So she’s in, and I’m about to introduce a host when Medicine Man taps me on the arm and points at the monitor.
Uh-oh, Jerry’s light’s flashing. He’s in the countdown phase. Unexpected. I slow Jessie-May’s trajectory as far as I can – her exit’s not too close at this point – and haul Jerry up. The re-boot’s caused him to re-wind a bit, chronology-wise. Another design fault. He’s outside, in the heat, probably right near where he crashed the car and half-killed them both. Landscape’s the same as where Jessie-May was, the turbines, the grove in the distance. Don’t look back, my friend, you won’t like what you see.
Ahead, there’s the building. Some kind of hardware store, he reckons.
Another Angel factoid: eight times out of ten it’s a retail outlet.
He heads over. He’s still on the agitated side so I take him down a few notches till I get him through the door. Inside it’s dark and jumbled, the shelving stuffed with stock, a mix of new and second-hand. There’s rusty chisels and lathes, drills, glass jars full of nuts and bolts, others with nails in and in between, modern plastic-packaged items: Superglue, electric hedge trimmers, face-masks.
Hmm, goes Jerry’s tragic little guy-brain, and he starts walking around looking at the shelves with a song running in his head, she’s a good-hearted woman in love with a good-timin’ man, up and down, she loves him in spite of his wicked ways she don’t understand. Didn’t I have a list somewhere, of shit I needed? Bulbs, three-inch masonry nails, grout, some WD40 for that hinge in the garage? Yeah. Through teardrops and laughter they’ll pass through the world hand in hand, and I sure could do with a real nice set of screwdrivers. State-of-the-art, a proper grip on em, ten different sizes, the good hearted woman lovin’ her two-timin’ man—.
And so it goes in this mode until he stumbles on – WOAH! – the bad stuff.
That happens, and you don’t always see it coming.
He’s looking at a bunch of weird broken shit in a heap. Trash, mostly. A half-melted Barbie doll. A bike with its front wheel missing and no chain. A banjo with no strings and a cracked back.
Cue the Freudian slash Jungian craporama.
This is where they tend to flip into introspective mode, if they’re ever going to. The idea is, the broken objects represent their life’s mistakes, unfulfilled dreams and general regrets. Triggering the realization that they’ve done bad stuff, or failed to do good stuff, leading to some hokey self-assessment where they try to fix it by asking God/their Higher Power/the Universe for forgiveness before they croak, cuz the Angel’s not in the business of sending folk to hell, no matter how much they belong there. So here’s where they get the closure thing they need, to so-called rest in peace.
So now he’s suddenly feeling low, and I’m co-feeling it. But – bad programming again – most folk just don’t see what’s there in front of them. So Jerry’s sensing that all this junk is significant, the melted Barbie in particular: something about Jessie-May being treated like shit by her Ma and probably the rest of the family too including him. But he’s not making the connection. The system isn’t nudging properly, is what’s happening here. Inadequate signposting. So he just stands there eyeing the pile of trash, feeling blue, not coming to any conclusions, still humming his little Waylon Jennings cheating song, wanting to fix things but with no idea how, even though he’s surrounded by tools and repair kits. Go figure.
It’s not going to develop, I can see that, so I introduce another host, Jimbo 3, nicknamed "Jimbo the Sage" because of his great age of around 85 and his supposed backwoods old-timer wisdom, in an attempt to kick Jerry into a new focus.
"Howdy. What can I do you for, sir?" says Jimbo 3.
"Well I’m not sure."
"That’s often the way. You find us OK?" asks Jimbo 3.
"Think so. Anyways, here I am. Feeling kinda strange."
"A common complaint sir. Folk can have real trouble getting here. By the time they reach us, some have had the time to ponder what they’re after so they’re pretty specific. Others – perhaps like you, sir – haven’t managed to pinpoint it yet. Do you have any ideas?"
"I musta done before I came in, but now I’m not so sure. I was in Vegas but I changed my mind."
"Well, just take a look around, take your time, sir. No hurry. You on your own?" (The system’s not being quite truthful with him here. He’s got precisely 23 seconds left.)
A thought comes to him. "My grand-daughter. Jessie-May. She was with me in the car. You seen a kid don’t look right, in a bridesmaid’s dress?"
Aha, now we’re getting somewhere – but he’d better hurry, the timeout’s flashing. Go on Jerry, I’m rooting for ya.
Jimbo 3 says, "She’s right here, sir."
"That’s great!" But he’s distracted by the tools.
"You want to see her? Have a word?"
"Sure. In a minute. I was thinking, you got any real nice state-of-the-art-type screwdriver kits?"
"Oh shit, you dork!" I yell. The sexy doc looks up.
"You OK there?" he mouths. I nod.
The host says, "Screwdrivers? We sure have sir." Twelve, eleven, ten…
"So let’s see ’em."
Jimbo 3 goes: "And Jessie-May, sir? Did you want to see her, say a few words?"
Go on, you dick!
"I’m talking the kind with the magnetised tip."
His wish is the Angel’s command. From nowhere a box appears and the lid flips open to reveal a gleaming array of stainless-steel screwdrivers. Even I’m impressed.
"Can you beat that, sir?" asks Jimbo 3.
And just look at Jerry’s face split ear to ear, dentures blazing and glory be. What a smile. The camera clicks and clinches the money shot – the one thing the Angel never fails on – and Jerry exhales, with his last breath, the immortal words: "Wow, willya just look at those big boys. Now that’s what I call a classy—"
Then zaps. Game over.
What a grade-A prick. Last chance to see his grand-kid, and chooses tools.
I sign him out, depressed as fuck. "All done," I tell Angus. "We can package him."
When we get back to Jessie-May there’s not much time left on her countdown. She’s made her way into the kiosk, where there’s candy.
"Welcome," says a voice. Jessie-May turns. The host-lady she’s conjured looks like her Ma, but nice, and not pregnant or in a wedding-dress. Softer, less make-up, less mean. She sinks down to look Jessie-May in the eye, all kind and concerned. Smooth skin, smells of honey and roses.
"What’s your name sweetheart?"
"Jessie-May."
"Pretty name! How can I help you?"
"Is this a store?"
"It’s whatever you like," says the lady, and smiles. "Do you have any idea what you’d like on this mighty hot day?"
"You have ice-cream?"
"Sure, hon. Got a whole freezerful out back. Baskin Robbins, Ben and Jerrys, Häagen Dazs, you name it. Got a favourite flavour?"
Jesus. Not again.
You see, this is the point where it goes wrong. Every time. Look at Jessie-May: she’s talking ice-cream now because that’s what she was prompted to do with that "mighty hot day" shit, and naming the freaking brands: that’s what an attorney would call a leading question. So now we’re into Peanut Butter, Bubblegum, Double Chocolate Chip and blah blah. I’ve been here a thousand times, I know how it ends: they exit thinking of a favourite ice-cream flavour slash sexual position slash in Grandpa Jerry’s case, set of goddamn screwdrivers. Now maybe that’s a cool way to go. But ask yourself, is that what the system was designed for?