Picture entitled: Dark Angel Rising © by John D. Stanton 2006 www.3AMBlue.com.
ANGEL IN BLUE JEANS
by Apryl Fox © 2007
Journalists did not live a life of luxury, and Matt Salone knew this all too well. When he was at home, he ate three square meals a day. Out here, among the elements, he was not so lucky. When he was not working on a story for the “New England Gazette,” he was eating food from a suitcase, or asking for directions from a coke-eyed hippie at a smelly gas station in Connecticut or Vermont.
“Matt, I want you to cover a story about the paranormal this week,” his boss, Trevor Lee, informed him one cold morning in February.
“But, Mr. Lee,” he protested, “I don't believe in that stuff.”
“Neither do I,” Mr. Lee answered, shaking his head. “I know it isn't what you normally write, but we're losing readers here. Just get some whack-job who to say he was abducted by Big Foot. We'll run the story on page three.”
“Yes, sir,” Matt replied, defeated.
During his lunch break on Monday, he talked to Phillip Brewster, the sports writer who had a soft-spoken voice. Phillip filled him in on a story he overheard at the bar last night, about a seventy-five year old retired banker named Henry who claimed an angel had saved his life.
Matt was intrigued by the story.
“Where can I find this guy?” he asked. “If I'm lucky, Mr. Lee will move the story to the front page.”
Phillip gave him Henry's number, and he called the old man right away.
“The angel was beautiful,” Henry said over the phone . “She was the one who saved me from the burning house.”
Matt wanted to talk to Henry in person. The old man gave him directions to his house, and Matt set out on his quest.
It was four-oh-clock in the afternoon when he finally arrived in Orsonville. He pulled into the nearest gas station. “Would you like me to fill her up?” the clerk asked him in a smooth, Southern drawl.
Matt shook his head. “I don't need gas. Do you know where I can find the mobile home park?”
“You turn onto Seller Street, and drive for two blocks. The mobile home park is the first driveway on the left. You can't miss it.”
“Thanks a lot.”
A few minutes later, Matt pulled the car into the driveway at 401 Hempton Street. The place was small and run-down and weeds were growing in the yard.
The journalist walked up to the front porch and knocked.
No answer.
Matt sighed. He should have known it was a waste of time to come all the way out here. He walked back to the car.
An overweight black woman with pink curlers in her hair, was getting the newspaper from the front lawn. “Hey!” she called.
Hay is for horses, Matt thought, and grinned.
“Are you lookin' fo' Henry Nicholas?”
The journalist nodded.
“He ain't here no mo.'”
“Where can I find him?”
The woman shook her head. “Thass not wha' I mean. He died lass night, in his sleep.”
“What did he die from?”
The woman shrugged. “Heart attack, I'm guessin.' It's kind of sad, the angel saved him from a fire, but she could not save him from a broken heart.”
Feeling sad, and somewhat detached, he got into the car and started to drive home. It was not long before he came to the Interstate. He was about to turn onto Brokedown Street, when the car hit a large pot hole.
The car rattled like mad. Black dots appeared in front of his eyes, and it felt like hours before the Chevrolet came to a full stop. Matt, shaken but unhurt, got out of the car to inspect the damage. “Why the hell did I take out the tire last week?” he swore.
If only I had a cell phone, he mourned, then I could call for help.
Matt was one of the few men who has not yet joined the technical age. He wrote all of his journalism stories on an old, electric typewriter he found in the attic, and his seventeen-year-old cousin knew more about computers than he did .
Matt pulled a cigarette out of his pocket . If I'm going to be here for awhile, he thought, I might as well take advantage of the situation.
* * *
A sound in the distance roused his attention, and he dropped the cigarette in the gravel. Someone was coming towards him, and coming fast, and he watched as a red Ferrari pulled up beside him. A drop-dead gorgeous woman stepped out of the car. She had long, black hair, tight blue jeans, and a black leather jacket.
“You in trouble?” she asked cheerfully.
“Yeah,” he answered. “My tire blew out, and I don't have a spare.”
“I think I have an extra tire in the trunk.” She went around to the back of the Ferrari, got a spare out of the trunk, and put it on the ground beside him. “Do you know how to put it on your car?”
He swallowed and nodded. “Yeah, I do. Thank you so much for stopping.”
“No problem,” the woman assured him with a smile. “Sorry I can't stay and chat, but I gotta get going.”
She started to drive away, but Matt stopped her. “Wait a minute. I don't even know your name.”
“My name is Angel,” she told him.
Angel got into the Ferarri and drove away without another word.
I wonder if that's just a coincidence, he told himself. Yeah, right.
Suddenly, a shadow passed over the sun, and looked up at the sky. It was almost sunset. The sky was a beautiful array of colors, and, in the center of the sunset, between the horizon and the melting sun, was a glittering shadow. It looked like an angel, with wings. He could almost picture the halo around its head.
Hey, the old man was right, Matt thought, chuckling. He was glad he had come.
