Traveling with the Messiah: the Flokati and the Accountant

Someone was knocking on his door. As water dripped from his overcoat onto his Greek Flokati rug, Mike, was in no mood for visitors. He looked through the peephole and saw his Italian leather billfold in the hands of a strange teenager. Without thinking he yanked open the door and lunged for his wallet. The young woman darted forward as he grabbed for his property. Suddenly, he was outside his door in the hall and she was inside the door to his apartment.

"God Damn!" He wheeled around, stalking her.

"Don't say that!" she yelled as she backed further into his apartment.

He slammed the door trapping her inside. "Give it to me."

"And if I don't?"

He couldn't believe her arrogance. She was caught red handed with HIS wallet. How did she get it he wondered? His mind replayed the trip home from work. Aside from getting caught in a sudden rainstorm on the way to his Beemer, he had checked and re-checked all his possessions. Cell phone. Briefcase. MAC laptop. Keys. Overcoat. The wallet was in his pocket. He'd seen her outside his parking garage. Security would get a nasty phone call in the morning. Followed by a letter to management.

She wore the typical teenager's uniform. Street version. Multiple layers. Fingers cut out of gloves. Combat boots. She probably lifted his wallet and was here to collect a reward while she cased the condo, so she could return with her gang and rip him off.

"Give me the wallet or Jesus Christ himself will not be able to save you."

"Hey, leave my family out of this."

"Are you on drugs?" he asked.

"No," she replied. "Are you?"

"I don't have time for this." He noticed that not only was his overcoat still dripping rain onto his wood floors, but so was hers. In fact, she had a puddle around her and had begun to shake.

He tried a calmer approach. "I'll give you a reward. That is IF everything is still in it."

"Are you insinuating I'm a thief?"

"Just give me the wallet."

She tossed it to him. "I'm not a thief, I'm a messiah."

He didn't even look at her. Satisfied that his credit cards were all accounted for he started counting his money. "You're the messiah? Sure you are, honey, and I'm Saint Michael."

"I doubt that. He doesn't do money."

Mike looked up and noticed her eyes were very blue with navy blue rings around the iris. He'd never seen eyes like hers. He walked past her, grabbing a kitchen towel and throwing it at her. "Do you mind? You're dripping."

"Oh," she said, "If your problem is the water that rug over there can take it better than the floor." She started for the Flokati.

"Don't you dare step on that!" He jumped in front of her. "Do you know how much money it costs to clean that? I don't want your muddy boots on my white rug. Jesus!"

"I asked you to leave my family out of this," she calmly replied. She stopped walking and tried to mop the water up with his towel.

"I'll do that," he snapped. He grabbed the towel out of her hands and dropped to the floor.

She stepped around him, walking towards the door. "Oh, and by the way, you're welcome."

"For what?" he asked. No sooner had the words left his mouth than he realized she was only guilty of making a puddle on his floor. He took a calming breath. "Why call yourself, the Messiah?"

She looked at him a few seconds before answering, "Why do you call an apple an apple? Or a cloud a cloud? It's what I am."

"Whatever." He could feel his blood pressure rising again. "And you've come to enlighten us with everything you've learned. In what? Your 16 years of living?" He got to his feet. "Look," he said, "I don't care what you call yourself. Here's twenty bucks. Take it. But if I ever see you hanging around here again, I'm calling the cops. I don't want any trouble from you or your gang."

A bolt of lightening lit up the whole condo followed by a clap of thunder that shook his windows. He jumped.

"My gang?" She was looking at him strangely. "I just came to return your property."

Her shivering was more pronounced and it occurred to him that she was probably a runaway and could use a hot meal.

"Please. Take the money," he said.

"No thanks."

Frustrated, he shook his head. "Why should I believe you're a messiah and not just another punk kid?"

"Why not?" she said. "You're willing to believe I'm a thief. It wasn't hard for you to believe that, was it?"

