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~~*~~
~~*~~
Chapter Four
The Day We Met
The Day We Met
~~*~~
CALLIEL
WAITED patiently for the westbound 903. A woman eventually joined him. They
stood silently at the curb.
Chapter Five
The
bus came up the hill ten minutes later. He got on it and took a seat at the
front. My stop was six up the line. When the bus pulled up to it I stared.
There
I was.
I
stood like a war refugee. It was written all over my person: tired sloping
shoulders, the wide-eyed stare of astonished fatigue, the restless stance. I
gripped the handle of my briefcase like someone was going to steal it, secured
as it was with oh-so-valuable homework and pencils and ibuprofen.
The
doors opened. I was the first to board.
I
don’t recall doing it, but I glanced down at Calliel, who smiled up at me.
“How
are you this fine morning?” he asked politely.
I
walked on as though I hadn’t heard him, though I’m sure I did. I watched as I
took a seat near the rear, as I always did. I crowded up against a window and
stared lifelessly out.
Hopeless.
I was hopeless.
I
watched as a woman sat next to me, watched as I squeezed harder into the side
of the bus as though she had the bubonic plague. I was clearly irritated.
The
doors closed and the bus got on its way.
Calliel
made no attempt to look back at me the entire way to the trolley. He engaged
the driver in small talk: “How are you this fine morning?” which the driver
returned with a jovial, “Every morning is fine with the Lord watchin’ over ya.”
“So
true, so true,” replied Calliel.
The
driver was an obese black man with a smile that covered his entire face and a
constant sheen of sweat on his brow, which he’d wipe after taking off his hat.
He was a regular on this route, and a driver I’d come to like, because he was
very conscientious and safe without being slow. “Just gotta learn to let go,”
he said. “That’s the trick to life—learnin’ to let the little things go.”
“Pretty
tough trick sometimes,” said Calliel.
“Life
ain’t easy. No sir! Ain’t easy at all. Ain’t fair neither.”
“It’s
not at that.”
“Faith,”
said the driver, holding up a finger to emphasize the point, “ain’t for wimps.”
“Not
the kind that counts,” said Calliel.
“Are
you a man of faith?”
The
driver looked over his shoulder at him.
Calliel
grinned. “You could say that.”
The
bus pulled into H Street Station. As Calliel stood to go, the driver, glancing up
at him, said, “You have a good day, man o’ God.”
Calliel
gave him a pat on his massive shoulder and stepped off, me tagging along. I’d
taken the occasional glance behind me, at me. I had sat there staring out the
window the entire time, and now made my way out the back exit. The driver was
wishing passengers to have a good day, which surprised me, because until now
I’d never heard him do so. Something told me it was something he always did.
Calliel
stopped in the shade and rolled up his sleeves. I—the I that was holding the
briefcase—did as well. There were many seeking shade; it was (as I recall)
going to be a hot, muggy day. He didn’t look back at me, though I was just five
feet behind and to his right. Like earlier, I stood there like a civvy who’d just
emerged from a bomb shelter after the shelling stopped.
I
couldn’t remember what I was thinking as I stood there. It shocked me somewhat,
because it came to me then that I couldn’t remember anything I had ever
thought or done the countless times I stood waiting for the Blue Line. I was a
cipher. In a very real way I didn’t exist.
I
floated over Calliel’s shoulder and stared at me. I was a void—a void with
flesh and bones. I felt more real as a disembodied spirit or mind or point of
consciousness or whatever I was now than I felt standing there, corporeal and
substantial.
The
Blue Line rumbled to a stop a few minutes later. It had become habit for me to
check the time when it did, and I watched as I did so now. The corporeal me
dropped my wrist and went to board, expressionless. The Blue Line’s timeliness
determined to a large extent the kind of day I was going to have. If it was
tardy it practically guaranteed that I was going to be a surly, miserable
asshole the entire day.
Hell,
I might as well have flipped an unfair coin! How many days had I squandered as
a result? Surely it was more than half of them!
I
couldn’t recall if this day, the first day I met Calliel, was one of those
days. Then I thought of how I had treated him, and knew.
One
seat was open. I watched as I got there before a mother with a small child in
her arms could. She glanced down at me resentfully. The doors closed and the
trolley lurched forward.
Calliel
remained standing, holding on to a pole. I was four seats behind him. A cipher.
A void.
What
is it about life that makes living so hard? Is it other people? I was convinced
of it. People suck. People are murderous and greedy and deceitful and
treacherous. They’re filthy and loud and rotten. If I was doing anything
sitting there, it was precisely that: I was judging, for the millionth time,
the whole of humanity.
