SELF-ACTUALIZATION
Author's Note: I apologize for any inaccuracy in the description or naming of alcoholic beverages or customs of liquor stores. I did my best to research these, but as I have never entered one of these establishments and do not imbibe alcohol, my expertise is limited to what can be gained second-hand. If you notice an error, kindly point it out and I will do my utmost to rectify it.
It's 3:19 AM on a Tuesday. Place is dead, like it ought to be at this hour. You're not sure if you're glad, or if you wish somebody would show up drunk and disorderly so you could make a show of refusing a sale – maybe even call the cops, just for something to do. You think maybe even a hold-up would provide a nice break in the long hours of monotony.
Your companions stare back at you, silent and glassily reproachful.
"Sorry, guys," you say, because yes, it has in fact come to that. You are officially so bored (and perhaps lonely) that you are apologizing to bottles of booze for wishing someone would try to steal them.
"Yep, this is what I get for majoring in philosophy," you tell them. "A piece of paper with some fancy calligraphy, dysthymic disorder, forty thousand in student loans, and a crap job in an all-night liquor store. Self-actualization, my ass."
The fluorescent light gleams sympathetically off the curved glass around you. You toy with the notion of getting better acquainted with some of your companions. You can't afford to lose the job, so you know you never really will, but the notion is entertaining.
"Hey, there, Jack. Let's you and I get it on, become one flesh," you tell the nearest bottle of whiskey, in the bedroom voice you haven't actually used since your early thirties, when girls still thought a philosophy degree meant you were 'deep.'
Just then, the door opens and a guy walks in. You're immediately slightly disappointed; the guy is clearly no troublemaker. He's wearing a business suit and a beige trenchcoat, accessorized with disheveled dark hair and a haggard expression. You can already guess what he's doing here at this hour – he's a few hours after losing his job, his marriage, or possibly both. You've seen it so many times it's not even remotely interesting. Half the time, guys like him are so lost in their troubles they can't even work up the motivation to buy anything. You watch him wander aimlessly for a while.
Then he grabs a bottle of Mad Dog, rips off the cap, and starts chugging.
OK, maybe you were wrong. This could get interesting.
"Sir, you're not allowed to drink that in here. You have to purchase it first, and then take it off the premises," you offer half-heartedly.
He ignores you. Definitely interesting – he's already finished the bottle, and is opening another one. Too bad you have to stop him – for his own good as much as yours. He's obviously new at this.
"Sir, you can't do that, and trust me, you really don't want to."
The guy looks at you out of the corner of his eye, as if he's just first noticed you were there. Then he turns to fix you in a surprisingly intense gaze. Surprising, because he's somehow halfway through a third bottle of Mad Dog already.
"I can. I do. And I will," he says, rough-voiced, slamming down entire bottles like they're shots.
You're halfway to regretting your wish that something interesting would happen. This is a little too interesting.
"Sir, if you don't stop, I'm going to have to call the cops."
"Do so, if you must." The guy abandons the Mad Dog, glances around, and takes unconcerned but purposeful strides across the store to the vodka. Somehow, he opens bottles faster than you can see and is sucking them down like water after a marathon. You feel your eyes widen.
"Sir, what are you – God, where are you even putting all that?" you ask, amazement taking over.
"No, I am Castiel," he corrects in between bottles. It's a funny name, but he's not even slurring. Guy must have a hell of a tolerance – you sure sized him up wrong.
"God," he pauses to drain another bottle of Smirnoff, "is gone."
The hours of studying for your useless degree come into your mind. Maybe the guy is slipping a bit.
"It's actually 'God is dead'," you inform him – because what else do you do with a miserable guy who barges into your 24-hour liquor store and starts inhaling the merchandise while misquoting Nietzche?
The man stops drinking long enough to stare brokenly at you.
"No," he insists. "He is gone. I wish He were dead. It would be easier." He goes back to drinking. He gets bored of the vodka and heads randomly for the tequila, leaving empty bottles in his wake.