"Right," he said. "Say you're telling the truth. That would make this the second coming right? What are you going to do now? Save all of us poor working stiffs? Tell us the end of the world is here?"

"No."

"Then what."

"I just came to observe."

"Great," he said. He took the twenty and stuffed it in her pocket. As soon as he touched her coat, a very loud ringing blasted both ears. Immediately, electricity shot up his arm to his brain and down to his toes. He staggered back, falling on his rear.

"Oh my God," he said.

"Wrong again," she replied. For the first time since meeting him she smiled.

He stared at her. His eyes were huge. His nostrils flared. "This is it isn't it? The end?"

"No," she said.

"What do you mean no?"

"I'm just here to observe the world. Not end it. That's someone else's job. I could ask Saint Michael. He might know the end of the world time line. You seem to identify with him."

He scrambled to his feet, putting plenty of distance between them. "Observe? That's it? Have you noticed the news lately? The wars, the weather, the economy? We need more than observation."

"Why?"

"Why? This whole planet is falling apart! People are losing their jobs, their houses, and how many wars do you think this planet can handle?"

"I don't know, how many?"

"Great, we get a comedian for a messiah. A punk teenage comedian. Is this how you earn your wings?"

She frowned.

"We need help!" he yelled.

"How much more do you want?" she replied. "You've had a lot of help. You've had prophets, kings, judges, good Samaritans. You've been given miracles, not to mention all the angels you can ask for. You have hundreds of religions. There's been Cyrus, Confucius, Buddha, Mohammed, Martin Luther King, Nostradamus, Herodotus and Jesus. I can recite lists of people sent through the millennia just to help you. And don't forget all the scrolls, bibles, books, and stories. How much more help do you need before you get it all in balance?"

"Balance?" he asked.

"Balanced," she said. She wrapped her wet coat tighter around her. "Nothing has worked so far; we figured that a grass roots observation might provide better insight."

"What are you an extra-terrestrial or an angel?" He paced in front of her, his open overcoat flapping as he turned.

She snorted in a very unmessianic way. "Angels ARE extraterrestrials. Why do you keep confusing yourself?"

"Well, excuse me! It's not every day I get ripped off by a messiah. I need some time to get comfortable with this."

"I'm a kid. It's raining. I obviously live on the streets and I'm cold. Yet all you're concerned with is your comfort? Why?"

"It's complicated."

"You make it complicated. It's actually pretty simple."

"Then simplify it."

"Nope. That's your job. You've complicated every gift you've been given. Muddied it up with all your gotta be's."

"Gotta be's?"

"Yeah. Gotta be this. Gotta be that. You notice anyone different from you. Then you judge them. They gotta be good, or they gotta be bad. It fatigues you. Causes you fear. You create fear until ALL you are practicing IS fear. Fear of anyone different from you. And since you are a unique creation, you eventually become afraid of everyone. And muddy it all up."

"So simplify life, and we get the prize? What a bunch of crap."

"Simplify life and find out what you get for yourself. Create something other than fear. You've got that part down. Try something different."

"It's not that easy."

"Apparently not for you. That's why I'm here."

"I must be crazy," he said. "I'm standing here dripping water all over my wood floor, listening to the ranting of a street person, who is probably on drugs."

"You don't believe me? What a bunch of crap," she mimicked.

"No. I don't believe you. But it's been very enlightening. Now, if you don't mind, I have two hours of paperwork to do."

"Well, at least your enlightened," she said.

He walked to the door and opened it.

"No need," she said.

He ignored her comment. "You can find a church or shelter to listen to your sob story."

She smiled again. Another clap of thunder made him jump. A bolt of lightening shot through the window temporarily blinding him. When he could focus again, he saw his twenty-dollar bill on the Flokati rug. The girl was nowhere in sight. He walked over and bent down to retrieve his money. He fell to his knees. Her words rang through his head, "You muddy it all up." Realization hit him as strongly as the shock he felt when he touched her. The corner of his rug was turned back exposing the tag. "Wash in cold water. Line dry."