Noir Angel

Being an angel.

Forget any romantic notions you may harbor, this is a grimy, thankless, often futile gig. We have far more in common with beat down, noirish detectives than with the idealized creatures of light with rippling muscles and a fifteen foot wingspan. What do we need wings for, we're spiritual beings.

City angels. We got it worst of all. Angels in third world countries, nations under oppressive regimes, nations at war - those angels have real jobs to do, real pain to comfort, real suffering to console. Me, in the city? I got people late for work praying about traffic. I got cheating husbands praying their wives don't find out. I got vanity cases praying their nose job (their third and last one, they promise) turns out okay.

And there ain't no gratitude, none whatsoever. I help someone find their car keys or their cell phone - big deal. My friend down in Darfur, he saves a family from rebel or government soldiers and prayers of thanks abound.

But I wouldn't trade places with them even if I could. See, the trick is to find the meaning and the joy in the place where you are, not where you want to be. And how do I do that?

Couple weeks ago there was this kid, Andy. He starts praying all this stuff about Playstation this, X-Box that. I mean this kid is already spoiled dirty rotten stink. He throws away more toys in a month than most kids (even other middle class ones like him) get to own their whole lives. There are only three toys that Andy has kept for more than a year: