Sharp and Shabby

With the onset of dawn, the diner, as it always was at this hour, was inhabited mainly by a handful of lingering drunks, first shift workers, and social outcasts. One outcast in particular pushed his way through the door and surveyed the interior of the burger-and-flapjack joint.

The man was of a shabby sort. His beaten and faded clothes fluttered loosely from his skinny frame as he made his way to the back of the dining room. The mindless chatter of a handful of drunken twenty-somethings slowed as he passed. Not so inconspicuously, their conversation turned to the easy target, but the shabby man paid them no attention. He slid into the booth in the back of the dining room, set his hands on the table, and waited.

“Mornin',” a waitress said, approaching the table.

She put a mug down and started to fill it without even being asked. The hallmark of an artisan in the service industry: keep the coffee hot and keep it coming.

“Good morning,” he replied, beaming a warm smile up at her. She was middle-aged to older and had an old-world look. The haircut that could have only worked in the nineties, deep lines that only a blue collar life could carve, and a voice that only a pack a day could promise. There was an edgy warmth to her, though, making it clear that she would neither take shit nor give it unnecessarily.

Fittingly enough, the name on the plastic tag pinned to her apron read, Fran.

“I’ll be right back with a menu,” Fran said.

“Actually, I already know what I’d like if I could order now, please.”

Fran nodded and pulled out an old, grease-stained notepad from her apron.

“Two eggs, sunny side up over hash, with wheat toast, please. My friend will be along in a minute, and he’ll have the eggs Benedict with well-done hash browns.”

“Listen, uh,” Fran lowered her voice. “If you can’t pay, we’ve got a mountain of dishes out back we could use some help with. Can’t give you a free meal, but you’re welcome to work it off.”

“Thank you, ma’am, but the tab won’t be an issue,” he replied, his smile never faltering.

Fran stalked off toward the kitchen, and he slumped deeper into the booth’s plastic-coated cushion and reached out to pick up the white porcelain mug. As he did, he noticed how dirty his hands were, and all at once, he realized that he wasn’t certain how long it had been since he had last bathed.

The grubby jacket he wore over his ragged sweatshirt was stained in several places, which matched his paint-spattered jeans and boots. His hair had begun to mat to his head in a greasy tangle, and for that reason, as well as to keep warm, he kept an old knit beanie pulled down tight over his head. Despite his best attempts, some yet un-matted locks of yellow hair poked out from underneath the hat and hung down in front of his eyes. Underneath the dirty hair and unkempt beard, there was a handsome face that looked to be in its mid-thirties, but no one, including him, had seen it in some time.

The front door opened, and without looking up, he knew that the other man had arrived.

The newcomer, a sharply dressed man, stood at the front of the diner and observed the place, just as his shabbier counterpart had only moments before. He was tall with a square-jawed handsomeness that turned heads. His eyes were a deep, dark brown, barely distinguishable from the black of his pupils. Those eyes peered out across the dining room, the fluorescent light reflecting in them, forming a diamond glint amid the otherwise charcoal-blackness.

Despite not knowing why, all of the diner patrons watched him as he shrugged his way out of his overcoat and hung it on the coat rack by the door. It may have been his perfectly tailored suit in the otherwise blue-collar setting, or it may have been that there was something obscenely attractive about every aspect of his physical presence. Every single person, regardless of age, gender, or sexuality, was unable to take their eyes off of him for several moments.

The sharply dressed man swaggered toward the back of the restaurant, and as he did, everyone immediately averted their gaze. Passing the table of twenty-somethings, he smirked and nodded as if daring them to make eye contact with him. None of them did.

Shabby set his coffee mug down on the table as Sharp drifted into the booth across from him and unbuttoned his jacket in one fluid motion.

“Mornin’,” Shabby said with a nod.

“Good morning!” Sharp replied cheerily. He reached into his breast pocket and removed a silver cigarette case, and paused as he flicked it open. “You look… tired.”

“It’s a little hard to wash in fountains and ponds when they’re all frozen over,” Shabby replied.

Sharp spoke through pursed lips as he lit his cigarette.

“Well, maybe that’s the good lord telling you to try a shower.” He blew out a plume of smoke once the cigarette was lit and gestured toward Shabby’s jacket. “Speaking of cleanliness and godliness, that is one handsome jacket! Where’d you get it?”

Shabby held Sharp's gaze with a polite smile.

“You done?”

Sharp smiled and leaned back in his seat, knowing Shabby would never take the bait but always willing to try. Fran returned with another mug and a fresh pot. She topped them both off and went about her rounds. Sharp plucked his mug off the table and raised it, but didn’t sip from it right away.

Over the edge of the mug, Shabby saw Sharp’s eyebrows knit together.

“You alright? You don’t seem like your ol’ somber self today. It almost seems like you’re even more depressing than usual.”

“Just a lot on my mind lately is all.”

“Anything you want to talk about?”

“You don’t even want to know. I could go on for hours.”

