Cleophus (standard:fantasy, 2510 words)
Author: Alpha43	Added: Apr 15 2005	Views/Reads: 3343/2325	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
This story does not directly challenge religion, but it does feature one of Gods messengers, an angel, who has made a drastic screw-up. Can Angels make mistakes?

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story


Slowly I raised and turned my head towards the center of the lagoon, the
spot where the voice seemed to emanate from. The lagoon sludge level 
was eight feet below the surrounding terrain, and in that undisturbed 
atmosphere directly above the sludge, misty wisps of fog lazily 
corkscrewed up through the cool morning air. One of those wisps was 
wearing a pair of sunglasses. 

Bladder control was once again considered as I consciously forced my
gaping mouth closed, and I actually drifted off momentarily, 
considering my emotional and mental health. I had heard a voice and had 
a visual encounter. I had a difficult time justifying these events, but 
no medical excuses came to mind, therefore, they must really be 
happening. 

Reality slammed back at me when the sunglasses turned in my direction
and I heard “This surely ain’t right, but you’s OK.” Through the 
buzzing in my head, I heard mumbling that included some verbiage that 
was very similar to common curse words. 

I got a grip and managed to peer back into the mist. Quivering glimpses
revealed a silver streaked goatee and pencil thin mustache on a very 
shadowy face. It also appeared that just above the sunglasses, cocked 
to the left, sat a dark gray beret. All this faded in and out with the 
fog and mist. 

Not all of these events are perfectly recalled; there were numerous
lapses. Suddenly, I realized I was sitting down. I don’t think I fell 
down, but I do vividly recall the temperature of the morning dew 
soaking through my jeans and underwear. Momentarily, the vision was 
gone, but then I thought I saw the glint of a gold tooth. 

I was floating mentally, recalling my childhood and conversations with
my mother. During this sanity time-out, I suddenly remembered the name 
of my first pet bulldog, Bing, some fifty years ago. My long deceased 
Uncle Ferdy was just coming into focus when I was asked, “Yo! Mister, 
is yo name Miller?” Then “where I is?” 

My mouth was suddenly coated with alum, topped off with at least a half
a cup of sawdust. I was speechless, with my first verbal effort 
resembling a slow leak in a beachball. Eventually, I uttered one 
distinct word, “Ah”, followed by, “er” and another, “ah”. Then I heard 
myself saying, “are, are you talking to me?” Even in my befuddled 
state, I realized the profound stupidity of my question and was 
actually embarrassed, so I quickly followed with these facts, “We are 
in Hodmiller Township, Montmorency County, Michigan, at the Cleftis 
lagoon site.” There was at least a ten-second pause. 

“Damn, Damn, Double Damn! What is a Cleftis? I is Cleophus, not Cleftis,
and I supposed to be with a Howard Miller at Laguna Beach, south of 
Monterey, not at a lagoon in Mont-what’s its name. My first solo and I 
blows it, two and a half years of apprenticeship right down de drain. 
Ooh-eee, I in deep crap and short cotton! Damn!” 

The pink of the dawn sky was adding some yellow streaks, and I could
make out a few more details about this vision. He was an older black 
man who spoke with a melodic bayou dialect, and he was pacing across 
the sloppy goo and sludge like he was waltzing on K-Mart’s parking lot. 
He was marching on pure slop, but his shoes and clothing were spotless. 
He was making references to the bossman, ‘Mr. Peter,’ who would never 
let him back in, especially empty-handed. 

“I has to be back up there before dat sun comes up, and I best be
escorting Mr. Howard Miller, dee-ceased. Ain’t no escort ever missed 
before,” he said pacing away from me, but now the beret was gone and he 
was wearing a straw Panama hat and the flashy sunglasses were missing. 

“How can a ‘Class A-1 Special Escort’ miss?” This time he had his hands
locked behind his back, pacing towards me, and he was smoking a large 
black cigar that was not there the last time he faced me. 

“Did you say I in Minnesota?” he asked, pointing his cigar at me. 

“No, Michigan,” I answered, noticing a vortex, or slight swirl of the
fog, forming at his black leather brogans. I was hearing a whirling 
sound. 

“Mich-gun, dats even worse yet. How in de hell did I wind up in
Mich-gun? Oh daddy, there be no crawfish in de gumbo tonight!” 

Things were happening fast. Also, the Panama hat was gone and, believe
it or not, he was wearing a maroon WWI leather aviator cap, the ones 
with the goggles. The fog was gaining speed as it swirled and started 
to form a mini-funnel. There was a slight rumble growing that joined 
the high-pitched wind whistle from before. 

“Can I ask you where you are from Cleophus?” I sheepishly inquired. 

“I was born in La Fouche, in a Parish south of – I ain’t got time for
this shit, boy. I gonna be living in the basement of a one-hole 
outhouse if I don’t come up with somet’ing fast!” 

