“You know that’s bad for your eyes,” I said.
“What?”
“Squinting like that. Also gives you headaches. And it makes you look like you’re pushing an infant out your butthole. You ever think about getting glasses? It’ll probably help with the whole nerd thing you’re going for.”
Xander rubbed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. It creaked under his massive frame. “What do you think?” he asked, placing his hands behind his head.
I paused to think about what I thought. “I think that tomatoes taste better when they’re pan fried, but they leave a nasty mess on the pan, and I hate cleaning that up. So, I never fry my tomatoes, which makes me a little sad.”
Old Buzzkill McGee didn’t even bat an eye. Apparently, he had learned to tune out my commentary. I wondered how he did it. I wouldn’t mind that skill—drowning out my thoughts. The silence would be welcoming amongst the constant chatter. Anyway, he didn’t have a single comment about cooked or uncooked tomatoes, which irked me since I’d shared my deep and personal thoughts about them. Instead, he leaned his head further back and stared at the ceiling.
“Do you trust him?”
“Who? Gladas? How do you not trust a face like that? Imagine if Brad Pitt had strolled into this room today. Would you be asking if I trusted him? Not at all. And, in my humble opinion, Gladas has the better jawline. So, what’s not to trust?”
“Most people that come in here don’t want law enforcement catching wind of their problem, or law enforcement has dismissed them already. Either way, they’re nervous about their claim—nervous that we’ll out them to law enforcement, or nervous that we’ll dismiss them if they tell their complete story, as the police or sheriff’s department has probably already done. Not only that, but he was almost too agreeable with the finances, as if he doesn’t plan to pay out.”
“So, you don’t trust Gladas because he barely hesitated long enough to scratch his balls when you told him about that condition, and he wants to pay you a shit-ton of money? That’s the gist of it?”
Xander sighed. He leaned forward, stood from his chair, and ambled toward the bookshelf filled with coffee cups. “It’s deeper than that. It’s about my pact.”
“Oh, Lord save us all,” I said.
“You know how it works.”
I did, but his explanations and my understanding were super vague, and I only became more confused when he tried to clarify. I understood he worked under the guidance of the Archangel, Gabriel, whatever that meant, and he didn’t have innate magic. His divine pact imbued him with power against darkness and evil. Whenever he tried to explain it to me, his abilities sounded a lot like a superhero’s—faster and stronger than your average human—with a lot of luck involved, similar to Luke Skywalker getting shot at by an army of Stormtroopers.
“You’ve told me,” I said, tapping Henrietta against my temple, “only a handful of humans throughout history have received an Archangel’s blessing, right? Moses. Jesus, of course. Joan of Arc. Van Helsing.” I clicked my tongue, reaching for more names. “Cotton Mather. And you. Am I missing anyone?”
“A few. But that’s not the point. You know it’s rare to receive it. But what else do you know about it? Do you know how it works?”
“I won’t lie to you, Jesus Number Two. I have a clue, but at the same time, I don’t have any idea. I do have a feeling you’re about to enlighten me, though.”
Prepare yourself for an expository monologue, here. If you need to pee or refill your popcorn, this might be a good time to leave the auditorium.
“Everything is intuitive with it,” Xander said, turning from the bookshelf. “That’s why we’re instructed to meditate—to pray. It clears our minds and allows us to connect with our Seraphim—our Archangel. That’s how Samson knew when to pull on the columns. How Jesus knew how to feed five thousand and walk on water. We hear when we need to hear, but we have to know how to listen.”
“That makes a lot of sense,” I said. “Quick question, though. Should I be taking notes on this? Will there a be quiz?”
“My sacred pact is meant to level the playing field between good and evil. If I fight for justice, I’m not protected by Gabriel, though I’m granted an edge. If a Demon ever reenters the world, I’ve offered myself to Gabriel to possess my body and fight against the darkness. Until then, I’m used to prevent that from happening—and he speaks to me, directing me to my purpose.”
“Wow,” I said. “Can you baptize me now, or do I have to take classes?”
“There was a feeling when Gladas—”
“You felt that, too? Thank Jehovah. I thought I was the only one who felt something for Gladas. He’s a very handsome man.”
Moving the single-sided conversation forward without any recognition that my voice had occupied the room, Xander said, “A feeling that Gabriel is pulling me in a certain direction.”
“Well, it’s a good thing you do all that listening practice.”
“As soon as Gladas returned to my office after the phone call, as soon as he asked for my help, my Seraphim spoke to me loud and clear.”
Okay, I know what you’re thinking about Xander’s whole following God’s direction and purpose-filled life mumbo jumbo—that he’s fruitier than a hazelnut on an Oregon dairy farm. And you’re absolutely right. In all honesty, he’s about two grapes shy of a fruit platter, if you know what I’m getting at. And his whole “Jesus is my BFF” and “God is my safari guide through this dangerous little jungle called life” gig grew quite irksome, quite often. It’s like, ‘I get it, dude. You have a hard-on for red letters in a
