Accidental God 2.0 -- Section 14

[On the good news front, I just accepted a job at a disability law firm across the valley. It means a small commute every day, but it also means health benefits. Go, disabilities! ...is something that Atty would cheer. But not me. I would never give a cheer like that.]

    Stacy Longmore took great pride in the fact that she had never had a multigrain bagel. She knew, as far as lifetime accomplishments went, this was a very small one, but she didn’t let that bother her. Even the little things add up to something big, she figured.
    “Never?” asked Beau. He looked down at her, black and massive and slightly ridiculous in the undersized apron he had somehow tied around his waist.
    “Tell me again how you forgot your apron,” said Stacy, grinning. “I like this story.”
    “There is no story,” said Beau, “I just forgot it, and stop changing the subject. You’ve never tried one of our multigrain bagels?”
    “So your apron is at home.”
    “Cut that out.”
    “And you’re wearing Tamara’s.”
    “I said stop it. This is serious.”
    “And Tamara is about the size of your left bicep.”
    “I mean it, Stacy. You need to eat a multigrain bagel.”
    “Why?”
    “It’s...it’s because…” Beau blinked furiously. “It’s tradition. Bagels are a pinnacle of health-food consciousness. Kinda. I bet you the very first bagel was multigrain. See that? So if you don’t eat one, it’s like you’re spitting on the tradition of bagels.”
    “Not true,” said Stacy.
    “How do you know?”
    “I looked it up. Bagels were invented in the late 1500’s in Poland. Are you saying the Poles of sixteenth-century Europe were four-hundred years ahead of the health food craze?”
    “Huh,” said Beau. “I thought Jews invented them. In New York.”
    “They are traditionally Jewish,” said Stacy, pulling another tray of bagels out of the oven and sliding them off into a basket, ready to go out front. “Jews lived in Poland.”
    “Jews have lived everywhere,” said Beau, turning to wash his hands. “Even Africa. I have Jewish ancestors.”
    “You’re Jewish?”
    “Something like one-twenty-fifth. Not much of me.”
    “That’s impossible,” said Stacy, picking up the basket and walking out of the kitchen. It was five minutes to open, and one of the regulars was already outside, stamping his feet. She always thought of him as Ernest Borgnine, even though his name was Gustavo and he didn’t look anything like the actor. Stacy just liked the name ‘Ernest Borgnine,’ and she figured everyone ought to have one of those in her life. Gustavo happened to be her Ernest Borgnine, that was all.
    Beau followed her out front. “Why do you say it’s impossible? You don’t think a black guy can be Jewish? I’ll find my family history and show it to you.”
    Stacy dropped the basket into its slot. “‘Sun-dried tomato,’” she read out loud. “What’s so special about drying something in the sun? Might as well call them ‘tomatoes someone accidentally left out, but we’re using them anyway.’ I believe a black guy can be Jewish, Beau. I just don’t believe that you’re one-twenty-fifth Jewish. It has to come in doubles.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “You know: one-half, one-fourth, one-eighth, one-sixteenth. Like that. Doubles.”
    “So maybe I’m one-thirty-second Jewish.”
    “I’ll take that,” said Stacy, smiling and typing her code into the register. “But for a Jew, you know bupkis about bagels.”
    “Don’t pull out your Yiddish on me, you putz. I know bagels have been to space. Some Canadian guy took a bunch of sesame seed bagels up to the International Space Station.”
    “Was he Jewish?”
    “Pretty sure he was.”
    “Then you’re right,” said Stacy. “Those Jews really are everywhere. You going to open up the door and let Mr. Borgnine in? He looks cold.”
    “I still don’t get why you call him that,” said Beau, making his way around the counter.
    Stacy just smiled. Gustavo didn’t mind being her Ernest. He was old and had a wrinkly smile and he seemed to understand: everyone needs an Ernest Borgnine in her life.
    She had sold a half-dozen of the multigrain--not to mention several coffees, a mixed bucket, seven cinnamon-raisin, and a poor, sad, sun-dried tomato--before the skinny guy walked in.
    "Check him out, Stacy," said Beau, leaning in behind her. "He's just your type."
    "Go be Jewish somewhere else, Beau. I am not going to meet my new boyfriend at work."
    "Why not?"
    "I could never be with someone who would eat a multigrain bagel. Now go away. Good morning. What can I get you?"
    The skinny guy shrugged in his jacket, looking cold. His knit cap was pulled down over his ears, but it didn't look like it was doing its job very well.
    "What's good?" he asked, his voice shaking slightly.
    "The multigrain," called Beau as he stepped back into the kitchen.
    "Ignore him," said Stacy. "Chilly, isn't it."
    "Sorry?"
    "The weather. It's cold out."
