A halo of charcoal white smoke floats above her head as she points the lit cigarette towards me while guzzling a tall boy Pabst Blue Ribbon.Mesmerized by the halo when she loudly burbs it startles me.
"Holy Mother of God," she slurs, "will you calm down."
Pasty white skin sharply contrasts oily black hair, bloodshot aqua water eyes and a dirty white robe slips over one shoulder almost exposing her left breast.
"Is that mustard?" I ask pointing at a brownish stain on the robe.
Slurping a bourbon chaser, she nods.
"It looks like the Shroud of Turin," I say.
"Shut up," she snaps.
"If you hook up with Joel Osteen or T. D. Jakes you could probably make a lot of ..."
"SHUT UP! she snarls crushing the empty beer can on the table.
"Listen," I say accustomed to her angry outburst, "times are still bad no matter what the politicians say and everybody can use some extra dough. You'd make a ton being an angel with a sign from God on your robe of mustard in the shape of the Shroud of Turin. Those minister Dudes would probably let you keep 40% or so."
"Why do you torture me?" she asks taking a sip from a fresh can that magically appears out of nowhere.
"I'm trying to help," I answer sitting back with bare feet propped on the back deck on a warm winter night under a bright sliver of Moon.
"Let's be honest," I press, "you look emaciated for an Angel. What kind of food you get in Heaven? Is it like the Golden Corral except with good food?"
"Why me Lord?" she croaks before taking a long drawl of beer.
"Plus as a Guardian Angel" I continue paying her no attention, "I assume you get special privileges and can cut in line whenever you want."
"Jesus Christ!' she hisses, "I'm here to tell you something but you won't shut the ..."
"WHAT?" I demand sitting forward.
Sighing, she downs another bourbon before retrieving a crumbled piece of paper from the filthy blue stole draped around her neck, which she straightens on the outdoor table, clears her throat, spits a lougie over the railing and reads, "For unto you is born ... er ...well ..." she falters.
"Are you telling me you were supposed to be here when Che was born and you didn't show until now?"
She nods without speaking ... or drinking.
"You're sixteen weeks late!" I say incredulously.
"I've been busy," she replies like a teenager in trouble with her parents.
"WITH WHO?" I bellow. "Jimmy Cochran? The man sees imaginary Cows running threw his backyard!"
"Special assignment," she answers without making eye contact.
"Oh Pl-Leeze!"
"To Che!" she says standing, "Salute!"
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," I say waving her away.
"Oh come on," she pleads, "please forgive me."
"Let me get this straight! My Guardian Angel needs forgiveness because she's too busy to work me into her schedule."
She nods and sheepishly says, "Damn cute baby!"
At that moment Che cries from her crib.
"You did not!" I say accusingly.
"Gotta go!" she says disappearing leaving crushed cigarette butts and beer cans, "Special Assignment."
Strolling though the darkness to get our baby without waking Sarah, her voice appears out of nowhere, "Oh and Micheal dear! I'd appreciate it you just kept this to us. I'd hate for it to get out I wasn't somewhere I was supposed to be."
"Not a problem," I say, getting our precious little girl, give her the bottle, smiling Devilishly. "You're forgiven."
