Doomed

I wait. There it is, my greatest weakness: hope.

“God cast you down unto the Pit not because you are vile, but because God knows you are strong,” says Festus. “God knows you are brilliant and courageous and that you are not weak and would not be debased by the torments which destroy weaker souls….” Festus rises and hovers, fluttering in the air near my face. “Since the beginning of time God has intended for you to be His emissary into perdition.”

God, Festus explains, knows that I’m pure-hearted.

God recognizes that I’m exceptional. He believes me to be sweet and smart and kind. God does not think I’m fat. He wants me to be his supersecret double agent.

Like nothing so much as a celestial version of Darwin’s annoying little finches, Festus jets and darts in his golden fairy excitement, finally taking up a perch on my shoulder. Standing parrot-style beside my ear, he says, “God beseeches you to prevent a grave impending catastrophe.”

DECEMBER 21, 1:28 P.M. HAST My Date with an Angel

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Gentle Tweeter,

Even now storm clouds gather in the sky above the Pangaea Crusader. Clouds the color of blue lead, the color my mouth sees when I chew on a graphite pencil, these race toward Madlantis from every horizon, a dark canopy so low that the yacht feels sandwiched between this, this oppressive black ceiling and the gleaming, cotton-colored, plumped-polymer dreamscape. And, no, it is not lost on me that my situation is so like the seafaring Beagle adventures of Mr. Darwin. The both of us: boldly cast upon the cruel Pacific to seek our destinies. Being Mr. Darwin’s supernaturalist successor, I steel myself to bear witness even as Mr. K paces the passageway outside my locked stateroom door. Even while my upstate squire reveals his divine truths unto me.

“Fear not, Miss Madison,” says he. In my sealed stateroom full of stuffed animals and shed cat hair and dead fleas, the angel Festus says, “God has decreed your existence and God dictates your every perfect thought and action.”

Angel Festus glows with a soft pink light, like a Park Avenue lamp shade lined with cerise silk, and his light flatters everything upon which it shines: the unread copy of Our Bodies, Ourselves on my bedside table, obviously a gift, the spine unbroken… a dog-eared copy of The Joy of French Cooking, my own favorite bedtime reading… a silver-framed photograph of my parents grinning naked on an eco-resort beach in Cambodia. Weensy Festus, his angelic features, his fingers as well as his nose and cleft chin, look to have been piped from a pastry bag filled with butter-cream frosting.

As he speaks, his open expression suggests the delicious invitation of a pastry cart, a bakery window, a box of chocolates. “God has gifted you with travails—not to test you, but to prove to you your own innate strength.” His voice is as soft yet as robust as the ocean swells; his words sound as faint as thunder rolling from some great distance.

“God brings all spirits into mortal bodies so they might test themselves and more fully comprehend their own power,” explains this pint-size beau, the upstate cow manure still clinging to his booted appendages.

From beyond the locked stateroom door, another voice shouts, “Angel Madison! Where are you?” A sputtering barrage of flatulence follows, the so-called “Hail, Maddy” of a devoted Boorist. That voice, the quavering vibrato of Mr. K, continues, “I’m really needing to talk to you!”

As Festus explains it, the rapid growth of Hell in recent history is beginning to unnerve God. At current earthly levels of rudeness and uncouth behavior, nearly all souls are damned. “Precious souls as young as three or four, raised on the misplaced multicultural priorities of Sesame Street,” he claims, “are doomed before they even enter the godless morass of the public school system.” In comparison, he says, the flow through the Pearly Gates has slowed to a trickle, and God worries that soon Heaven will be rendered irrelevant, nothing more than a quaint ghetto populated by a few squeaky-clean products of homeschooling. If some global cataclysm were to wipe out humanity at this moment in history, all souls would go to Hell. No one would be left to breed on Earth. Satan would win, and God would be humiliated.

Therefore, God had used me to infiltrate Hell. Meaning: I am God’s secret agent, and even I didn’t know my own strategic undercover purpose.

In the burdened silence that follows, I ask, “Why doesn’t God like Sesame Street?”

“Yours, Miss Madison, is a singular perfection like the flame of a candle,” insists Festus. “This is the reason God cast you into the inferno. And why God set you in battle against the worst souls in human history, and why in all of these trials were you victorious.” So passionately does Festus deliver this speech. So vehemently. His corn- fed frame fairly dances within his Sunday-school clothing.

Simultaneously, heavy seas lift Madlantis and drop us. Stuttering flashes of lightning flash blazing Morse code in the portholes. Ye gods. All is turmoil without.

“God almighty does not labor to create souls simply for Satan to steal them away,” says Festus, his eyes bright with reflected lightning.

The angel says it’s my purpose to vanquish Satan and to rebuild God’s church on Earth. To roll back legal access to safe on-demand abortion and birth control… to righteously forbid marriage between sodomites… and to end the financial drain of welfare entitlement programs.

“You will be God’s flaming sword of punishment!” This sturdy man-boy angel, his fists raised above his blond head, he flares like an arc, a spark, a stubby bolt of divine fire. His hummingbird wings buzz. His shouts ringing loud as cathedral bells, he exclaims, “Join us, Miss Madison! Join us and rejoice!”

Meaning: I’m supposed to thrash Satan and cut funding for public television. Meaning: I’m conflicted here.

And no, Gentle Tweeter, I might be somewhat enamored of my angelic suitor and his flattering message, but I am not deaf to the draconian objectives he describes. It’s enticing, the idea of myself as a messianic figure, the hand of an omniscient savior, but not if it means I have to be a dick. In reasonable protest, I insist, “I can’t! I can’t best Satan! He’s too powerful!”

“Nay,” my barnyard Romeo says, “but you already have!”

“What?” say I.

“You’ve already once bested the Prince of Darkness!”

I haven’t a clue what my postalive, postfarmer boyfriend is talking about.

“Angel Madison,” bellows the voice from the hallway. “We’re running out of time!”

“The end of the world is scheduled for three o’clock this very afternoon,” says Festus.

According to my noncounterfeit Rolex, it’s already one thirty.

DECEMBER 21, 1:30 P.M. HAST Dictating a Desperate Edict

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Gentle Tweeter,

From the portholes of my stateroom aboard the Pangaea Crusader, the view in all directions is clear rain pelting polished white. Everything is crashes of blue lightning like blinks of crooked color, like towering neon signs that advertise God’s wrath. These flashes illuminate the polystyrene hills and plains that stretch toward every horizon. Unbridled winds lash.

The stateroom door is still locked, but a luminous blue figure slowly enters. At first the blue is a pale glow swelling in the center of the door, bleeding through the wood; then it’s a blue stomach lined up and down with a vertical row of shirt buttons. Following that, much higher on the door, the tips of a blue chin and a blue nose