    "Yeah, no kidding. I thought my jacket would be enough. Guess I'm just not used to the mornings. I usually work nights."
    "Isn't it cold at night?" asked Stacy.
    The skinny guy blinked and smiled. "It is. Can you believe that? I somehow assumed it would be warmer in the morning than it is at night. I've always thought that. It's not true at all, is it?"
    Stacy smiled back. "Don't think so. So coffee to warm you up?"
    The skinny guy shuddered, and it took Stacy a second to realize it wasn't from the cold.     "The only kind of coffee I've ever liked was the kind that doesn't actually have any coffee in it. Aren't there coffees like that?"
    "We have hot chocolate."
    "I'll take that. And a bagel."
    "Any particular kind?"
    The skinny guy glanced over the baskets holding five more kinds of bagels than should exist in the world, at least by Stacy's count. "I have no idea," he said. "I'm terrible at decisions like this."
    "Like what food you should eat?"
    "Kinda. Yeah. That makes me sound completely pathetic, doesn't it?"
    Stacy laughed. "Just slightly. But that's okay. I'm sure there are other things you're good at."
    The guy shrugged. "Maybe." He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a piece of paper, folded into quarters. "I drew this on the way over. The thing followed me. You ever seen anything like it? I don't think it's a bird."
    Stacy leaned over to see it. The sketch was quick, rough, but the lines were clear and he'd put in enough detail at the right places that the creature looked alive to her. Real.
    "I have no idea what it is," she said, and she didn't. "Does it have six legs? Is it one of those chaotic creatures?"
    "Not chaotic," said a baritone voice. "Entropic. Good morning, Stacy."
    "Luther! I didn't notice you come in. How are you?"
    "Unemployed," said the angel. "I have come to you for consolation. Your bagels are the only thing standing between me and despair."
    Stacy cocked her head, not sure whether he was joking or not. Luther was smiling, but there was an edge under it, rough like cracked concrete. The angel had already turned back to the picture.
    "Where did you see that creature, young man? They don't usually come out in the daylight. Well," he glanced outside, "in the almost daylight. We're definitely into the Fall, aren't we? So he followed you here?"
    The skinny guy looked down at the angel--skinny was pretty tall, wasn't he? Stacy did like tall men--and nodded. "I kept seeing it skitter along the walls, so I drew it. It's entropic? Like demons are?"
    Luther nodded. "Exactly. Well, not entirely exactly, but close enough. It's called a 'brogut,' and it's one of the creatures in the world that devours divine energy, breaking it down from perfect preservation into chaos and change. Part of the balance." Luther smiled. "But I'm getting pedantic. You're right. The same way that angels and owls and portellains are naturally sensitive to the energy of preservation, demons and broguts and chickens are sensitive to entropy and destruction."
    "Chickens are?" asked Stacy.
    "Absolutely," said Luther.
    "That's weird."
    "I've never liked eggs," said the angel.
    "Huh," said skinny. "So they don't come out much?"
    "Not much at all. I wonder what brought him out of his nest?"
    "Could be the god that was killed," called Beau from the back.
    "Eavesdropping is rude," yelled Stacy.
    "And hereditary," yelled the big man. "Blame my mother."
    "I've met your mother. I'm not blaming her for anything."
    "That makes you a smart girl," called Beau. "I'm going out for a smoke."
    "Already? That stuff will kill you."
    "Yes, it will, but I'm not giving it up until Lent."
    "I thought you were Jewish."
    "Then I'll give it up for Rosh Hashanah."
    "Isn't that over already?"
    "That's okay. I'm not in a rush." The back door banged open and closed again, and Stacy sighed. Then she looked at Luther. The angel looked pale. "Didn't you know about the god?" she asked.
    "Which one was it?"
    "Forgotten...something...I think."
    "Zed?"
    "Yeah. Him. Oh dear. Did you work for him? You said you lost your job--no, you didn't know, so it wasn't him, was it? I mean, the god you worked for."
    Luther shook his head. "No, I didn't work for Zed. I'm...just surprised. Shocked. You don't expect that someone like Forgotten Zed would ever die."
    "Who killed him?" asked skinny.
    "News said they didn't know. It was murder, though. Bullet through the window."
    "Crazy. I thought only gods could kill other gods. Had to be wars, like Ragnarok and World War II."
    Luther nodded. "Usually. That's usually the case. I think I may have to skip my bagel this morning, Stacy. I'm not sure I'm hungry anymore."
    "No problem, Luther. Take care." The angel left and Stacy watched him go. "You know," she said, "I couldn't tell if he was joking or not."
    "About what?" asked skinny.
    "About losing his job."
    "Nope," said skinny. "He wasn't joking."
    "How can you tell?"
    Skinny pulled his hat off and scratched at his head. "You can tell. I'll take a multigrain."