It
was people, for a pertinent example, that made the Blue Line late. It was
people, for another, that shit out kids in a world wholly overpopulated and
baking to death as a direct result. That’s why I had no compassion for the
mother standing there. She deserved the misery she got. She was part of the
problem.
On
my office door was a quote from the philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer, offered in
big black block letters: “Any man of merit will hardly be free from a certain
touch of misanthropy.” I’d put it there for two reasons. Most of all, of
course, I very much believed it to be true. But I also put it there to
intimidate students, and even staff. Don’t
fuck with Dr. Wilms, that quote conveyed. Don’t waste his time, and don’t pretend you’re in the same intellectual
league he is, because you’re not.
That
was the quote that justified ignoring a mother with a child and bulky stroller,
whose back was probably aching and would only get worse through a long day.
But—how
smart was I really?
The
literal flip of an unfair coin—the tardiness or not of the Blue Line—determined
how the great Dr. Ray Wilms’ day was going to go.
Ashamed
of myself, I looked away.
Calliel
hadn’t bothered looking back at me at all. At Barrio Logan a man seated in
front of him got off. Another went to sit in the vacant seat, but he stopped
him. “Hang on,” he said. The man, glaring, stopped. Calliel turned to the
woman. “Ma’am, there’s a seat open right here.” He motioned to her to come
forward.
The
glaring man looked like he was going to take it anyway, but stopped after
glancing around at everybody, who silently fired on him from all sides with
disdain. The woman approached, gave Calliel a relieved smile. “Thank you,” she said.
“Ma’am.”
She
sat. Her baby didn’t wake. He took her stroller and secured it behind her. She
thanked him again.
Had
I—the miserable, corporeal I seated back a bit—noticed this forgettable little
transaction of mercy? I turned to look, but stopped. I didn’t want to know; and
it didn’t matter anyway.
~~*~~
I
watched as I marched up the stairs leading into Lory Hall. Calliel followed two
dozen paces back.
A
student approached and began speaking to me before I could disappear inside. It
was obvious that I didn’t want to be bothered, and as I left the kid standing
there, I felt another wave of shame flush through me. I couldn’t remember the
exchange, and it was clear that he was troubled about something.
Calliel
mounted the stairs. The student was still standing there. He had the look of
someone contemplating a jump off the Bay
Bridge .
“Excuse
me,” said Calliel. “I’m looking for Professor Wilms. Could you point me in the
right direction?”
I
recognized the student then. He had been in my 10:30 Calculus for Engineers
course.
(I
repeatedly had to remind myself that I was experiencing the past, that this
moment occurred many months ago.)
“He’s
in the math office on the right,” he said glumly, adjusting his backpack.
“Can’t miss it.”
Calliel
eyed him, then gave an understanding smile. “Rough day?”
“He’s
a jerk,” said the kid. “Fair warning.”
“You
don’t like math.”
The
student stared at the ground like he’d been caught with his hand in the cookie
jar. He shook his head. “I fucking hate it. But what are you gonna do? If I
don’t want to go on loans I have to be an engineer like my old man. He won’t
pay my way otherwise. Fuckin’ sucks …”
“What
do you want to do?”
The
kid shrugged.
“You
know,” said Calliel. “Tell me.”
It
had to be Calliel’s super angel powers or something that kept the student
there. Despite nervously shifting his backpack from one shoulder to the next
and averting his eyes like he wasn’t comfortable talking to this dude in the
cowboy get-up, he didn’t leave.
“Say
it,” ordered Calliel. “Name it.”
“I’ve
always been fascinated by religion and history,” admitted the kid, who took a
chance and looked up into his eyes. “The History Department here is pretty
good, and they offer a Master’s in Religious History. I’ve even had a few good
talks with one of the professors. But … I can’t. The old man holds all the
purse strings, you know? ‘It’s a worthless degree.’ That’s what he always tells
me just before he threatens to take away my tuition again.”
“Your
old man is unhappy,” said Calliel. “He only became an engineer because that’s
what his daddy was.”
The
student gawked.
“Tell
you what,” said Calliel. “Switch majors today, and you won’t have to go on
loans. Your needs will be taken care of. You have my word.”
“How
do you know that?” demanded the kid. “How can you say that? How do you know my
old man?”
Calliel
held up. “What you suspect to be true sometimes is. It depends on the person,
what’s inside him. You’ve got that thing, so don’t blow it. Down the hall on
the right? Thanks—and good luck to you.”
