Free Attic Clowns: Volume Four by Jeremy Shipp

The Ascension of Globcow the Foot Eater
     
     
     
    I am no Seraph, and my work is not at all integral to the smooth running of the Universe. Nevertheless, I take pride in what I do. And why should I not? Albert Einstein would not have lived to the ripe old age of seventy-six had I not entered his mind and convinced him to exit the park before the crazed killer arrived. Did I not, at one point or another, prevent the unsanctioned deaths of Charles Dickens, Annie Oakley, and Ronald Reagan? I have, of course, saved the lives of unknown but equally precious individuals. However, their names are not as easy to recall.
    Obviously, I would not call myself extraordinary in any shape or form. I merely make a habit of sacrificing my own desires and creature comforts for the good of humanity. Maintaining such an extreme level of selflessness can wreak havoc on my mind and body, as you might imagine. I sleep very little, and I rarely allow myself time to socialize with my colleagues. There are times when I feel disheartened by the solitude of my work, but I would not change anything in my life for a thousand close friends.
    Once in a great while, lest exhaustion consume my very soul, I give myself permission to step away from my desk and stand at the window of my Attic. Now is such a moment. With my weather-beaten hands resting on the wooden pane, I look out at the darkness beyond. Outside, countless souls swarm like fireflies in the blackness of the Maker’s Womb. The little lights arc and spiral and zigzag. At times, two or more souls collide with one another and they burst with ecstatic green sparks. The erratic dance of the spirits lulls me into a state of childlike awe.
    If you were to see me gazing out of the window like this, you might imagine that I am unhappy with my lot in life. You might even go so far as to perceive me as some kind of prisoner, and this attic as my cell. However, let me assure you that nothing could be further from the truth. The fact of the matter is that I almost pity the souls swimming outside these walls. It is true that they alone will know the everlasting peace that comes with being immersed in the Maker’s Love, but what good is peace without hardships to compare it to? Those souls outside cannot even recall what suffering feels like. They do not appreciate what they have. For that, I am perfectly content where I am.
    As soon as my five minute break is over, I return to my desk and discover a luminous letter from Archangel Geltharidge. She wants to see me immediately. I sigh. This is yet another problem caused by the severity of my dedication to my job. My superiors find themselves so impressed by my devotion that they feel the need to bathe me continuously with needless flattery. Take last year’s mandatory gala, for example. Archangel Coronorth wrapped his pale arm around me and said, “Zabareth, you are one of the finest angels I have ever known.” Those were his exact words. You can image that moments such as these, which I am forced to suffer often, are almost too embarrassing to bear.
    I cross my Attic and approach the Everydoor, which is, for the time being, a gray door with the word “Geltharidge” printed on the frosted glass. Through the glass, I can see the Archangel’s fedora-topped silhouette. Once inside the office, the scents of cigarettes and hard liquor assault my nostrils. And, as always, Geltharidge has chosen to color her Attic and herself solely in shades of gray. I would not go so far as to say that Geltharidge is unprofessional, but I will say that were I in her place, I would make a concerted effort to choose for my workspace a form of reality that would accurately reflect the importance of my position.
    As usual, I find Geltharidge standing behind her desk, peeking through the open blinds of her window. Her attire consists of the fedora that I already mentioned, as well as a dark overcoat and trousers. The room is so poorly lit that I can hardly see her, aside from the