Advice from My Angel

My Angel sat down next to me as I dozed on the couch.

“Pretty good month, eh?” my angel said. “Cover of Hitchcock. On a Writer’s Panel at a conference. No one out looking for you with a gun.”

“Leave my ex-wife out of this,” I said sleepily.

“Really, we did some good stuff this week, huh?”

My Angel is not really a guardian angel. Nor is he/she a good luck charm. My Angel is more like a hall monitor, making sure that I go right back to the classroom after visiting the boys’ room.

“Yeah,” I said, “but all that added up to nothing, really. No agents called. Even the agents who said they were interested in my work ignored me. No publishers coming to call…”

“You are the most dissatisfied project I’ve ever had,” My Angel said. The Angel calls me a “project.” It doesn’t fill me with hope.

“Where’s the fame? Where’s the fortune? Where are the beautiful women who love me for my incredible mind.”

My Angel blew a raspberry.

“Fame? Why do you think I keep you away from Fame? Fame will chew you up like a dog destroys a new plastic squeak toy. I’m keeping Fame away from you for your own good.”

“What about Fortune?”

“You can pay your bills. You have a nice little house in Barstow to live in. You drive a car that starts every time you turn the key. That’s a Fortune for most people.”

“My luck to get a philosophical angel,” I muttered. “What about the beautiful women?”

My Angel reared his/her head back and roared with laughter.

“You think Fame will tear you up? When a beautiful woman is done with you, you’re nothing but rags and gristle.”

“I thought you were here to help me,” I said.

“I am,” My Angel replied. “Just not the way you want me to.”