by Simon Rich
“I don’t think that’s a fair comparison.”
“Why not? They’re the same species, same gender, same age. They even look sort of alike.”
Eliza grabbed Craig’s mouse and opened the Server. A search box popped up, and she typed in “Alexander the Great—23 years old.” The Macedonian conqueror appeared on the screen, sword in hand. A hundred captured slaves wept fearfully at his feet.
“I don’t understand what this is supposed to prove,” Craig said.
Eliza opened a window of Sam in present-day Manhattan and placed it alongside the twenty-three-year-old Alexander. They did look pretty similar. They were about the same height, five-seven or five-eight, and stockily built. Alexander was a touch more muscular, particularly in the shoulders. Sam had straighter teeth. Neither of them was particularly attractive.
Eliza and Craig sat quietly in front of the computer, silently comparing the two twenty-three-year-olds.
On the left side of the screen, Alexander pointed randomly at slaves, casually deciding which ones should die.
On the right side of the screen, Sam surfed the Web, in an obvious search for pornography.
“Okay,” Craig said. “So Sam isn’t as confident as Alexander. Who cares? Even if he’s a total coward, things can still work out for him.”
“How?”
“Well, it’s 2012. Men don’t have to make the first move. We still haven’t seen Laura in the present day. Maybe she’s less…”
“Pathetic.”
“I was going to say ‘reserved.’ But yeah.”
He located Laura’s apartment and zoomed in.
“Let’s see what we can find out.”
EARTH—THIRTY DAYS UNTIL DOOMSDAY
Laura Potts sat in her darkened apartment watching Bizarre Bodies. She’d promised herself at 7 p.m. that she would watch only two episodes: “World’s Fattest Man” and “The Wolf Family.” Then she would put on her clothes, go to a bar, and socialize like a normal human being. But that was hours ago. She’d since sat through “Tumor Lady,” “Conjoined at the Face,” and an encore presentation of “Tumor Lady.” It was 1:20 a.m. Technically, the night was already over.
Laura had turned twenty-three recently, and both of her older sisters had sent birthday cards. She’d displayed them on top of her television: a sparkly one from Katrina and a lengthy one from Dianne.
Growing up, Katrina had always been the “pretty one” and Dianne had always been the “smart one.” Laura wasn’t particularly pretty or smart, but her parents were desperate to give her some kind of identity. When she was nine, they bought her gymnastics lessons, thinking she might turn out to be the “athletic one.” But she couldn’t do even a single pull-up. When she turned ten, they bought her a monogrammed Bible, hoping she could at least become the “religious one.” But she never got around to reading it. One day, at the age of twelve, she took some Polaroids of a tree out of boredom. From this random occurrence, her parents concluded that she was the “artistic one.” They bought her an expensive camera, and she dutifully began to take pictures.
She went to NYU, majored in visual studies, and completed a thesis of abstract nature studies. She worked extremely hard. And by the time she graduated from college, she had discovered two major truths about photography: one, she didn’t really like it; and two, she wasn’t very good at it.
Now she was out of school and totally lost, barely surviving in a kitchenless apartment on the Lower East Side. Her only source of income was a job she’d found on Craigslist. Jack’s Dawgs, a chain of downtown hot dog stands, had received straight Ds in a recent health inspection. So the owner, Jack Potenzone, was paying Laura to improve the chain’s public image. Each day she went online and posted a hundred positive comments on food sites, using fictitious screen names.
“I don’t know how Jack’s Dawgs got such a bad rap,” read a typical review. “Their stores are spotless, welcoming, and there are no rats.”
Her boss had instructed her to insert the phrase “there are no rats” in every single one of her posts. “That way,” he explained, “people will think we don’t have rats.”