His stubble had grown to over an inch of beard in the last few minutes,
distorting his goatee and covering his mustache. His baggy zoot-suit 
pants had been replaced with Cavalry britches and get this, he was 
wearing a bright orange pilots scarf, and it was standing straight out 
because the vortex was beginning to spin at high velocity. 

The wind noise was overpowering and the rest of his statements were only
partially understood. Something about – 

“I told that escort dispatcher I was no good at penmanship. If that
place is perfection, why do we need to fill out all those forms? 

“My ass can kiss those Pearly Gates goodbye!” 

“Last week, Hector came back late from a retrieval in Memphis and his
flight leader called him ‘lower dan whale poop, and dat be on de bottom 
of de ocean’. What you tink dey gonna call me? I’d rather have a 
Cottonmouth in my shorts than face ...” 

The sky was gaining in brilliance, with a streak of nearly blinding
bright yellow-white that occurs just before you can see the first 
sliver of the sun. 

Some of the less viscous sludge material was airborne, spinning and
splattering me and the weeds. The fast turning wind funnel was covering 
Cleophus from his chest down, and he was sputtering and contorting his 
face, seemingly unaware of the gale-force winds surrounding him. 

“If I got’s to go back to shinning halos again, losing my flight ticket,
I be lower than snake dodo ...” The proverbial freight train sound was 
starting to vibrate the earth. 

“You’d tink that place would have computerized dispatch, direct deposit
of escorts. No, no, no! Dat would be too easy; fill out a routing form, 
enter a dispatch preference, pre-register the new arrival, fill out 
three housing forms, paperwork I hates...” I spotted numerous sparkles 
from the pink predawn light reflecting off Cleophus’s gold capped 
teeth. 

This man, soul, or whatever, was in a tirade over workplace
technicalities, while standing in the middle of a miniature tornado. 
Every nerve ending in my body was at full alert. 

Just like a spotlight, the sun made it’s entry into the new day, a
blinding ray of glory, and after a quick glance at that golden beam, I 
turned back to the lagoon, finding nothing but the calm steamy vapors, 
slowly drifting upward. Silence. The quiet was almost painful. 

Now, they found me staring at the lagoon, wet and sludge splattered.
Later, I told a lie, telling my operators and laborers that I skidded 
down the lagoon bank, nearly sliding into the goo. That explained the 
wet bluejeans, but the gang kept asking throughout the day if I was all 
right? I spent lunch break sitting on the lagoon bank, and I arrived 
extra early each morning, hoping for another chance at Cleophus. 
Eventually I realized that Cleophus never wanted to be here in the 
first place, and chances of a return visit were non-existent. 
Depression was a way of life for some time. 

This is the only accounting of that strange event. I wouldn’t dare
relate this tale and hope to be allowed out in public. Eventually, I 
actually started going two or three days in a row without thinking of 
that bizarre heavenly foul up. Occasionally, I would daydream, trying 
to imagine how Cleophus explained away his failure. I supposed that 
mystical event would someday fade away, but for a long time, I would 
ruin a fresh shirt every time I recalled the events of that morning. 

They say time heals all wounds, and my sanity was most definitely
wounded that autumn morning, but eventually I stopped having 
nightmares. I rationalized that I must have been in a stupor or I might 
have let my imagination run wild. Everything I thought I saw was in 
poor light, shadows, fog, and mist; your imagination can do strange 
things under those conditions. The event was no longer a weekly or even 
monthly nuisance. Besides, they don’t actually send down escorts, do 
they? 

I had myself convinced that things like that just do not happen. The
last eight years have been peaceful, knowing that event was a cerebral 
short-circuit, persuading me it did not actually occur. Retiring for 
the night had once again become a pleasure over the last few years. 

But tonight, Oh my God, tonight might well be a sleepless and
nerve-racking experience. This morning, at the High Point Community 
Center, I met a heavy-set woman in a wheelchair, Miss Cynthia, who was 
new to the neighborhood and was considering membership in our group. 
The jovial Miss Cynthia had a definite Creole accent and seemed so 
jolly talking about the bayou lifestyle and Cajun customs, the group 
truly enjoyed her company. 

She used several of the same “Coon-Ass” expressions I thought Cleophus
had uttered in his frustration, but then, I’m quite sure he didn’t 
really exist. I caught her looking at me several times that afternoon, 
flashing me a wide gold toothed smile. 

Miss Cynthia made sure that she visited with each of the seniors, asking
questions and extracting personal details with what I thought was more 
than a passing interest. Then Miss Cynthia bid us farewell, and several 
of us helped wheel her out of the facility at the end of the day. 

Helping her outside I halted midway down the ramp when I noticed she was
using an orange pilots scarf for a lap blanket. The difficulty in 
breathing came when I spotted the back pouch of that wheelchair, just 
barely making out the maroon leather chin-strap of an old aviation 
helmet, the kind with goggles. 


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