The Angel Pë
By Robert Mazon
In my estimation Pë should’ve been dead by now, or almost so. But, you’ve been wrong on my previous and I’ll be wrong in my future estimations of situations and the people that inhabit them, which is called life. Angel Pë was a vociferous person, especially after he drank his 12 pack and you had the tenacity to confront him about anything at all. Otherwise he was a sweetheart that’ll give the shirt off his back and ask no questions. In return he’ll be expecting naturally, to borrow thirty dollars as if they were three. He paid back. Angel Pë was no criminal. He went to work every morning religiously and did an excellent job in it’s execution. Angel Pë shared an apartment in the upstairs house with his buddy Ep. Ep was an engineer and a good one. Ep also was an alcoholic and a bad one. They not only shared the apartment they also shared the same woman. The woman will remain nameless to protect her reputation. She was a sincere honest woman that loved two men at once. This situation did bring the two friends to the point of antagonism. At certain accusations lighting passed from one to the other and they could’ve massacred each other. But behold, something inexplicable intervened and made them break in laughter and they would hug and cry and have a drink or two.
Pë used to be married to his high school sweetheart and they had a little son about six or five years old called Jr. That spring morning, a black Mercedes arrived at the driveway and out came this, the most beautiful woman in the world this side of Ava Gardner and my ex-Moroccan girlfriend, accompanied by four gentlemen of enforcing kind. I, being the inhabitant of the garage, witnessed this show of power through my prison-window. The boys lit cigarettes and jived punching each other on the shoulder while beauty went up and I heard some muted argument and she came out with Jr. in tow, got into the car and drove off with her entourage. The Angel came out and said “That’s the company she keeps, they are dealers”.
Behind the house there was this alcove apartment where the Cherokee lived with his badger or coon, I wouldn’t know the difference anyway. But the Cherokee was a silent movie with no plot. The whole house was as if built by Koonz. I called it Amityvilla. At weekends BBQ the company doubled with some delicate and some rough females. Cherokee’s sister was beautiful but was a dyke who liked to flirt with males. Her lover was a she butcher, you may call her a butcheress in plain English. One giant moronic type went around repeating: “what’s going on?”.
That spring the Angel was pushed through the liquor store pane after he mouthed a young lad and I had to drive him to The Good Samaritan to saw his hand back where it belonged. Little Junior was as cute as a button and as sharp as a tack. And I predicted that he’ll make a fine CEO in a ceramic company. I have this sudden vision of the future. That’s when I knew that Pë was an Angel sent to earth by God in his mischievous ways for the purpose of his own. Come fall, the proprietress we shall call Kyria- Mario’s brought in an additional tenant into the upstairs. In the room of the Carrot-boy with an inflated ego, that didn’t settle well with the Angel. A confrontation was inevitable, it only needed some fuel and that was in plenty of supply. One small hour, the Carrot boy attacked the Angel with a shopping cart through the balcony pane , but old foxy Angel was waiting for him sideways with his aluminum bat. And he brained him, then jumped on him with boots and stomped him. I could hear it from downstairs. They had to take the Carrot-boy in an ambulance to Good Sam and the Angel in cuffs to the precinct. Next morning the Angel appeared with a crooked smirk on his face. They’ve released him in his own reconnaissance. The cops loved him. Carrot-boy was in a coma for two weeks until he woke up to a new world. But the zest of vengeance was weakened in him and he came around pale as a ghost searching for the Angel who had disappeared into Southern Queens by the advice of the Coppers.
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