Laura warned him that the constant use of the phrase might look suspicious. But Jack was adamant on the subject, and she didn’t see any point in arguing. The job paid $250 a week and she was desperate for the income. In the brief time since college, she’d already amassed over $8,000 in credit card debt. She knew she should move back home, but she was afraid to face her parents. She was afraid to face anyone. With the exception of her daily coffee run to Dunkin Donuts, she rarely left her apartment.
The only people Laura spoke to were strangers who called her by accident. She’d gotten a new iPhone three weeks ago and her number was one digit off from the 101.1 FM sweepstakes line. She got about thirty misdials a day.
“Am I the hundred and first caller?” they all demanded. “Did I win?”
The first few times it happened, Laura apologized and explained that they’d dialed the wrong number—that she was a person, not a radio station. But the people always got so angry when she told them—cursing and arguing—that it made her depressed. Now when people asked if they had won, she usually just said yes.
She never knew what the contests were promising, so when people asked what prize they’d won, she’d make something up on the spot. So far this week, she’d given away ten tickets to the Super Bowl, four trips to Aruba, and a dinner with Pierce Brosnan. One time, when she was a little drunk, she gave a man a million dollars.
“Am I the hundred and first caller?” he’d shouted. “Tell me I’m the hundred and first caller!” It was 3 a.m. on a Wednesday, and he had been calling for forty minutes straight.
“Not only are you the hundred and first caller,” she told him, “but you just won a million dollars.”
“Un-fucking-believable!” he screamed. “I’m going to quit my job right now.”
She felt a little guilty about that one.
Laura noticed that the callers never asked for any details. They never inquired about when their prize was going to arrive in the mail or where they should go to pick it up. She once told a stoned teenager that he was going to be launched into outer space. He didn’t ask her when it was going to happen or how. He just sighed with relief, like he had been expecting to win a free space trip for some time.
“That’ll show them,” he said.
Recently she’d given a man free tickets to see Bruce Springsteen and he’d gotten mad at her.
“What’s wrong?” Laura asked. “They’re good seats.”
“Nothing. It’s just, I’m not the world’s biggest Springsteen fan, all right?”
Since then she’d always made sure to ask callers what kind of prize they wanted. That way, she could give them something that would make them happy.
Laura felt bad about lying to people, but she found the calls strangely exhilarating. When she left her apartment, she had trouble ordering a cup of coffee. But when she talked to strangers on the phone, her voice came out loud and clear. She knew it was ridiculous, but giving away fake prizes was the highlight of her day.
She signed onto Facebook and searched idly for half-forgotten friends. A boy from her middle school who once set a Dumpster on fire was working as an insurance actuary in Hartford. Her bunkmate from Camp Wannago was gigantically pregnant. The bully from high school had shaved his whole head and was studying to be a Buddhist priest.
She typed in “Sam Katz.” Nothing came up. She wondered if he was still in New York City and what had happened to him. She thought about sending him an e-mail, but she wasn’t sure what to say.
On the television screen, two conjoined toddlers were feeding each other pieces of hamburger meat. The twins shared a laugh, and Laura felt an unmistakable stab of jealousy. It would be nice to always have someone by your side, someone to push hamburger into your face and make you smile.
It was nearly 2 a.m.
She took out her cell phone and held it in her hand, wondering if
someone else would call.
“Good God,” Eliza said. “They’re both freaks!”
“This is worrisome,” Craig agreed.
“‘Worrisome?’ They’re a couple of shut-ins! How are we supposed to unite them if they won’t even leave their apartments?”
She closed her eyes and massaged her temples. “We should’ve picked a different prayer.”
Craig rose to his feet. “Maybe it’s not too late.”
“You want to give up already?” God laughed. “It’s only been two days!”
“I’m not giving up,” Craig said. “I just wanted to see if it would be possible to maybe switch to a different prayer? Like this one.”
He slid a piece of paper across the desk. “It’s about saving a hamster.”
God leaned back in his chair and grinned.
“You know, in the restaurant business, we have a saying: ‘You can’t switch a customer’s entrée, even if it comes out oversalted.’”
Craig stared blankly at his boss. He was pretty sure that wasn’t a real restaurant saying.
“My point is,” God continued, “just because you’re losing doesn’t mean you can change the rules of the game. You said you’d call your shot—and you called it. If you really care about saving this little planet, you’ll make these two losers hook up.”
Craig rubbed the bridge of his nose.
“How much time do I have?”
“I don’t remember,” God said. “But don’t worry—I’ve got someone keeping track for me.”
He flipped on his TV. On the screen the prophet Raoul was running around in a Walmart parking lot, screaming at shoppers. He wore nothing but a Speedo, and he held a giant cardboard sign over his head.
“The World Will End in 2012,” it read. “Twenty-eight Days Until Doomsday.”
“Well, there you have it,” God said. “Guess you’d better get back to work.”
Craig trudged out of God’s office, past Vince’s desk.
“Who’s the hack now?” the Archangel muttered.
Craig turned toward him, confused. “I’m sorry—what?”
Vince reached for a nearby martini glass and raised it over his head in a sarcastic toast. Craig realized, with some concern, that the Archangel was intensely drunk.
“You always thought you were so clever,” Vince said, slurring his words, “with your Gusts chart and your rainbows and your cutesy little snow days…”
He leaned toward Craig and continued in a whisper, “But now that the stakes are high—now that the pressure’s on? You’re lost. You’re helpless.”
He grinned. “You’re fucked.”
Craig figured it was a good time to leave. He was about to turn his back on Vince when the Archangel pointed aggressively at his face.
“You know what’s funny?” he said. “When the world explodes, all of your work will be erased forever. Those humans, the ones that come up here, they won’t remember anything you did for them. It’ll be like you never existed.”
Craig knew there was no point in reasoning with Vince, but he couldn’t help but take the bait.
“I’ll still remember all the stuff I did,” he said. He’d meant to sound defiant, but his voice came out squeaky and childlike.
Vince plowed ahead, obviously sensing his advantage. “Of course, you’ll always have your memories. You can even hang your Angel of the Month plaques on your wall in a nice little row. But one day you’re going to wake up and realize that in the grand scheme of things, all your work is completely insignificant.”
Craig’s lips began to quiver, and it looked to Vince as if he might cry. But instead the Angel let loose a strange, high-pitched laugh.
“You think I don’t know that?” Craig said. “You think I don’t know that my work is insignificant? I’ve known that since day one! Last year I spent five months helping a woman win a tomato-planting contest—and then she forgot to enter! Every time I catch a kid a fish, his dad throws it back. I know I have no power—none of us has any power! I know none of it matters—but it matters to me. What the hell matters to you?”
Vince shifted awkwardly in his seat; he’d never heard Craig yell before.
“I’d love to talk more,” Craig said. “But I’ve got work to do.”
“Are you okay?” Eliza asked Craig. “You’re sweating like crazy.”
“I’m fine,” he said, forcing a smile. “Let’s just get started, all right?”
He heaped a pile of notes onto his desk. “I’ve arranged Chance Encounters before,” he told her. “It’s hard—but not impossible.”
He flipped through his research. “Laura goes to Dunkin Donuts every day, usually around eleven. Sam takes the F train to work each day at nine-thirty. Maybe we could delay him somehow and alter his route? It would take some serious troubleshooting, but I’m sure we could get the humans to cross paths.”
“And then what?”
Craig shrugged. “They start talking, sparks fly…romance follows?”
Eliza shook her head. “I don’t know.”
“What? What’s wrong?”
“Even if your coding works—even if we can get the humans into the exact same spot at the exact same time—I think we still might be in trouble.”
“What do you mean?”
Eliza paused, searching for a polite way to phrase her opinion. Eventually, she gave up.
“He’s gotten crazy fat,” she said.