"Uhhm. How?" you want to know.
He frowns at the ceiling as he tips back a bottle of José. "If He were dead, I would not have to wonder why He abandoned us."
His words sound drunk, but his speech isn't slurred, and his motions are perfectly coordinated as he opens bottle after bottle and swallows them. Maybe he's high, not drunk – though that still wouldn't explain where he's putting what must amount to gallons of liquor by now.
"God is… gone, you say?" you ask, because high/drunk people can be fun to talk to. Besides, this guy clearly isn't stopping for anything, and he's not being violent, so it seems a shame to call the cops on him unless he tries to walk out without paying. You were bored, after all. "Where did He go?"
The man glares at you. "If I knew – if anyone knew – I would be there now, demanding audience with Him, not here." He downs another bottle. He's worked his way into the premium stuff. The way he's swallowed all of it without so much as a flinch, a cough, or a stumble is nothing short of astonishing.
"What the hell are you?" you murmur to yourself.
"I'm not from Hell. I'm an Angel," he says flatly, draining yet another bottle.
Definitely high. Or maybe even schizophrenic, and off his meds. You start to feel concerned for him.
"Sir, you really need to stop – "
"No!" he says, with sudden vehemence, his eyes flashing. "Not until I find something that works. This is what humans do, isn't it? They 'drown their sorrows'? Well, mine remain afloat. This stuff is useless. I feel no different. Why won't it work?" He hurls an empty bottle in frustration. It shatters on the floor. Strangely, the windows also rattle, the lights flicker, and one of the bulbs bursts.
"Whoa, whoa, Clarence, calm down!" you urge the guy. You don't want the next bottle to come flying at you, and the guy is starting to seem a little… well, scary.
"You are mistaken. I am Castiel, not Clarence." He gulps another bottle as if nothing has happened.
"Ok. Castiel. Do… angels… usually drink this much?" you venture.
"Never," he assures you. "But most of them have known for centuries that our Father is gone, and they don't care. They actually want to complete the Apocalypse. I do not."
Apocalypses make you nervous. You are not a fan of Apocalypses. You become very uncomfortable when Apocalypses are spoken about as though they might actually happen. "Sir. Um. Castiel, or whatever. I really think you should slow it down about now. I mean, you have to pay for all this, and you're either going to die of alcohol poisoning or wish you had, so…"
Another light bulb explodes in the fixtures overhead. The guy slowly rounds on you. You wonder if you drank something without remembering, or if maybe the fumes are getting to you, because this 'Castiel' character seems suddenly lit from within somehow. Something is moving in the background – huge shadows shaped like enormous, dark wings expanding behind him before it gets too bright and you cringe your eyes shut.
"Enough. Be silent," he commands, his voice resonating and crackling with power.
Then it all fades away. You tentatively open one eye. Now only one of the light bulbs is still working, and the floor is covered with a mixture of empty containers and glass shards. Everything else is back to normal. The guy is still standing there, looking a little confused, now.
"My apologies," he says. "I did not intend to use such intimidation tactics. Perhaps this is working after all. Losing precise control of the revelation of my True Self must be a side effect." He resumes drinking. "Your concern is… not unappreciated. It is, however, unwarranted. I find it wearying."
You nod your fervent agreement, because, you know, what the hell? What the fully actualized hell? Maybe this guy really is an angel – and if so, he is hands down the weirdest, scariest one you've ever met.
Well, fine, make that the only one you've ever met. Whatever he is, you don't much feel like arguing with him. If a guy who blows up light bulbs and shatters glass just by getting annoyed wants to drink himself into oblivion, who are you to stop him?
You continue to watch in a sort of fascinated, semi-terrified horror that is not unmixed with admiration as the weirdo continues swilling booze. He still doesn't look even slightly unsteady on his feet, even after fifteen more minutes of continuous imbibing. You're wondering exactly how much the guy can even hold. Seriously, where is he putting it all?
