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Spike, G.A. Chronicles #1

By

Anna M

   Ya wanna know what happens when you hack off a drill instructor in the Guardian Angel Academy? Lemme tell ya. Don’t do it. Let me repeat that: don’t do it! You wanna know why? Because you’ll end up like I did. Hi, I’m Spike, an official, certified, under-assisted, overly stressed out, and on the verge of insane Guardian Angel. Oh…where was I? Yeah, hacking off a drill instructor. See, on Earth, before my "departure," I was a pretty happenin’ guy, despite the fact that I earned my nickname not from the crowd I hung with but from my mom who said I had one little spike of fiery red hair on my crown as a baby. The rest of my head was as bald as my butt. Anyway, I drove a little too fast, laughed a little too loud, pulled one too many pranks, and generally thought life was for living rather than sitting around in a rocking chair under an afghan. So I thought when I got to Afterlife Central, I was gonna party for all eternity, right? Wrong. Almost immediately got drafted into the G.A. program. So then my ego suddenly exceeded my IQ by a factor of ten. Not supposed to be pride in Heaven? Blasted that little rule right out of the water. Carried that ego right into the Academy and up against Clarence himself. You know Clarence. He had the job of convincing that George Bailey guy that he had such a ‘wonderful life.’ Well, I’d heard that story one too many times: heck, they made a movie about it on Earth and kept playin’ it over and over again from November through January. So I worked up the idea that Clarence was a sissy and that I wanted more excitement if I was gonna really get into this G.A. business. Made the supreme mistake of saying this in Clarence’s presence during one particularly boring class on Procedure of Interference. He just got this toothy grin on his face, made a few, gosh-shucks-noises, and the next thing I know I’m perched on top of this flying red hell-wagon of a car under the piercing stare of a Southern California sun.

   When I first discovered I was assigned to two plain-clothes police detectives just a little older than me, I hooped and hollered with delight. Yeah, man, now this was far out! Like having my own little police action drama, right? I preened the imaginary feathers of the wings I knew would be mine lickety-split and marched around with my two undercover cops like I was big stuff. Found out the very next day that the joke was on me. I snagged a break while they were arguing over where to eat lunch and busied myself flirting with the guardian angel of another cop, some Linda Baylor lady. Her G.A. is this really, really cute young thing with short blonde hair and a flapper dress: yeah, she made her "departure" during the middle of the Roarin’ Twenties. Anyway, had we met on Earth I would definitely have pursued this bundle of sauciness and sly innocence. But as it was, I got to pick her brain about my job…and found out that Clarence was probably rolling on the Streets of Gold with laughter about now. See, I’d inherited this assignment because their previous G.A. had quit. Yes, quit. Approached the G.A. Commissioner and refused to stay another single day. Apparently he’d been through a bomb in the trunk of a stolen car, a decoy witness protection stint, an involuntary heroin addiction, an attempted mob assassination, cults, an overturned car down a ravine, poisoning, a Plague for crying out loud—and that was just on the job! I got the feeling from my informant that I was only being told about the highlights. Excitement, Hades! I felt like kicking myself and then bending over for Clarence to kick me one, too.

   So when the radio call came in that two robbery suspects were putting forth an impressive high-speed chase, and Curly Hair Cop slammed his foot down on the gas, I knew we were in for it. Now Blondie is another matter. He’s the voice of reason in the partnership. I could tell that right away. So feeling like a first-class hypocrite for all the times I didn’t listen when someone in my passenger seat asked me to get reacquainted with the brake pedal, I found myself hoping Curly Hair would heed Tall-Cool-Blond’s advice. Yeah, right. I think his foot descended on the gas in direct proportion to Mr. Springtime’s howls of protest. Then I saw it: the massive truck bearing down on us. I panicked. Sheer, shrieking, frozen and couldn’t get my brain out of my toenails panic. Me, Spike, the inspiration behind the song "Devil Gate Drive." All I could do was apply pressure to Curly Hair’s arms and propel us through the construction shack. Hey, it gave a lot better than the truck, bus, freight train, or whatever else we might have hit. But with Blondie splayed all over the dashboard, I thought I was done for. Out of a job. Demoted.

   Told myself right then I couldn’t let Clarence have the last laugh. I was glad that I slept through half of the Procedure of Interference class because I conceived one dilly of an idea and I knew somewhere in that mass of fine print and restrictions there resided a rule against my brainchild. What was my flash of inspiration, you ask? Why, to delegate some of my labor, of course. I’d enlist Mr. Sunbleached-and-Sensible without him realizing it and put him on the task of calming Curly Hair’s impetuosity muscle. So while he’s huffing, puffing, and brooding over his scrapes, bruises, and sore neck, I sidled up close and put my plan into action. Now lemme tell ya, Baby Blue has more between his ears than fluff. I just planted my lips near his ear, whispered "Amnesia," and he was right along with me. Doesn’t it make sense: Blondie fakes amnesia, gets his partner all nice and guilty about the whole thing, and then Curly Hair will spontaneously grow a Caution Gland? Made sense to me.

   Best laid plans of mice and men, right? Learned the meaning of that phrase just like my English Lit teacher was right there in the hospital explaining it to me. All I got for my trouble was traffic duty. Now before you think, well, gee, that’s not so bad for a G.A. who just talked someone into deceiving his best friend, let me explain what traffic duty is like with the Dynamic Duo.    

   Traffic jam. Gridlock. Chaos. Madness and Mayhem. And no, not because they didn’t understand the proper hand signals. Not because they kept blowing those whistles their captain insisted they bring. Not even because they spent the entirety of their workday sniping at each other like two hyenas fighting over a fallen antelope. Nope. Apparently word got out that two contestants for Mr. Beautiful-in-Uniform had been put on public display and I swear every chick in Bay City with a driver’s license made an appearance. My two Detective Sergeants First Class stopped traffic, all right! I guarantee you they received enough telephone numbers to start their own private directory.

   And me? I got my tail hauled before the G.A. Tribunal. Something else I can share with you mortals: Mr. Capra casted Clarence so incorrectly. Everybody’s favorite idea of a shy, fond Grandpa, right? Wrong. The real Clarence has a smirk that could eat through kryptonite…and he was wearin’ it. The G.A. Commissioner worked up a good rant and before I knew it the whole lot of ‘em were trying to put me on Imaginary Friend Detail. Now, I got nothing against kids. Fact is, had I lived long enough I mighta had one, two, even three of ‘em. But can you really see me as an Imaginary Friend? Nope, leave that to the six-foot-tall rabbits named Harvey. Well, I shocked the fool out of the Tribunal, let me tell ya. Told ‘em before I voluntarily sat down with some spoiled little girl and tried to drink tea out of some plastic cup the size of a thimble, I’d be happy to keep right on following Curly and Golden Boy. And do it right this time!

   Guess I oughta ‘fess up. It wasn’t just the idea of bein’ some rich kid’s invisible pal that had me volunteering for G.A. Suicide Duty. I’d kinda gotten to like my two warriors for justice. One of the first things they give you along with your G.A. badge is a powerful intuition, and I wasn’t liking what I was sensing, I’ll say that right up front. Something about screechin’ tires, shattering glass, and the thunderous roll of automatic weapon fire the likes of which I ain’t heard since ‘Nam. Yeah, that’s where I made my departure. And let me tell you one thing: if all that was in their future somewhen, I wasn’t about to let that fool G.A. Tribunal stick just any sissy with ‘em. I was gonna be there, all right, and if I couldn’t stop it from happenin’, I’d sure as shootin’ make sure it turned out all right. Clarence be—oh, can’t say that word now. Clarence notwithstanding.

THE END