Accidental God -- Section 11a

[A bit of an abrupt end, but there's more to this section than will happen in just a few words, so I'll use tomorrow and get it posted by the evening. Outlining makes for longer sections, it seems.]

    It wasn't much more than a ten minute walk from the subway station to Divine Chuck's apartment building. Atty spent the trip chattering about what kind of crazy things people do in subway stations--like the lady who came through dressed as a muffler, and the guy who came back every week to count the tiles, making sure the station hadn't shrunk any--so Bradley didn't have to say much. He mostly nodded, laughed, and acted like it was perfectly normal to be walking through the streets of Seven Cities, Wisconsin, with an angel. Everybody does it at least ONCE in his life, right? And he certainly wasn't going crazy. Crazy would be hanging out with a vampire, or something like that. And there was no way vampires were real. No way at all. Bradley leaned back slightly and looked at Atty's back again. Nothing. Just a rattling guitar case.
    He tuned back in to what the angel was saying. "So Chuck told him that no, he didn't need life insurance, and he sent the guy out of the station so fast, the air popped behind him. Which kind of proved the guy wrong."
    "I'm sorry," said Bradley. "Proved him wrong how?"
    "Didn't you hear the first part?"
    Bradley shook his head. "I got distracted."
    "That ruins the whole joke."
    "Sorry."
    "No problem," said the angel. "The first part of the story was this insurance guy claiming he could sell life insurance to God."
    Bradley blinked. "Oh, right. And Chuck is God."
    "No-no-no." Atty shook his head vigorously. "Not THE God. Just A god. Big difference. You really have been distracted, haven't you?"
    "Just slightly. It's not ever day that you meet a guy with wings."
    "Probably happens more often than you think," said the angel. "We don't usually wear our wings on the outside, though. Calls too much attention to ourselves. We try to keep a low profile. Fewer questions that way. Less government regulation."
    Bradley smiled. "What would you call THAT department? The Angel Licensing Bureau?"
    "Divine Association Management and Metaphysical Interface Team. Which shows that someone in Washington has a sense of humor."
    "I don't get it."
    "The first letters of the words are D, A, M, M, I--"
    "I get it now. This is a real thing?"
    "Went defunct a few decades ago. Most magical and inter-dimensional relations are managed by secret organizations and agencies. It's a weird system, but works better than trying to use a bunch of red tape to tie up a dragon."
    "Many dragons around?"
    "Real or metaphorical?"
    "Either. No, wait. Real."
    "Not very many real dragons around, no."
    "That's good to hear," said Bradley. He followed Atty as the angel turned and walked through the door and into the lobby of an apartment building. "Is this where Chuck lives?"
    "Right at the top," said Atty. "Sixth floor, great view of the lake between buildings."
    Bradley looked around the lobby. It was small. One wall was the elevators (two) and mailboxes (twenty, maybe?), while the other wall was a message board and the door of the supervisor's apartment.
    "This isn't very fancy."
    "Divine Chuck isn't a very fancy god. Never went in for the flashy stuff."
    "But he IS a god, right?"
    Atty grinned. "You don't seem very convinced. I just sprouted wings, called up a sword of flame, and turned two creatures to ash, creatures you'd never seen before in your life. What do I have to do to convince you that my boss is a God?"
    Bradley rubbed his hands over his face. "Maybe he could turn water into wine."
    "Why?" asked Atty. "You drink?"
    "No, actually."
    "Neither does Chuck, so what's the point?" He punched the up button with a stiff finger and leaned against the wall between the elevators. "Trust me, Bradley. Chuck's a god, and I'm one of his angels. The world is an amazing place."
    "Yes, it is," Bradley agreed.
    The doors opened, they climbed in, and Bradley sat with his back against a fake-wood panel. In an elevator with an angel. Sounded like that should be the title of a song, and it probably was. A country song. The doors opened again, and he followed Atty down the hall toward the front of the building. The angel knocked on the door to an apartment and pushed it open.
    "Chuck? You in?"
    "Living room!" yelled a voice from somewhere inside.
    "Come on," said Atty, smiling back at Bradley. "Nothing to worry about.     Bradley's nice."
    "Sure," said Bradley, and he stepped into the home of a god. It looked surprisingly like a normal apartment. "He likes hats."
    "Yes, he does."
    "That's a big hat rack."
    "There's a lot more in the bedroom," said Atty. "Also, he loans them out obsessively, so I think he has a couple dozen more on heads around the city."
    "Does that have anything to do with being a god?"
    "Nope. That has everything to do with liking hats. Come on in. You should meet him."
    Bradley followed down a short hallway and into a room big enough for a pair of couches, big TV, easy chair, and a table settled in one corner. The table was covered with a jigsaw puzzle, mostly finished, that looked like lots and lots of bubbles. The wall away from the windows was covered in art that looked original and like landscapes. One couch was covered by Olivia, Bradley's downstairs neighbor. She was holding a notebook and pen. Also, she was looking at him.
    "Bradley?"
    "Olivia?"
    "Chuck?" said Atty, faking surprise.
    "Atty?" said the man on the other couch, appearing equally unshocked and equally amused. He was wearing a baseball cap with the word 'FLEX' across the front. He looked somewhere in his thirties, an average kind of fit, and a bristly moustache like he never made it out of the 1980's. "Are we all done saying names now? I'd like to meet the guy that my angel's brought around. You mind, Olivia?"