“The ‘favor business’ taking it out of you?”

“It always has.”

“I’ve got an eternity's worth of ‘told you so’s. Would you like to hear one?”

Shabby struck a look that Sharp knew well. I’m not in the mood. Sharp decided to change the subject.

“So this is the new spot? They'd better have a good hollandaise, or I’m going to be very upset. Speaking of which, did you…”

“Of course. The usual.”

“Damn, I’m getting predictable. Anyway, assuming the hollandaise is acceptable, is this our place for however long you’re here?”

“Could be here for a while. I just got into town a couple of days ago, and from what I’ve seen so far, there’s a lot to do.”

“There’s a lot to do everywhere. Too bad you never seem to choose warmer climates to work in. You know, I bet sleeping on the warm beaches of Miami is a hell of a lot more comfortable than freezing in the alleys of Chicago. Shit, I’d venture a guess they need more help down there than up here. Then there’s always Los Angeles, but uh…” Sharp chuckled, blowing smoke out of his nostrils and wrapping his knuckles on the table. “I guess that’d be a little too on the nose.”

“I go wherever fate pulls me.”

“Well, it’s pulled you back to Chi-Town. My town, and that’s great news! Speaking of which, Bears and Packers tonight. I can get tickets. Luxury box. All-you-can-eat and drink!”

“You know I can’t accept.”

“Oh, c’mon. We could call it a work outing. You’re a Packers fan for Christ’s sake. You did say fate pulled you here.”

“It’s going to be quite the game,” Shabby said, a grin creeping across his lips.

Sharp threw his arms up in victory.

“Then it’s settled!”

“I’ll think about it.”

Fran arrived with their food, and the two fell into conversation with the relative ease of old friends. They talked about football, the election, the economy, and what movies were in the theaters. Through mouthfuls of food, they talked and laughed until their plates had been scraped clean.

Sharp produced the cigarette case again and began digging around for another. Shabby pointed at it and wagged his finger toward himself, beckoning for one.

Sharp frowned and flung a cigarette across the table to Shabby.

“I bet you expect me to foot the bill as well!”

“Even though I don’t exactly have cash falling out of my pockets at the moment, it is in fact your turn to pay,” Shabby said, lighting the cigarette.

Fran returned, topped off their coffees, and took away their dirty plates. Sharp asked for the check as she began to walk away.

“You in a rush?” Shabby asked.

“Little bit. A whole lot of things to get done, I’m afraid.”

“Like what?”

Sharp snorted and smiled.

“You don’t want to know.”

“No, probably not.”

Shabby frowned down at the table, fiddling with a creamer and not so subtly avoiding eye contact.

“What’s going on?” Sharp asked.

“I can’t help but feel like I’m back in Chicago for a different reason this time.”

“What do you mean?”

Shabby looked around to see if there was anyone within earshot.

“Maybe it is just fate; the path winding back to you, but things are bad lately. Real bad.”

“They’re always bad. Always have been. That’s what keeps us busy.”

“This is different. Every day seems a little bit darker than the last. I make my rounds, I do

my duty, and by the time I’m done, there are two more sets of hands reaching out for help. Something is going on, something big.”

The old cushion groaned as Sharp sat forward.

“Okay. So what do you think it is?”

“I can’t be sure, but the influence is so one-sided now. I see your people everywhere. We pass one another on the street and pretend to be strangers, but we can sense one another. My question is: Why so many? Why here? Why now?”

Sharp blinked his confusion.

“Sorry, are you asking me?”

“Who else would I ask?”

“One of your own? Your boss? I don’t know.”

“I haven’t seen anyone else in years, and I haven’t heard anything from the top,” Shabby said, seeming to deflate.

Sharp regarded Shabby for a long moment, contemplating what he would say next. Finally, he let out a sigh.

“How long have you and I been friends?”

“Since the beginning.”

“Right, so you know that I would never lie to you or lead you astray–well, unless I absolutely had to.”

“Then help me out here.”

“No.”

Shabby looked back, puzzled.

“Huh?”

“You chose your side, and I chose mine, remember?”

“Of course, but...”

“No, there is no but.” Sharp pointed toward the ceiling. “You believed in him immutably.” Then, he pointed toward the floor. “But I needed something different, and that’s why I followed him.”

“And look what that got you,” Shabby said mockingly.

“Oh, because the spoils of victory were so plentiful. Look at you now,” Sharp gestured to Shabby. “The honor of serving in squalor? No thanks.”

Shabby sat up suddenly, more spirit in his posture now.

“I was sent here to observe and intervene when necessary. My time here has been spent helping people. Not for personal gain. You, on the other hand, play their weaknesses and take advantage of them for what? To turn a profit?”

“Of course!” Sharp exclaimed with a laugh. “Sorry, is that supposed to be some sort of

Revelation?” Shabby leaned back and frowned, but Sharp kept pressing. “C’mon, why would I do something like that? Huh?”

