The Pedestrian

Michael North, the pedestrian, the angel of judgement, in all his grey tuxedo- tail’d finery, walked up the center of Devonshire street. His silver hair was swept back, the color and shape bringing to mind the magnificent wings of some mythic bird of prey. He exhaled into the morning air, spread his arms and felt everything.

It was a glorious morning. A perfect time to cleanse another street of sin.

The neighborhood was a one-street sub division, the houses all in the three hundred grand range: large, McMansion-style, two-thousand-square-foot deals. They were mortgaged to mostly mid-level business owners and white collar corporate managers and their spoiled wives and children. Twelve houses total. All had Internet, all had at least two cars, all were deeply in debt and would be for most of their lives. There were a few pools, a few trampolines, a few empty backyards.

The nearest subdivision was a mile down the road. Devonshire, the only street, ended abruptly after approximately a little less than a quarter mile, curving a bit before coming to a stop at a yellow diamond Dead End sign and guard rail.

The slope beyond the guardrail led to a bonfire pit that was known as Place of Green. It was named this, not for the oppressive deciduous foliage that pushed in from all sides, but for the weed that was smoked there by the teenaged occupants of the sub and occasionally their parents. The southern arm of Lake Hanosha curved not two hundred yards south of the Place of Green, the oily, stagnant water visible through the brush.

It was Saturday, a cool, grey April dawn, and most of the sub’s occupants were home.

As Michael North walked by each mid-sized American house, he saw the people inside, and their doings. They could not hide their deeds from him.

In the house nearest the country road that led into the sub, address 28323 Devonshire St., John Dollenganger smelled the rank adolescent pussy on his 14 year-old stepdaughter Hillie’s panties and stroked himself through his jeans. He’d stole into her room again, the only person home, and rummaged through her hamper until finding an especially pungent pair. He’d been doing this for two years.

In 28322, Annie Hoskins was cheating on her husband Warren, part of a torrid, ongoing affair with her boss at the law firm. She thought about the next luxury hotel she’d find herself in, worrying what would happen to her kids if she followed her heart and left Warren. Her flour-caked hands manned a rolling pin, spreading out dough for another batch of cookies to be consumed at her 6 year old daughter Isla’s Girl Scout troupe meeting later that week.

In 28340, 62 year old Nancy Faraday was abusing her mentally handicapped grandson Connor, smacking him across the forehead when he’d refused to take his medicine again. Connor howled, a noise that was both agonizing and infuriating to Nancy. She was at the end of her rope and in a blind rage. They were both in the most anguish of anyone on the street, but they would have to be dealt with just the same.

In 28341, 19 year old Gordon Moskwitz was masturbating to kiddie porn, permanently soiling his internet browser history and getting himself put on several watch lists from faraway government agencies. His hand pumped up and down, sweat on his chest, his eyes glazed as image after image flicked across the screen. He had eight folders and counting of the vile material and harbored a forbidden, white-hot crush on Isla Hoskins. Whenever he drove past her playing with her hula hoops in the driveway he’d slow down just a little, hoping she’d do an enthusiastic twirl, allowing her shirt to fly up and give him a glimpse of her panty line.

In 28343, Chelsea Burke was purging in the basement toilet while her father Landon worked in the garage upstairs, fighting the urge to take more of the pills he’d been prescribed after a back injury the previous fall. Chelsea was a full-on bulimic, desperate to slim down so she could fit into her prom dress next month. Michael pitied her in this moment as she slumped against the toilet and her toothbrush clattered to the tiled floor, but she was a vindictive, catty little bitch at school who mangled others’ feelings, usually the socially defenseless, for no reason other than it amused her.

And finally, in 28400, at the end of the street, old Burt Catlett was sitting on the porch, blazed out of his mind. He was an old retired army sergeant, the only black guy on the block, and the other families kept their distance. He didn’t care. He was divorced, childless and wanted to live out his last years the way he saw fit. He was the reason the Place of Green was so well-supplied, and he was known for allowing several of the neighborhood girls to flash him and give him kisses on the cheek in exchange for weed. They did so quickly and begrudgingly, usually at the urging of their male counterparts.

Michael counted sin after sin as he passed the houses until he reached the end of the street. He climbed over the guardrail and navigated the narrow path worn into the slope, all the way to the bottom where the Place of Green was.

There was a small group of teenagers startled by his arrival. One tried to hide the joint they were all smoking, but Michael held his hand out.

“Can I hit that?” he asked.

The kids were all super uncomfortable with him. He could feel their nerves sparking. Their comfortable reality here was based on its predictability, and part of that predictability was the absence of strange faces. Michael was violating that reality, but so what.