    "No, that's fine" said Bradley's neighbor, looking unattainably good and curvy in jeans and a t-shirt with a picture of a cat looking slightly insane. Bradley found that slightly disappointing. Cute girls weren't supposed to wear cat t-shirts. He didn't like cats.
    "Hey, nice shirt," said Atty, looking at Olivia. "I love cats."
    'Thanks," said Olivia, smiling a little more brightly than was necessary, Bradley thought. He looked back at Atty. Ugh. The man really was good looking, and the guitar case over the shoulder was appealing in an urban-renegade sort of way.
    "Hi," said Chuck. He'd stood up and walked over to Bradley and was holding out his hand. "I'm Chuck."
    Bradley shook. "I'm Bradley Shupak. Nice to meet you."
    "My pleasure," said the god. "So why did Atty bring you over? Something to do with the disturbance in my temple?"
    "How did you know about that?"
    Chuck let go of the handshake and looked back at Olivia, grinning. "Do I say it, Olivia, or do I let you?"
    She rolled her eyes. "Oh, you go ahead, Chuck. Your kind enjoys saying it so much."
    "That's fine with me." He turned back to Bradley. "It's because I'm a god."
    Bradley glanced at Olivia. She looked skeptical, but amused, and Chuck just looked happy. Atty didn’t look like anything. He’d wandered off down the hall somewhere, and Bradley heard the mixed sound of machinery and crackling ice that is the universal sign of an automatic ice machine.
    “I think I’m lost,” said Bradley.
    “Come sit down, and we’ll try to get you un-lost.” Chuck waved Bradley over to the easy chair and dropped himself back onto his couch, adjusting his ball cap with both hands. Bradley sat down on the edge of the overstuffed chair. It looked comfortable—it felt comfortable—but he didn’t want to slouch back into it. He was afraid he might look ridiculous. He knew it was ridiculous to worry about looking ridiculous, but he had to choose one or the other, so he stayed on the edge of the chair.
    “So, Bradley, what brings you here? Besides Atty, that is.”
    Bradley rubbed his hands together between his knees. “I don’t know, really. This morning I woke up and my nose wasn’t stuffy—I mean, that’s not—this isn’t—what does a god DO exactly?”
    Chuck smiled and Olivia laughed. “Yes, ‘Divine’ Chuck,” she said. “What IS it that you gods do, exactly? I’m not sure I’ve seen a single one of you do an honest day’s work.”
    “That’s not fair,” said the god. “What about Standing Appointment?”
    “Fine,” she said, spinning her pen on her notebook. “So ONE of you has an honest job, if you can call selling hot dogs ‘work.’”
    Chuck leaned over to Bradley conspiratorially. “Clearly, our grad student here has never had to stand on her feet for ten hours. She should give Stan a little more credit.”
    “So why don’t you tell us what YOU’VE done today, all-powerful god,” said Olivia.
    “Not all-powerful. Only somewhat powerful. Powerful within my means, you might say. Speaking of which, Atty!”
    “What’s up?” called the angel from the kitchen.
    “How were the offerings from the faithful today?”
    “I left the case on the floor in there. Didn’t you see it?”
    Chuck peeked back over the couch. “Good take?” he called.
    “Decent.”
    “It looked like plenty of money to me,” said Bradley.
    “It’s not about the money,” said Chuck, facing back front. “It’s about faith.”
    “They have to believe in you?”
    “No, not in me, specifically. In doing good. And they have to act on it, of course. It’s not enough just to think that good is good and bad is bad. You have to do something about it. That is faith. They give it to me, and I am faithful in return.” He turned to Olivia. “What did I do today? I cured two incipient colds—that’s a good word, ‘incipient’—prevented seven robberies, nudged a budding romance along, and gave my angel the power to destroy an emissary of evil. At least I hope it was an emissary of evil. That’s always impressive. Atty! Did we destroy an emissary of evil this morning?”
    “Not so much,” called the angel. “More an elemental force than actual evil. Definitely a threat, though. Think of it as pest control.”
    “Pest control,” muttered Chuck. “Necessary, I guess, but not especially glamorous.”
    “I don’t know,” said Olivia. “I admire a man who can kill a cockroach.” She was looking toward the kitchen when she said it.
    “You do, do you,” said Chuck, looking thoughtful. “At least tell me they were big cockroaches, Bradley.”
    Bradley thought of the smell, the weight of the Ipthakorian pressing down on him and the cold tile against the back of his head. “Yeah. Big ones.”
    “Hmm.” Chuck met Bradley’s eyes and seemed to understand. “I’ll take it. So now that you know a little more what a god does, do you have any other questions, Brad? Can I call you Brad?”
    “Actually, I’ve always preferred Bradley.”
    “Really? That doesn’t seem to fit you. I don’t see you as a ‘Bradley.’ Am I losing my touch?”
    Bradley thought about letting it go—no need for Olivia to know his real name—but something in his heart wouldn’t let him stay silent. It was wrong not to give that respect to a god in his home.
    “That’s my middle name. My first name is something else.”
    “Aha! Tell me. If you don’t mind, that is.”
    “Practicality. My name is Practicality.”
    Olivia laughed, the short ring of a bell.
    “You find that funny?” asked Chuck.
    She shrugged. “It’s just that Bradley never struck me as the practical sort. More the kind to follow his instincts on some kind of wild goose chase.”
    “Is there anything more practical than that?” asked Chuck, smiling.