“Because you’re a demon,” Shabby said quietly.

Fran interrupted them by placing their check on the table. She eyed them suspiciously, sensing the tension, but sauntered off without a word. Shabby made to pick up the conversation, but Sharp cut him off, snapping at him now in a quieter but harsher tone.

“The Almighty,” he spat the title, “would have had me play servant to them, and I could not–would not abide. That’s why I’m here. To exploit their weaknesses, of which they have so very many by the way.”

“They have lost their way, I agree, but their heart and soul–their love–will guide them through their darkest hours,” Shabby replied in the same quiet but forceful tone. “They could be better than us.”

Sharp snorted his derision.

“Give them the option to indulge in their greatest temptations, and they become as pliable as clay. When the time comes, that heart and soul you see as strengths will be easily overpowered by their greed and desire for power.”

Shabby froze at that comment.

“When what time comes?”

“The time to do what we were truly made for.”

Shabby’s eyes went wide with realization.

“War?”

Sharp answered by dashing his cigarette into the bottom of the ashtray between them with a cold stare. With realization washing over him, Shabby slowly turned to look out over the diner. As he did, Sharp continued.

“It wasn’t hard. Most of them don’t even believe in God anymore, and why should they? He doesn’t intervene. Hell, he doesn’t even listen. All the dirty work of miracles is left to those very few of you who remain in his service. He just sits up there in his empty castle, making his rules, and demanding unquestioned faith in return.”

“They’ll turn on each other first, and when the chaos ensues, they’ll finally turn on him. And boy, he’ll hear them then! But it will be too late. When he sends his dwindling legions against us and our new army of expendable souls, we’ll drive you all back and smash you against your coveted Pearly Gates. With no more faith from which to derive power, we will cast him down once and for all.”

Shabby turned back to look at his friend, but all he found was the face of his oldest enemy.

“Then, when the heavens are ablaze, and the mortal plane is but cinders below it, Lucifer will claim his rightful throne.”

“All this time,” Shabby stammered. “You lied?”

Sharp winced at the accusation, his demeanor suddenly softening.

“Never. I would never lie to you. But I have a certain–let’s call it a ‘Non-disclosure Agreement’–that I must abide by rather…” he searched for the word, and with a wave of his hand, found it. “Religiously.”

For a long time, neither of them so much as blinked. Sharp ended the stalemate by pulling out a fat billfold. He peeled off four twenties–far more than the breakfast and tip were worth–and placed them on top of the check. He then cleared his throat.

“Well, would you look at that? It seems I went ahead and told you everything anyway.”

“I suppose I should thank you,” Shabby muttered.

“What you know, at this point, doesn’t really matter that much,” Sharp said with a sad smile. When Shabby didn’t reply, he once again filled the silence.

“Oh, c’mon, we can’t leave off like this. Come with me tonight! We’ll get you cleaned up, a couple of drinks, and before you know it, you’ll feel a whole lot better. We can even talk about opportunities.” Sharp leaned in close as if this were the most secretive part of the entire discussion. “It’s not too late to rethink your position. Old Scratch has an eye for talent, and an ex-legionnaire could prove to be very valuable to the winning team in these final days.”

Shabby finished his coffee and set it down with a tired sigh.

“Enjoy the game, old friend.”

Sharp nodded, straightened his tie, and took a look around the diner once more.

“It’s too bad. Despite the clientele and deplorable decor, the food here is excellent. I was really looking forward to coming back.”

They ambled out the front door and into the cold of the early morning. Sharp buttoned his long overcoat and pulled the collar up high. Shabby slipped on a pair of fingerless gloves and wrapped a threadbare scarf over the top of his jacket. They stood there in front of the parked cars and watched the livening traffic on the distant interstate for a moment.

“I suppose this is goodbye,” Sharp said.

“No. I have a feeling that we’ll be seeing each other again.”

“Yeah. Probably very soon.”

They shook hands, and when they did, Sharp realized that Shabby’s grip was strong. Stronger than it had been in some time. He looked into his friend's eyes, and what he saw there was not what he expected. The somber, empty pools of pity were alight with something new. He was now looking into the eyes of the Legionnaire. The Great Captain. Commander of the Heavenly Host.

The Archangel.

“It’s going to be a long winter, old friend. If you don’t come in from the cold, I can promise you won't make it. Not this time,” Sharp said.

Shabby smiled, and just then, a song drifted into his mind—one of his favorites. So, with the absence of a good response, he began to sing it as he turned and walked away.

Many have I loved - Many times been bitten

Many times I've gazed along the open road.

Many times I've lied - Many times I've listened

Many times I've wondered how much there is to know.

Sharp chuckled to himself, shaking his head before climbing into his obnoxiously oversized SUV. The engine roared as he took off toward the highway that disappeared into the darkness of the western horizon. Shabby walked east along Route 20 toward the city and the sun just beginning to rise over the skyline, singing to himself as he began to hit a stride that made him feel like he had in days long past.