On the Head of a Pin

“A needless war in Ukraine, the Chinese people protesting, crypto is crap, the red wave that never came, insurrections and impeachments, music isn’t music anymore.  No one is courteous.  No one cares about anyone but themselves.  What the hell is happening?”

The woman with the dark skin and bunned-up hair, whose skin glistened in the reflection of the colossal LCD monitors above Times Square, didn’t look at her interlocutor, she just grimaced in the glow, staring at the sky, as she proclaimed, “Everything is changing.  What was, is no longer.  What will come will be unrecognizable.  It is the way of things, here.”

“Yeah, I get it.”  he responded.  “But don’t you think it’s happening way too fast?  And then you throw global warming into the mix…  I don’t think I want kids.  What kind of a world do you think they’ll get?   You know, when they get outta high school and have to fend for themselves.  You know this is the first generation that will have it worse than their parents?  You believe that?”

The woman lowered her gaze and shook her head slowly, “It is not the first.”

“No seriously.  I heard that on NBC yesterday.  After work.  That’s what they’re saying’.”

She finally looked at me.  “You must mean in American history.  Historically, and worldwide, there were many who did not improve their economy vis-a-vis their parents.”

“Yeah, I’m talking American history, here.  No, not the whole world over all time.  No, I would agree with you there.  Well, look, I gotta get going.  My lunch break is about up.  I never did catch your name?”

“Raziela.”  she replied.

“Razz-ee-ella.  Nice name.  Unique.  Well, it was good talkin’ to ya.  See ya later.”

“Be well and take care.”  she said as the man neared the crosswalk.

Raziela pressed her temples, shaking off the pain of the giant, glowing monstrosities and made her way to a synagogue on 88th St.  There, she removed her overcoat and sat in the women’s gallery staring at the Bimah upon which no scroll was unfurled.  A man entered the synagogue and joined her in this otherwise empty place.  He, too, removed his overcoat and set it on the pew bench.  He was dressed in a three-piece slate black suit with a white shirt and sky-blue tie topped with a ruby tack.  His shoes were brown patent leather and they shone in the stained glass light.  Raziela made a sidelong glance at the man as he sat next to her.

“This is the women’s section.”  she said somberly.

“There is no service.”  he replied.

“Rules are rules.”

“Everything is changing.”  

She turned to look at him steadily.  “Not everything.”

“Then you lied.”  he said.  “Seraphim never lie.”

“That is not true.”  she replied.  “Seraphim abhor untruth.”

He chuckled.  “What’s the difference?”

“An angel of the Adonai should ask me that?”

“Gimme a break.  I’m barely an angel.  Just a shade above men.”

“Spoken like a true Mercurian.”

He chuckled again.  “So what are you doing here?”  he asked.

“Contemplating.”

“Well, that’s what temples are for.”  he declared.  “I got a communique from Tariel that you intend to go through with it.”

A minute long silence interrupted them.  Raziela broke it.  “These tragic humans.  They use their power to command and conquer their own species, while those below them rant and rail about the injustice of it all only to realize that if they had that same power, they would use it the same way.  They are a conundrum of a people.  All those lies blaring out of those television screens in Times Square.  They are the antithesis of the clarions of the Empyrean.”

The angel next to her nodded rhythmically throughout Raziela’s diatribe, and when she was finished, he said, “You only hurt the ones you love.”

“You think this is a mere jest?”

“Who said I was joking?” he got up from the pew and stretched, “Although, if you look at the big picture, I can imagine this being seen as a comedy.  In the classic sense of the term.  I’m assuming you brought the Bowl of Kadesh with you else you wouldn’t be here.  Six others have done this already, throughout the world at different times.  If you pour the seventh bowl – that’s it!  Armageddon!  No second thoughts, no second chances.”  He pulled out a cigarette, almost put it to his lips, thought the better of it, and put it back in his vest.  “You Seraphim got this prophecy business so far up your asses you forgot who you’re destroying in the process.”

Raziela sighed, “Are you finished?”

A pause, then, “Yep.  I guess I’m muddling your contemplation.”  He started his way toward the main doors and produced a whiskey flask from his vest.  He took a swig.

Raziela saw this and remarked in disgust, “You brought alcohol into a synagogue?”

He turned and gazed in mock surprise, “Yeah.  And, now, I am walking out with it.”  He turned on his heels and continued out of the synagogue.  “If you wanna join me, I could use the company.  Of course, if I don’t see you in half an hour, I’ll just tell my charges to gear up for the coming Eschaton.  See ya Topside.”  He saluted, smiled and exited the doors.

Raziela hesitated a moment then got up and made her way to the mikvah.  She entered and neared the steps leading into the pool, filled with fresh water.  She knelt and said a prayer in Aramaic.  She brought out the bowl from a used, Walgreens plastic bag.  She immersed the bowl into the mikvah, filling it, then as she lifted it out of the pool, she noticed an old woman seated on a lone bench in the corner of the enclave.  If Raziela had not been an angel, she would have been surprised.

“Woman, how long have you been here?”  Raziela asked.

The old crone huddled in the shadows with her kerchief about her head.  “I saw you walk in.”  she replied.

“What are you doing here?”

“I am watching the world end.”

Raziela grimaced and stared into her soul, “How could you possibly know that?”

The old woman’s eyes glinted in the darksome shadows of the mikvah.  “Why, surely an angel of the Name must know… that everything is changing.”