“Hand it over,” he said, smiling broadly. “I think we all know that belongs to me now.”

The kid obliged, his hand shaking.

“We just found this,” he said stupidly. This was 14 year old Harold Moskwitz, younger brother of Gordon.

“Relax, son,” said Michael, accepting it. “I’m not gonna bust ya. Yet.”

He laughed. None of the kids laughed. He took a seat on one of the many logs around the charred pit and produced his own lighter — a fat, silver Zippo. Birds tweeted.

The kids didn’t seem to know if they should leave or stay.

“You’re probably wondering where I came from,” said Michael, lighting the joint.

“Are you homeless or something?” another kid asked. This was 15 year old Bobby Faraday, younger brother to Connor and second grandson of Nancy.

“I guess you could say that,” Michael said, taking a long, satisfying hit. “But don’t tell your parents.”

“You’re not dressed like a homeless guy,” said the youngest girl, a skinny little rat-faced 12 year old named Melissa, the younger sister of bulimic Chelsea in 28343. “You don’t smell like one, either.”

“Yeah, you look like a banker or something,” said Bobby.

“Yeah, you probably shouldn’t stay here, though,” said the alpha kid, a handsome lad named Yancy Butler, John Dollenganger’s stepson and Hillie’s older brother by two years. “If our parents see you, they’ll call the cops.”

Michael decided right away he liked Yancy. Yancy’s only major sin was beating the hell out of a rival on the football team after he’d found out the kid had taken something out of his girlfriend’s locker. Compared to the rest of the sub, Yancy was an angel himself.

“Don’t worry,” said Michael, his head already lighting up most pleasantly. “Just passing through. I’ll be gone once I finish this joint.”

“Where did you come from then?” Harold asked, speaking up for the first time since handing over the joint.

“The sky,” said Michael, pointing. “The northern sky, specifically.”

The kids snickered.

“How’d you get here?”

“Well, specifically, I was kicked out.” said Michael. “But I can get back in if I try and fix enough.”

“What do you need to fix?”

The kids were half-amused, half-intrigued now. This dude is a weirdo, but he seems interesting enough. At least he won’t bust them for smoking.

“People need to choose between chaos and order,” said Michael. “The word ‘sin’ literally means ‘missing your target’. Choose order. Even the worst sinner has chance to be redeemed.”

“How do you redeem yourself?”

Yancy was the one asking all the questions. Yes, Michael liked him right away. A sturdy youth.

“Vulnerability, taking risks and making yourself available and selfless,” said Michael. “Think of Christ on the cross — what’s more vulnerable than that?”

“So wait, wait, wait,” said Bobby, now getting bold himself, willing to try and dominate this weirdo. “You fell out of the sky to redeem sinners?”

“Yes.”

“Are we sinners?”

“All humans are sinners. You can’t help it.”

“How many do you have to redeem before you can go back into the ‘northern sky’?”

Michael smiled at him.

“I go one at a time.”

He finished the joint and pitched it. He clapped his hands.

“But this lovely gathering will have to end. Bobby, Harold, Melissa — you three stay here. Don’t try to leave before my work is done. I should only be about five minutes. Yancy, walk with me.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m going to your house for the point of intervention.”

He started back up the slow out of the Place of Green. As he left, he heard Melissa whisper, “We didn’t tell him our names, did we?”

“Come on, Yancy,” he called over his shoulder. “Your stepdad needs you. He’s gonna be working in the garage.”

Yancy obeyed.

“All right, man,” he said as he caught up. “I don’t know what the game is here. Are you a salesman or something?”

“I’m obviously an angel sent to Earth to right the wrongs of the world,” said Michael. “But don’t worry, you’re doing great.”

“I’m doing great?”

“Indeed,” said Michael. “Are you familiar with the path of righteousness, Yancy?”

“Not really.”

“Well, that’s odd. Because you’re walking it yourself.”

“I am?”

“You are. You’re the only person on this block who’s walking the path of righteousness, and that’s why I want you by my side when I do my cleanse.”

“Your cleanse?”

“Yes. My cleanse. My intervention. My washing of the feet. My daily dance with the divine.”

“Why do you want me by your side?”

“Because I want you spared from my cleansing hand. You don’t need to be cleansed. Like I said, you’re doing fine on your own.”

Yancy hesitated, his suspicion boiling over.

“Are you going to kill everyone?”

Michael laughed.

“Oh, goodness, no,” he said. “I’m going to redeem them, like I said.”

“How?”

“I’m going to help them become what they could be. I’m going to show them the path of righteousness and then help them stay on it.”

By now they’d reached the street, and they walked up its center.

