Underground
    I believe in God. I really do, or at least I think I
do. You can never know. People doubt everything these days.
But as soon as danger appears, they are on their knees,
praying, kissing some holly object. A friend of mine tells
me he'd rather be a pagan, Egyptian Gods are his favorite.
For his DJ nickname he chose Bastet, that's the cat who is
in charge of music, poetry, dancing and orgies. I find it
childish and ridiculous. It's more reasonable to believe in
something you can't comprehend, beliefs are often based on
the equation of unreasonable parameters. Sometimes, we have
the honor of being in the presence of proofs which confirm
to us mortals the existence of G and of the other, the
fallen angel. But I'm not talking about miracles or any of
that religious mambo jumbo they sell you at churches,
mosques or synagogues. I'm talking about the very common
Underground.
    I travel the Ben-Gurion - Gatwick line on a regular
basis due to my job. Don't ask me why but the company I work
for pays me way too much for architectural advisement on
glass work for office buildings; all this for a guy whose
own graduation is in doubt, academically and mentally. I
consider myself to be an over grown twenty year old chap
(see, the English dialect is already under my skin). If you
are more than a passing tourist, London will eventually
influence you with its cold, bleak, royal, Victorian
atmosphere. Enhanced with the enormous urban scenery, you
become filled with complete apathy and you would not be
moved even by the vast green lungs of Hyde Park, Que or
Victoria gardens. Little by little I adopted to my schedule
a daily hobby which is to walk aimlessly in the Underground
(or the Tube as the say in England) where all the filth of
the British Capital lets itself become its permanent
occupants. Here, where nobody speaks to you and none see or
hear and the background is filled with the metallic
chattering which reminds us to mind the gap; here lies the
true human nature. Suspicious, aggressive, lonesome and
undeveloped. For a while you think that there is nothing
more to it until, like a sudden gust of autumn breeze your
stare leads you to a singular eye contact with a heavenly
beauty and your spirit is lifted on the wind of divine
intervention; magic, miracle, and not a preacher to be heard
or seen in the premises, of any religion. Slowly, the
unavoidable clashing and squeaking sounds of the train
emerge, the crowds gather and the eye contact is lost. You
stand there completely alone with your fists in your deep
raincoat pockets.
    One day, after another eye contact has been lost to me,
while looking down on the cracked floor I noticed a strange
pair of boots. Black, with wide square heals. The tapping
was a bit different than the usual dragging of the feet I
have become accustomed to and the legs walked around
confident, almost majestically as if there was a centaur in
the land of asses. Raising my glare I saw a man stare back
at me. He was wearing a brown suit that looked like it
belonged in the nineteen fifties with a matched hat and a
black tie that went neatly around a very well starched white
collar and rested calmly on his chest. While he was walking
towards me, a homeless who decorated the walls and was
between us started to get a seizure. He gripped his face
with the palms of his hands and started to dig into the
flesh of his face.  A few drops of blood trickled down.
Gloved policemen dragged the poor man to somewhere unknown,
he disappeared without a whisper. By now the suited man was
standing in front of me with his hand set forward for a
shake. I indulged him, half embarrassed though he seemed to
have taken no notice of it. The palm of my hand felt a
burning sensation by his touch and I quickly withdrew it
massaging it gently while he began to speak.  
    Mr. Perr he said. "Lucy Perr. Don't ask me why, I guess
my parents (May they both rot in hell) expected a daughter
and got me instead - and no, it is not a short for a manly
name or one of many anonymous saints. Salesman is what I do
for a living and I saw you were interested in the contents
of my suitcase.'' (Actually I only noticed it when he spoke
of it). ''My own products, agricultural tools. Hay-forks are
my specialty. Interested?"
    I stared as the lips formed a diplomatic, deep wrinkled
smile of an old-aged well practiced politician, and in the
eyelids I saw myself staring back at me from nothing but
total darkness. Behind me there was nothing but a bottomless
pit of blackness. As if looking for a place of comfort from
the hideous glare, my thoughts wandered to the eyes of the
woman I saw before. Relaxation eased through my stiff body
and Mr. Perr's smile faded. Raising his hat quickly (did I
see two pointed bumps hiding beneath the black hair?) he
bade me farewell and got on an empty train which seemed to
me to have appeared from thin air. Here I was, alone, with
my fists in the deep raincoat pockets, again.
    It took me a while to see her. On the opposite platform
wearing a raincoat same as my own stood, still as stone, a
revelation. For down her coat, peeping from behind her like
a small girl hiding behind her mother's legs, were the tips
of her white feathered wings. I waited for God knows what
(indeed!) but nothing happened. Soon enough the crowd
swallowed her and two trains arrived at once from each
direction. Getting on the cart I felt unable to explain in
my mind the events of the past few minutes. Can such forces
allow themselves to mingle with mortals in such an
irresponsible rude way? Then, on Charring Cross station my
cart was filled with demons, goblins, angels and fairies,
knights and princesses, frogs and crocodiles. One frog with
a blunt Scottish accent aroused a wave of laughter, trying
to convince a princess to give it a kiss. "I'll turn into a
handsome prince charmin' if y'do! Comm'om!" feeling at a
complete loss, my throat vomited horrible artificial
laughter. Only then it struck my mind. It was Halloween.