Ineffable

DC

February 2020

Aziraphale rarely went to Washington, DC. He avoided the place, to tell the truth. It was a city infused with corruption, going back to its foundation. Washington had started as part of a compromise to appease southern slaveholders, not to mention to make certain landowners bundles of cash. Built on a drained swamp, summers were unbearable here. But it wasn't too bad in February. The sun shone, a gentle breeze wafted through the bare cherry trees, that would be a shower of blossoms in just a few months. A few early daffodils poked their yellow heads up into the wintry sunshine.

He spent the day taking in the sights, doing a little good where he could. A homeless man in a wheelchair found a twenty dollar bill on the ground, a harried carreer woman decided to skip her afternoon meeting to attend her son's soccer game. He spent some time in the halls of Congress. Lobbyists tripped on the capitol steps, lost their pens. Their cell phones ran out of charge and shut down. Mitch McConnell decided to give his daughter a call, and a hint of a smile played over his usually scowling face for the rest of the day. He spent a few minutes staring out the window of his office, admiring the view and wondering what would happen if all those "climate alarmists" were actually right.

As evening fell, Aziraphale made his way down the mall to the Lincoln memorial. It was his favorite place in DC: the seated statue of Lincoln, looking serenely out on the world, the quotes on the walls with their message of unity, freedom and hope that never failed to give him the chills. The city was lit up like a carnival. The buildings glowed white, illuminated by floodlights.

A chilly wind was blowing off the Potomac and the memorial was deserted. Aziraphale sat in the dusk and stared at the kind face of Abraham Lincoln for a long time. He thought of all the man had endured. He had liked Lincoln, and been beside him for some of his darkest hours, filling him with gentle encouragement, helping him to do the right thing.

He thought of the chaos and corruption of the Trump White House. "It's not exactly the future we imagined, old friend," he said.

Aziraphale had a decision to make. He looked into the eyes of Lincoln, that sad, good man, whose life had been cut short so violently.

"What should I do?" he whispered. "I love him. I'm miserable without him. But I'm afraid."

The marble statue, cool and impassive, gave him no answer.

"I can't stand this....indecision!" he declared. Perhaps he should pray? He put his hands together, and bowed his head in supplication. "Heavenly father...." he began. He made a pretty picture, the angel praying, head bowed, before the statue of the great man. It was possible, on close inspection, to see the faint outline of his wings.

When he was done praying he got up and shook himself. He walked down the marble steps of the memorial and headed across the mall. He walked up Pennsylvania Avenue and turned in at the Waldorf Astoria Hotel. He did not know what he was going to say, but he was determined to resolve things one way or another.

*******

Crowley sat in his hotel suite watching television, drinking bourbon, smoking. Outside his room, the sounds of rush hour traffic drifted up from Pennsylvania Avenue. The news was bad, all bad. Covid-19 was spreading rapidly. China was the worst......but the virus was wreaking havoc in Italy and the UK as well. Dr. Li Wenliang, one of the early whistleblowers in the pandemic, was dead. The Princess cruise ship was quarantined in Yokohama. A smattering of cases had broken out in the US. The government was assuring people that they had the situation under control and there was nothing to worry about.

They were extremely pleased with his work at the home office in Hell.

He poured himself another bourbon. He had done his job, and the world was about to fall apart around him.