“Yancy,” said Michael. “I think you know there’s a reason you and your friends didn’t run screaming when I stepped into that clearing, and then stood there and listened — really listened — while I gave you my schpiel. I think you know there’s a reason you’re walking with me right now and not calling the cops on your phone to report a strange man trespassing.”

Yancy nodded.

“Yeah.”

“And what is the reason?”

“Because what you’re saying is true,” said Yancy. “I can tell. I just know it. Don’t know how. But yeah. But how am I walking the path of righteousness? I don’t even go to church. I’m not really an atheist, but…”

“You do good, Yancy,” said Michael. “Simply put. You do more good than harm.”

They’d reached Yancy’s front yard.

“Watch this,” said Michael.

He spread his hands and there was a loud flourish of choir voices. White light emptied out of the clouds above and fell on Yancy’s house. It happened rather suddenly and unceremoniously.

“Holy shit,” yelped Yancy.

“No,” said Michael, arms spread. “Holy intervention.”

The white light and the choir spread from house to house until it seemed to levitate the entire neighborhood. Yancy fell to his knees and clasped his hands over his ears.

This went on, Michael grinning his grin and spreading his arms, the wind blowing his silver phoenix hair back from his temples and his white teeth gleaming like pearls.

“All the mercy and grace one can handle,” he said as the inter dimensional choir reached a crescendo and the eternal white light seared Yancy’s retinas.

Michael brought his hands down and the choir and the light stopped. The day was as before.

“There we go,” said Michael. “Go talk to your stepfather and you’ll see how righteousness has been restored. Like I said, he’s in the garage. You, of course, won’t remember any of this conversation, but it’s been very nice talking to you. Please keep up the good work, Yancy.”

And with that, he walked down the street.

Yancy got up from his knees and stood there a second in the grass. He shook his head. He couldn’t remember how he’d gotten from the Place of Green to his front yard. It was getting hot out. He needed to stop smoking weed.

He walked up the driveway. John was indeed in the garage, working on making a birdhouse.

That’s weird, thought Yancy. John didn’t like doing any physical activity. He usually hogged the living room headset on the PS4 and ogled his stepdaughter when he thought no one was noticing.

All over the neighborhood, things had changed.

In the Place of Green, the three remaining stoner teens were teaching themselves how to build a fire without the aid of matches or lighters. Melissa read from her phone while Bobby and Harold spun the sticks and struck the rocks.

John Dollenganger was in the garage, building a birdhouse for Hillie. No particular reason, John just knew she’d been stressed with school and he wanted to surprise her with something. Hillie loves birdwatching, and John was hoping the two of them could head over to the Metropark this weekend to see if the bald eagles are there. As he finished the front facade of the tiny house, Yancy stepped into the garage and asked if he needed any help.

Annie Hoskins was baking the cookies with Isla. She’d never cheated on her husband, although her boss did make some unwelcome remarks towards her last fall. She’d shut him down politely and firmly and it never came up again, lest a lawsuit come knocking. She’d coaxed Isla out of the living room away from her tablet games and the two of them were getting their hands all chocolately with dough as they made an extra batch for Mr. Catlett down the street.

Nancy Faraday was gently spoon-feeding Connor his medicine, promising him they’ll watch his favorite movie once the medicine’s been taken. As Connor accepted the foul liquid with a grimace, Nancy kissed his forehead and whispered how proud of him she was. She’d never hit him before, couldn’t dream of doing so.

Gordon Moskwictz was searching for colleges to apply to. He’d never seen anything illegal, wouldn’t even know where to find it if you asked him, barely even watched porn at all. Thinking he might want to be an English professor or maybe an astronaut, he hit send on another exploratory e-mail to admissions.

Chelsea Burke was getting ready for her evening out. She’d never made herself puke, though she would like to lose a few pounds. She was going to surprise Melissa and the two of them were going to go out to the mall to do some shopping. Later they’ll meet their parents for dinner and a movie.

And finally, old Burt Catlett was sitting on the porch, still blazed out of his mind but indulging in his old hobby of landscape painting with watercolors. The world was very full and green and Bart didn’t mind it all one bit as he tried to capture its essence. He waved at the neighborhood kids and gave them twenties for the lawn work they did for him, but he’d never given them weed and never would— that shit’s his and everyone knows you really shouldn’t smoke it until you’re 25 anyway.

Michael smiled with satisfaction as he reached the end of the street. He turned and admired his work, pulling out a pack of Luckies and his Zippo lighter, lighting up a celebratory smoke. He inhaled the silky goodness and felt great.

“A little extra tuning never hurt anyone,” he said. Bending the possibilities, tilting it toward positive, helping that moral arc of the universe bend the right way. “One more down.”

There was a flash of white light, a feather-shaped tear in the fabric of reality, and Michael North was gone.