"That is of no import," he says, as if he heard you. He downs another bottle or three. "I can hear you," he continues. "I am trying not to, because I have been told that humans dislike the idea of others having access to their unspoken thoughts. You, however, are thinking very intensely, and I seem to be having some difficulty blocking out what you are praying."
"Praying?" you ask, flabbergasted. "I'm not praying! I haven't prayed in decades!"
"You are thinking," he pauses, polishing off an entire bottle of whiskey, "intensely about me. It is nearly enough the same thing." Another two bottles. "I would like you to – " and another " – stop."
Three bottles later, he adds, "Please."
You want to ask him if he's ever tried not thinking about something, but you also don't want to irritate him any further.
"Yes, I have," he says, a bit snappishly for someone drinking whiskey as good as what he's got in both hands. "I succeeded. I understand that humans are incapable of this. I had forgotten." He slams down about eight bottles in a row, and you conclude that he must not need to breathe.
He fires a blank look at you. "Seriously. Please stop." His tone is almost whiny.
"I can't help it," you say defensively. "Does it really bother you that much?"
He tips back another couple of bottles and raises his gaze to the ceiling before answering. "Imagine someone shouting directly into your ear without ceasing. How much would that bother you?"
"I'm sorry," you say meekly. "But you did walk into the store I'm supposed to be watching, claim to be an angel, and illegally drink enough alcohol to kill about twenty people by drowning, let alone alcohol poisoning, and it's not affecting you at all. And also, you've pretty much trashed the place – not that I am saying you are not fully within your rights, as an angel, to do that," you add hastily, in case the guy takes offense. "It's just… unusual."
"That is not relevant. It shall be restored," says the guy cryptically. He seems to like the whiskey – he's gone through about half the good stuff now. "And I am not unaffected. I am experiencing reduced control of my manifestation and an inability to block your thoughts about me."
"I'm trying not to, but, like I was saying, you've kind of gotten my attention," you tell him.
He sighs – sighs like it's a stage direction from some script he's acting, not like a natural reaction to the situation. "Could you at least try to think more quietly?"
"More… quietly," you repeat.
"It's as though you are shouting. It is causing a sensation I find unpleasant in the region of my head."
"I'll try," you promise. You try to think of something else, and it's about time, because, as interesting as this has been, you are somehow going to have to explain to your boss why you let this guy come in and drink half the merchandise without paying on the premises. You know you've got him recorded on the security cameras – provided they didn't go the way of the light bulbs – but the guy's not that big or scary looking. Your boss hasn't experienced the weight of the guy's presence. He's not gonna understand why you were afraid to challenge him.
"This is not working," he interrupts. "Either you are not really trying, or you are extremely unskilled at controlling your thoughts. The shouting is too much. I will have to put you to sleep."
That puts the fear of God in you. You don't know what he means by it, and you'd like to keep it that way.
"I think I'd like it better if you could please maybe not do that," you tell him carefully.
He performs one of those rehearsed sighs again. "It is necessary. It will be better for both this way. You will not worry about me, and I will not be subjected to your loud musings." He finishes his latest bottle of booze, sets it down, and advances toward you.
"Please don't," you beg again, stepping back. "I'll try to think of something else, I really will. Um. Umbrellas. Sandy beaches. Bikinis."
"It will not hurt," he says gently. "When you wake, you will feel refreshed, and all will be restored." He extends two fingers toward your forehead.
"Please, I don't want – "
You sneeze, and open your eyes. Your vision is filled with dusty black snakes – no, not snakes. Cords. You follow the cords toward dim, pale light, where you locate the rest of your body. Carefully, to avoid banging your head on the low-hanging surface above your face, you wrangle your upper body out from under what turns out to be the cash register at the liquor store where you work. It's early in the morning, judging by the bluish light filtering in through the windows. None of the lights seem to be on, and you can't quite figure out why.
Then you remember the guy from last night, and jump to your feet to survey the damage.
There is none.
Everything is in order- no glass or containers on the floor, nothing missing, the bottles all arranged neatly on the shelves as though you had just finished zoning. There's something odd about the scene which your dizzy brain can't quite identify, but other than that, the place looks pristine.