He
held out his hand, and the young man took it.
Calliel
gave him a sure shake, gave his shoulder a hearty pat, then turned and walked
into the building.
I
stared back. The student goggled at his retreating back through the mullioned
windows in the door. I watched as he adjusted his backpack one more time, then
descended the stairs and hung a hard left. McCowen Hall, where the History
Department was located, was in that direction.
I’d
like to believe he went for it. Perhaps my churlish attitude towards him was as
much a spur as Calliel’s encouraging and spooky words were.
It
had been a long time since I gave a shit about inspiring students. Even if I’d
managed to do it in a negative fashion, that still counted, didn’t it?
Calliel
looked up. He was under the small sign that announced he’d arrived at the math
office. He opened the door and went in.
~~*~~
Betty
Landis was the department’s secretary. She was a lifer; she’d been at that post
over thirty years. It was one of the few things I knew about her.
She
glanced up from her computer screen.
Calliel
gave her a smile. “Mornin’, ma’am.”
“Good
morning to you, too,” she said. It was obvious that she liked his looks.
“I’m
here to see Dr. Wilms. Is he available?”
“He
just walked in. Let me check his schedule.”
She
clicked her computer mouse several times, gazing at the screen.
“He’s
got a nine o’ clock. But it’s a lab, so he should be back in half an hour. Want
to wait here?”
She
really would’ve loved that, judging by the gleam in her eyes.
“Thank
you, ma’am,” he said. “I think I’ll have a walk around your lovely campus. I’ll
be back in half an hour.”
He
gave her a friendly nod and left.
I’d
never bothered to get to know Betty. There was always something more important
to do. Plus, I was a Doctor of Mathematics. She had, at best, an associate’s
degree, if that (I didn’t know, honestly). There was a pecking order, and she
was at the very bottom of it. I wasn’t alone with upholding that pecking order;
I knew many other Ph.D.s with the same attitude. You really weren’t worth
knowing without an advanced degree.
But
was that valid? More relevantly (considering my present circumstances), was it right? Should a piece of paper or what
you did to get it determine your worth?
What
had I known about Betty—I mean really
known? In the last few months of my life, I took the time to learn more about
her. But here, now? I knew she was a
grandmother, and I knew she had a hysterectomy not so long ago (I believe), or
some such procedure, and that she was married, or remarried. That was it; that
was all I had really bothered to learn about her to this particular point in
time. Jesus!
Her
first husband had died. I didn’t know at the time if an illness took him, or a
car crash. (He rear-ended a stalled garbage truck.) I remember all the time off
she took, and I remember her replacement, who turned out to be a real ditz. The
office was utter chaos that year. I tore that young woman a new butthole on
several occasions.
The
faculty gave Betty a nice present when she came back to work. I couldn’t
remember what it was. Something nice. I do remember resenting the cash outlay
for it.
I
didn’t want to continue with this trip down my oh-so-photographic memory lane.
I couldn’t quit thinking of how I’d treated her replacement. Last night I saw
what I looked like when I lost my temper. It wasn’t epic; it was pathetic. No,
it was epically pathetic. That’s it.
I
sighed. More epic pathetic was just around the corner.
Calliel
exited Lory Hall via the back doors. There was a wide plaza back there, very
pleasant. Students sat under shade trees with open books, or on planters with
their various electronic devices, staring down at them. Two were tossing a
Frisbee at the far end. He watched them with a smile before continuing on. I
had no idea where he was going. He didn’t seem to have a destination.
His
smile disappeared. He said (to himself? to me?):
“I need your help.”
Was
he talking to me? Did he know I was attached to him? Could I somehow interact
with him, even though this was the past?
When
the silence stretched on, I said, “What do you want me to do?”
“Two
percent,” he said (to me?). He shook
his head.
I
remember that number. Two percent was the lousy chance that he could save me,
according to supernatural Google. He wasn’t talking to me. Was he praying?
(I
wondered: Who calculated that number? Other angels? Mathematician angels? Were
there actuaries in Heaven, or did it come from a higher source? How could he be
sure it was accurate? Was there a peer review process?)
“I’m
out of my element,” he murmured, continuing his walk. “Please grant me the
wisdom and courage to see this through. Please forgive me if I fail. I promise
I’ll give it my very best.”
He
glanced up from the sidewalk, looked left.