Craig absentmindedly pinched his own love handles. “Sam’s only fifteen pounds overweight,” he said. “Twenty at most. It’s not like he’s obese or anything.”
“Granted. But think of it from her perspective.”
She opened up a clip of the humans’ last meeting. “The last time she saw him, he looked like this.” She pointed at Sam’s relatively svelte 2011 physique.
“Now she’s going to see him again and—boom! He’s gonna look like this.” She popped up a picture of Sam’s current state. “It’s drastic.”
Craig winced. Eliza’s bar for male attractiveness was disturbingly high.
“He doesn’t look terrible,” Craig said. “He’s just a little fat.”
“He’s a lot fat.”
“It’s not his fault. I mean, he’s clearly going through some kind of depression. Lots of people eat poorly when they’re feeling down.”
“I’m not blaming him. I’m just saying we need to do something.”
She zoomed in on Sam’s torso.
“If Laura runs into him on the street, she’s not going to think, ‘Oh, great, here’s the guy I used to have a crush on.’ The only thought in her brain is going to be ‘Wow, how’d this happen? How’d he get like this?’ I’m sorry, but that’s just my opinion—as both an Angel and a woman.”
Craig threw his hands up in frustration. “I don’t know what to tell you. We can’t just burn his fat off. It goes against the laws of thermodynamics.”
“Can we change the way he dresses? So the weight gain is less pronounced?”
“He’s got free will, Eliza. If he wants to wear khakis and a T-shirt, there’s nothing we can do to stop him.”
“Well, we’ve got to think of something.”
The Angels sat in silence, plotting their next move.
EARTH—TWENTY-SEVEN DAYS UNTIL DOOMSDAY
Sam was walking to the F train when he encountered a harsh gust of wind. The blast of air was so intense he had to stop in midstride and shield his face with his hands. A swirl of airborne garbage engulfed him— plastic bags, cigarette butts, and lotto tickets.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered to himself.
The draft eventually subsided, but one piece of trash remained stubbornly stuck to his coat—a small pink flyer. He plucked it off his chest and idly began to read it.
Join Crunch Fitness today! Full-service gym. Sign up now for a free one-month trial.
He glanced at the flyer for a moment, reflecting that the gym was just a block or so from his apartment.
“What a coincidence,” he
mumbled.
He folded the flyer a few times and then flicked it into a nearby garbage can.
Craig and Eliza sighed. It had taken them four hours to locate the flyer, blow it across the sidewalk, and successfully glide it onto Sam’s body. But still the human had failed to take the hint.
“I really thought that would work,” Eliza said. “I mean, how often does a gym coupon fly into your face? It’s not like we were being subtle.”
“It’s hard to give the humans signs,” Craig told her. “Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, they miss them. It doesn’t matter how blunt you are.”
“Really?”
Craig nodded. “They’re just not a perceptive species. Remember Archduke Ferdinand? The guy they shot to start World War One? Angels sent him fifty omens on the morning of his assassination to try to warn him. He ignored them all.”
“Seriously? What kind of omens?”
Craig closed his eyes and listed a few from memory. There was the crow that landed on the archduke’s windowsill, cawing aggressively in his face. There was the black cat that wandered past his doorway when he was preparing to leave his house. There was his gate’s refusal to open. His car’s refusal to start. The chill in the air, the foreboding gray sky, the terrible howling of the wind.
“You’d think he’d put two and two together,” Craig said. “And call in sick.”
Eliza squinted at the computer. Sam was heading uptown on the F train, a package of cherry Pop-Tarts in his hands.
“Even if he joins a gym,” she said, “it won’t really make much of a difference. I mean, we only have twenty-seven days to work with. It’s not enough time for him to get in shape.”
Craig swiveled toward Eliza. “Are you sure it matters how he looks?” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“Isn’t love about more than physical appearances? I mean, these people are made for each other—their souls are a perfect match. Isn’t that enough?”
The Angels sat for a moment in silence.