It was a dream. It must have been. You're relieved because that means some whack job didn't come in and drink the place half dry while trashing it on your watch. You're also horrified, because you somehow got smashed on the job, so smashed that you don't remember drinking or taking anything, and you passed out on the floor all night, and anything could have happened while you were out. Also, you're going to develop a killer headache any minute. Your boss will not be impressed, and you're probably going to lose your job either way. Anybody could have walked in and done anything while you were out cold on the floor.
But maybe anybody didn't visit after all. They might not have even tried, since all the lights were off, including the "Open 24 Hours" sign, which appears to have exploded. When you rush over to look, there are no shards anywhere, but the sign is less a sign than a jumble of wires and sharp, jagged edges of tubing.
As you frown confusedly at the remains of the sign, your long-expected headache arrives – a fierce, tight, burning pain centered in the middle of your forehead. Actually, it feels less like a headache than it does like an actual burn, on the skin. Maybe you fell and hit or even burned your head on something when you passed out? You rush to the mirror in the tiny, dingy bathroom to see.
There, in the center of your forehead, is a small, roundish mark, shiny and raised and bright red – definitely a burn of some kind. It looks bad. You prod it gently, and it stings even worse. What in the world? You've never seen anything like this before.
Then an image flashes through your head – the 'angel' dude from your dream, touching two fingers to that exact spot on your head.
What the hell is going on? You've been drunk before, and you've been high, but never so drunk or high that your dreams left physical marks.
And then, unbidden, the thought comes into your mind that, in your dream, the so-called angel blew out all the lights – the same lights which seem not to be working this morning. You rush back out into the store to check them. That's when you spot the note on the counter. It's written on a liquor log, fittingly enough, in wobbly uneven handwriting whose misshapen letters wander randomly over the paper like the footprints of a baby duck.
I havE rEstorEd order, it reads. I faiLEd in my atttEmpts to rEstorEthE Lights. my Effforts onLy madE it worsE so i cEased making thEm aLso i m sorry about your hEad whEn I putyou to sLEEEp, i usEd too much power and inadvErtEntLy burnEd you. i triEd to hEaL you but I could nt controL my gracE sufficiEntLy
my apLogiEs
castiEL
and I m sorry thisis nEarLy iLLEgibLE but I am currrEntLy incapapapbLe of bEttEr as it sEEms i havE bEcomE somEwhat in EbriatEd
You work your way through the twisting maze of incorrect spacing, extra letters, and random capitals three times before you're sure you understand what is written.
"Restored?" You look up and gaze around the store again. Yes, you suppose that, with the exception of the lights, everything is "restored" – wait just a second! With a flash of horror, you realize what was bothering you before. All those neatly arranged, unbroken, undented, and sealed bottles on your shelves? They're empty. Every single one of them.
There you are, standing in the middle of an unlit liquor store full of empty bottles, holding a note from a drunken angel.
You imagine yourself trying to explain this to your boss when he arrives in an hour or two. It's a very vivid mental image, complete with shouting, flying spittle, and a hefty bill for damages you have no hope of paying, since you will no longer have a job. And then there's those student loans, accruing interest and recapitalizing by the second…
…and suddenly, that whole Apocalypse thing that Angel Dude was on about doesn't sound quite as bad.
Who knows? Maybe he was right. The guy had something serious going on with him. To be able to down an entire store's worth of liquor like that and still be able to clean up the bottles and broken glass, then walk away – that's some real unnatural stuff, true power of a kind you've long since lost belief in. And you know he definitely sent you to sleep with only the touch of a finger.
Maybe it's time to start believing again. Maybe all that crap is real, even the whole end-of-the-world thing. You decide that you, personally, are not willing to risk it, and damn it all but you're gonna see Colorado before it happens.
You clock out, toss your badge on the counter, grab your stuff and the weird note from the maybe-probably-angel named Castiel, climb into your dingy old Saturn, and drive away.