A
girl sat by herself under a sycamore. She wasn’t studying, but was watching the
Frisbee throwers. He brought his full focus to bear on her, then stepped into
the grass towards her. As he drew close she looked up at him. Her face was red.
She’d been crying. He crouched down, reached out and touched her knee.
She
flinched when he touched her, but didn’t draw away. “Who are you?” she asked.
“You
know who I am,” he said.
She
gaped, then shook her head as if to clear it. “No. You don’t exist. Go away.”
He
withdrew his hand, but he did not leave. “Sometimes life is unbearable, Katie.
It’s unfair. Sometimes there just isn’t any light in the world. That’s all
true. You’re going to have to learn to accept that. It isn’t easy. Suicide
won’t change that.”
“At
least then he’ll feel bad!” she cried.
He
shook his head. “He won’t. He’s a jerk. You don’t believe it now, but you’re
much better off without him.”
“He
used me!” she sobbed. “He used me and
threw me away like toilet paper!”
He
held out his hand. “Take it.”
She
collected herself. Very hesitantly, she reached and grasped it. He squeezed.
She
seemed to go somewhere else. Her red eyes went blank and closed, and her mouth
opened slightly. A full minute passed in silence.
She
came back, opened her eyes. She gaped, her jaw slack.
“Th-Thank
you,” she whispered. The tear that streaked down her cheek was nothing like its
predecessors. It glittered with surprise and hope.
“Yo!
What happened?” I shouted, frustrated. Did he just communicate with her
telepathically? Did he “heal” her somehow? Did he give her some hopeful vision?
“Damnit!”
“Think
nothing of it,” Calliel said, releasing her hand. He glanced right, at the
Frisbee-ers, or whatever you call them, and pointed. “See that good-lookin’
stallion with the Frisbee?”
She
looked, nodded. Amazement still colored her countenance.
“His
name is Jamie. His cell phone is dead. His friend doesn’t have one. Without a
working cell phone he’s going to miss a very important appointment. In about
six minutes he’s going to check his and discover he’s up the creek without a
paddle. Yours is charged up, isn’t it?”
“I
… I think so …”
He
stood. “He likes smart girls. He likes independent-minded girls. He likes girls
who refuse to be used, who stand on their own two feet. He’s been lookin’ over
here at you. He’s worried about you. He thinks you’re prettier n’ a sunset in
Heaven. He’s wondering if you’re his type. He’s had enough of the other kind.
You are, aren’t you, Katie? Are you his type?”
An
unsure moment passed. She nodded again.
“Everyone
makes mistakes,” he said. “So you made one with a jerk. You don’t need to make
another. Let it go.”
He
gazed at the student he somehow knew was named Jamie. She did, too.
“So,
Katie, the question is—” he looked back at her—“are you ready for a real
relationship and real love? Six minutes.”
He
gave her a wink, then turned and walked away.
Like
the kid outside Lory Hall did earlier, she gawked at his retreating back.
Before he got too far, she said, “Thank you … guardian angel.”
She
stood and collected herself. She took her cell phone out of her pack, checked
it, then turned her attention towards Jamie the Frisbee-thrower.
~~*~~
“Right
down the hall, third door on the left,” chirped Betty as Calliel closed the
door behind him.
He
gave her a quick smile and made his way to the hallway, turning right. He got
to my office door, which was closed (it was supposed to be open while I was in
it, per university dictates, but I’d refused to comply), and promptly gave it a
couple strong knocks.
I
remember those knocks. I remember them surprising me. Students’ knocks were
much softer and meeker; and most of my colleagues never bothered talking to me
one on one, choosing to do so only at staff meetings and the like.
I
heard myself say, “Yes?” I could hear the irritation in my voice, and wondered
if Calliel did, too.
He
opened the door.
I
was seated at my desk, reading glasses halfway down my nose. I wasn’t looking
at homework or planning a lecture; I was going through my bank statement. I was
sure there was an error (there wasn’t). I stared up.
“Dr.
Wilms?”
“Yes?”
I said again. The impatience suffusing that word made me squirm.
“Do
you have a minute, sir? I need to speak to you.”
Sir? He actually addressed me as sir? Why don’t I remember that?
He
took a couple steps in. I didn’t stand and offer him a seat; I didn’t ask his
name; I didn’t shake his hand; I didn’t turn in my swivel chair to let him know
I was going to give him my full attention. I just kept staring up at him.
“What
can I do for you?” I asked. It was obvious I wanted to do nothing for him.
I
waited, more important pen in hand.
I
stared down at me, embarrassed and ashamed. “You sad little fuckhead,” I said.
