, or anejos and single malts behind Fredric’s head. He always made a complete circle and his fingers, his fingers: they always did seem to lead.
And like a man with a divining rod, Jason always had a look of slight astonishment mixed with righteous indignation on his face. This had led Barnaby, and Mr. Peanut, on several occasions, to wrongly assume that humans drink beverages, alcoholic or otherwise, not based on their brain’s desires, but based on their body’s deficiencies.
Mr. Peanut recalls once having said to Barnaby, “I knew it, his blood is low on vodka. You owe me two grotzkas.”
“Shit,” Barnaby recalls replying.
It is of interest to know that a grotzka is the currency used by angels. One grotzka is worth exactly one dollar.
By the time Barnaby had reopened his eyes, Jason was at the counter.
“Just club soda today?” queried Fredric, who was making small talk even though he had a half-eaten falafel behind the counter and the longer you leave those things out, the more they fall apart and the more difficult they are to hold later.
“Yes.”
“How about a free cigarillo? On me? For my best customer. No charge. Nice, eh?” vomited Fredric.
“Sure.”
And with that, Jason walked out the door. To his credit, he never knew what a cigarillo was exactly. He always thought those little things were cigars intended for women or homosexuals. Cigarillos! How curious!
Barnaby and Mr. Peanut stood in relative silence.
Here, it is of relative interest to know that refrigerators and the like only make humming sounds or flicking or chunking noises when humans are within earshot. This is reminiscent of the age-old question:
“If a tree falls in the woods, and there is no one around to hear it, does it make a sound?”
No, it doesn’t.
“I just don’t know if I can be in the same room with him, because if it’s him, if it’s Jason, I’ll be committing a crime, but if I don’t go, I’ll also be committing a crime. He thought of operas, of crying clowns, of repentant jailers, of reformed convicts.
“If I speak, I am condemned. If I stay silent, I am damned.”
“I understand,” said Mr. Peanut.
It was understood.
Most angels would have understood this, for they know that their jobs can occasionally lead to discomfort or annoyance or throwing plants. If angels were permitted to spend quality, quality time with people, they might have misgivings about making obnoxious sounds. This is easy to understand. But it is not the angel’s decision whether or not the sound is appropriate. It is the job of God.
And God has delegated this job to Gerald, who is the boss of the angels. Gerald was not known to be very understanding. Gerald was not known to be kind. Conversely, he was known to be unkind. A real rascal, the kind of chum who would stab you in the eye and then ask you to help him read something very small..
Barnaby had never met Gerald, but he was sure he never wanted to.
Gerald, Barnaby was to understand, was a real cunt.
“Good luck tonight,” said Mr. Peanut. “I hope it’s not the same Jason.”
“Me too… me too, as well.”
This shift was ending. Mr. Peanut could now report to his second job, of making a whinnying noise in a portable CD player. But Barnaby had no such fortune. He would spend his dinner hour alone, still in space and time, unturning, unblinking, only thinking of the horror of awkwardness. Of the chiming bells in a hall of mirrors, of the singing paraplegic on the freeway off-ramp, of the childish screeching of a folk singer…
***
THAT NIGHT…
***
Barnaby stood on his mark, atop the ceiling fan. The room was dark as the sun had recently faded from the sky and the blinds were nearly fully drawn. Only the palest sprinkles of yellow streetlight shone in. These gave him a twinge of courage, as he knew that behind those lights were angel friends, making loud buzzing noises. Yes. If he were to fall, they would catch him, they would hold him and tell him not to worry. Friends were nearby. Friend were bright and glowing. Friends were friends indeed.
On the floor, there were many empty water bottles. There were also stacks of receipts and sticky notes. A juice bottle and what appeared to be a crumpled up piece of green paper. Perhaps a human version of a grotzka. Barnaby couldn’t be sure. He had never seen one up close.
Time passed. The wings of wind beneath his feet stood still. He wanted the spinning to begin, if only to break his concentration. “Please, kind sir, whoever you are” he thought, “find it hot and come home and relax in your bedroom beneath your slightly noisy fan.”
Almost immediately, as soon as he finished this prayer…
The door opened and in came Jason Sumner. And he flicked the switch. And the spinning began…
And it was, in fact, the very same Jason from the store. All of Barnaby’s nightmares had been realized and now he wished to die for the first time. Every terrifying mountainous thoughtscape was riddled with moguls and he was hurtling hurriedly on waxy skis. Pavement cracks were enlarging, eating surroundings, fighting for dominion. Dogs barked, children cried, and somewhere, a house burst into flames. Shock! Horror! Russian newspapers etched in tar with his newborn fear. Disgrace!
“That’s weird. Doesn’t this fan usually make noise?”
It is of interest to know that angels can hear human thoughts.
Barnaby heard this thought, and he looked below, and he was spinning, and in his last lucid moment, he began to sing.
***
BLACK AND NOTHING MORE…
***
“The rest of the night was a blur, I tell you, a blur. I think I was singing, he didn’t think anything more of it, other than those first few seconds. At least I’m pretty sure. It’s too much. Much too much.”
Barnaby yelled this to Chalista, who was the young receptionist in Gerald’s office. He was panicky, for certain, but he did take the time to notice her smooth and supple thighs. Ripe for whatever. Yes.
“Gerald is ready to see you now,” said Chalista.
Like a virgin firewalker, Barnaby crept towards the painted wooden door. He knocked.
“It’s open!” a voice boomed.
As he turned the handle, he could feel his wings shake like hurricane-addled panes of redneck glass. As he walked into the room, towards the chair, which was facing away from him, he could feel his heart kabooming. Ka-fucking-booming. Ka-fuck-shit-oh-shit-booming.
“What’s up?” the booming voice asked.
And Barnaby took a very, very deep breath. And then he exhaled, and all at once, as the air rushed from his body, he told Gerald the whole story, without sparing a detail?
“And… it’s… the… same… Jason!”
Gerald’s chair quickly turned, and Barnaby found himself face to face with a pocky-faced fatman, with deep caverns for eyes and wet lips like a frozen wolf. Barnaby’s heart stopped as he waited for pure evil to fly towards him like a flurry of fagbats.
“Was this the end of Barnaby?” he wondered. “I never said goodbye to my wife, my child. I should never have come here.”
Gerald’s lips slowly parted, and he spoke in the same booming tone:
“Well, we can’t have that, can we? Go and tell Chalista in reception that I want her to find you a new job! A better one! As a matter of fact, take a month off, too. I don’t want you having a heart attack, friend! Relax! Here! Have some grotzkas!”
As the cool rain of grotzkas showered the floor at Barnaby’s feet, he thought of all the awful things he had heard about Gerald.
Gerald was a nice guy. He was ugly, but he was very nice. Most people are ugly, most angels are ugly, most everything is ugly. But more importantly, most things are not ugly on the inside. This may be because what is on the inside is hidden. And what is hidden has no need to try to be anything other than what it is.
Gerald thought of all the people he knew. Of the things they said about Gerald and his fatback. His fatbody. His pockface. His facescum. Those ridiculous teeth…
He thought:
Why is everyone so shallow?
***
End.
***
About the Author
Elan Gale is an aggregate system of nerves, mucous membranes, and impressive — highly impressive — muscles. On the other hand, Elan is a collection of thoughts, dreams and well-researched opinions. As a whole, Elan is an uninterpretable mess.