“Look at you.”
Calliel
went to close the door, but the great Dr. Wilms stopped him. “Please leave it
open.”
“What
I have to say you might want to hear in private,” Calliel offered.
“Leave
it open.”
I
had judged this man top to bottom within the first five seconds of seeing him.
Calliel looked like a hick in that white button-down shirt with the silly blue
snap buttons and the denim jeans and shitkickers. A dumb, dumb hick. He
probably hadn’t even graduated high school. Was he a parent of a student? Was
he some salesman, someone trying to get my vote, what?
He
glanced left out the door, then back at me. He set himself. He seemed to root
down like a redwood right there in my tiny office.
“All
right,” he said, very seriously. “Dr. Wilms … your life is nearly over.”
I
grimaced without blinking.
I
had honed that grimace over many years to deliver a full fatal dose of disdain
and contempt. I was as proud of its effect as I was anything. People did not screw
with Dr. Ray Wilms.
Looking
at it now, I did not feel cowed. I felt nauseating shame and even pity.
I
stood and pushed my reading glasses into my head. Usually that was the cue for
everyone in the immediate area to dive for cover.
Calliel
didn’t waver. I remember thinking that he had to be a zealot or simply too
ignorant to know the danger signs.
“What
did you say to me?” I demanded. I blinked with practiced gravitas, waiting.
“You’re
going to die soon,” he said gently. He was trying to keep his voice down.
“There’s no point dancin’ around the bush. Your life is almost over. I was sent
to save you.”
Yep.
A zealot. Worse: a lunatic.
“Get
out,” I ordered.
Calliel
didn’t move.
“Get
out or I’ll call the campus police.”
A
redwood. That’s what he was that moment.
I
reached for the phone. “Have it your way,” I said.
I
dialed as he watched me. He crossed his arms.
Shame
and pity. That’s all I could feel watching me say, “Yes. This is Dr. Wilms in
the Mathematics Department. I have an intruder in my office. Please come here
at once. Dr. Wilms, yes. Please hurry. Thank you.”
I
hung up.
“Get
out,” I repeated with more volume.
Calliel
said nothing.
“Get out!” I yelled. I remember being shaken by his silence.
“Out! Out!”
“We
can do this the easy way,” said Calliel with that same gentle-but-very-serious
tone, “or we can do it the hard way. Truth tell, I’m hopin’ you choose the hard
way. I like a challenge.”
“Who
the hell do you think you are?” I bellowed. My face had gone the same plum hue
it did when I humiliated the customer service agent at the cable company.
Floating over his shoulder, watching me (and scarcely able to), I cried: “Who
the hell do you think you are, you
fucking idiot? Jesus H. Christ! This is a goddamn angel sent to save your sorry ass! Listen! Listen!”
“My
name is Calliel. I was sent by God to save you before you died.”
The
great Dr. Wilms stared at him like he was violently insane. Calliel had dug
himself the deepest possible hole by being honest. It occurred to me that he
had also taken the best possible strategy by doing so. Don’t fuck around: tear
the patient’s shirt off and crank the voltage to maximum and let the sparks
fly. Two percent demanded nothing less.
“Betty!
BETTY! Get in here! I’ve got a lunatic in my office! BETTY! ANYBODY! ANYBODY!”
Betty
showed up in a breathless rush. “Good gracious!
What in the world is going on?”
She
stared at Calliel, who smiled over his shoulder at her.
The
city, not campus, police arrived seconds later. Two officers, a man and a
woman.
“Arrest
this man!” I shrieked. “He’s a dangerous lunatic! Arrest him!”
Several
more of the staff showed up. They watched, wide-eyed, over the cops’ shoulders.
“What’s
going on?” demanded the woman cop.
“Best
arrest me,” Calliel told her, “because I’m not done with this man by a damn
sight.”
Floating
over his shoulder, I shuddered. He wasn’t.
The
great Dr. Wilms blew a gasket.
“THREATS! HE JUST THREATENED ME! I WANT THIS MAN CHARGED WITH MENACING! MENACING!”
They
cuffed Calliel and led him out. He offered no resistance.
I
wasn’t done shrieking.
“PUT HIM AWAY AND THROW AWAY THE
KEY! PEOPLE LIKE HIM SHOULDN’T BE ALLOWED IN SOCIETY! GET HELP, YOU SICK
ASSHOLE! YOU NEED HELP! DO YOU HEAR ME? YOU NEED HELP!”
I did indeed.Chapter Five
~~*~~