It Wasn’t Such a Bad Life
by Charles C. Cole
Multiple doctors concur I have two years, tops: suffice it to say my vital parts are plumb worn out. I’ve made it to my nineties, decades beyond both of my adventurous parents. A lot of people in my circumstance might be scared or bitter, but I’m relieved. Let me explain.
All my life I felt alone. Maybe because I put up barriers and I was hesitant to make friends. Maybe I thought I wasn’t good enough and had to step back before my acquaintances stepped away. I don’t know what inspired this great and enduring act of self-sabotage, but I long ago took some artificial comfort in the familiar routine.
Then, when I was of early retirement age and nearing the end of this shadow play, my car wouldn’t start. I called a specialty company who came to my house and replaced the battery. Afterward, as I headed out on errands, I turned my car radio on, and it was tuned to a New Age spiritual station. I didn’t even know there were such things. The guest speaker on some interview show insisted we all have a spirit guide and a guardian angel, two unseen companions who volunteer to follow us around from birth to death. “Malarky,” I said at the time. “Tripe.”
But I also half-heartedly considered this previously unexplored concept. Yep, I spoke to “them” during otherwise quiet solo trips to pick up groceries, late at night when I couldn’t sleep, even while mowing the lawn. I didn’t have demands: I was too tired for a new career or passionate love affair. No, the only thing I asked: One day before I die, might I see you? Or must this relationship be based on blind faith? Months later when I was close to giving up, I had an unexpected encounter.
My modest house at the time was at the end of a cul-de-sac on the edge of a wide, heavily settled valley. One day we had a tremendous thunderstorm with, briefly, hail. When it was over, I stood just outside my back door and watched the sun come back out, brighter than before, like it had fought a tough battle and won. There was a rainbow way up and then, over time, it shrank and shrank — a new activity to me — until eventually one end was over the woods behind my house and one end was in my backyard. Then it faded away.
If that wasn’t miraculous enough, when I turned to go back inside, there were now two faintly glowing, semi-transparent beings in my basement man cave.
One, in a long white robe, was nearly as tall as the ceiling and stood with one silver boot on my fireplace hearth and an elbow on the mantelpiece, his right hand to his chin, looking comically pensive, almost scolding, sort of a Norman Rockwell painting of a disappointed father who’d stayed up late to meet his teen returning long after curfew. He was examining a framed photo taken many years before, when I’d gone fly-fishing in Montana. There was a suggestion of wings emanating from his back, but they looked more like odd shadowy protuberances.
The other fella — they both appeared male — was stretched out in my La-Z-Boy recliner, hands behind his head and making teasing faces at the angel character, including sticking out his tongue. He wore a red-and-black plaid shirt with bare, mud-covered feet, wiggling his toes. He waved an unlit cigar in the air like he was conducting unheard music. He had a paunch, a week-old beard and a self-satisfied air like he’d just completed a beyond-expectations debauched spring break getaway.
I’ll call them Norman and Paunch. They never introduced themselves, and I didn’t think at the time to ask their names.
“Gentlemen, are you lost?” I asked.
“You called,” said Paunch. “You whined, over and over. So, we thought we’d make a brief, inspirational appearance. Didn’t we, big guy?”
Norman nodded without turning, without speaking.
“You’re them,” I said.
“Do you mind if I swear?” asked Paunch.
I shrugged.
“What the hell are you waiting for? Life’ll be over in the blink of an eye. Grab it by the balls and do something. You want to write, write. You want to paint, paint. You want to use the Internet to look at videos of curvy young women dancing in bikinis on the beach, do that. Just don’t waste it.”
“I take it you’re the passionate one, the spirit guide. You don’t want me to create an enduring masterpiece?”
“I want what you want, only my special purpose is to kick you in the ass when you dither, should you ask me to.”
“And the stern, intimidating guy is here to dial down my emotions,” I surmised.
“This guy intimidating? Don’t make me laugh.” Paunch jumped up and punched the unamused angel in the nearest shoulder. “Sure, when they need dialing down, when they get in your way, if you’re open.”
“I don’t have any complaints,” I said.
“Then what do you want from us?”
“I’ve been depressed and lonely, and I like the idea that I have unseen companions who support me unconditionally. The thought takes the edge off of living out my twilight years.”
“He thinks this is living,” said Paunch to his travel companion. “This, my friend and assignment, is what we call in Heaven ‘getting by.’ And, by the way, it’s boring as hell. I’m not saying you’ve got to free-climb cliff faces while naked or rob banks dressed as cartoon characters to support the homeless, but what say we add some zing to this thing? But only if you wanna.”
“You’re always here?” They both nodded.
“Old news,” said Paunch. “Known you since you were as small as that picture frame in the angel’s clumsy fingers, smaller.”
“Why have I always been so shy?” I blurted.
Paunch shrugged. “Would you rather have been born without legs or maybe raised by a father who abused you?”
“Of course not.”
“Have you struggled much, suffered much?”
“No.”
“Believe it or not, I’ve been told by beings more informed than me that when they were designing your life story, you sort of sat up and said, ‘That’s an interesting choice.’ So, they gave it to you.”
“Is it too late to make a change?” I asked.
“Never.”
“How do I embrace my future? What am I waiting for?”
“Someone to kick you in the ass, if you ask me,” said Paunch.
“You?” I asked.
“We keep your emotions in check and help you on your creative journey, when you ask. But you have to mean it.”
“Why was my life so boring?”
“It met your expectations,” said Paunch.
“I want more.”
“Name it.”
“I was thinking about buying a 3D printer and making handcrafted action figures.”
“It’s a start,” said Paunch. “Are you asking for our help? Because we’re sort of like genies: you don’t get a wish unless you uncork the bottle.”
“Will it make me happy?” I asked.
“Do you want to be happy?” asked Norman, jumping in. His voice was deep and his eyes penetrating. I had the feeling he’d experienced a lot of disappointment, probably because of my action or inaction. “This is not a rhetorical question,” he prompted.
“Sometimes,” I admitted. “More than I have been. Nothing flashy.”
“I’ll work on that,” said Norman, almost smiling. “But you need to drive. You’re the boss. Nice meeting you, in person.”
They started to sparkle and their details faded.
“Wait, will I see you again?” I asked. They looked at each other and shrugged.
“Do you need to?” asked Paunch.
“I guess not.”
“We’re always here. Always listening. You’ve got a pretty good singing voice when you stick to your range. Don’t do that falsetto thing. We’re ready to help when you ask. Be specific and put your intention behind it.” Paunch faded away as the rainbow had.
Norman said, “You’ve got this. I believe in you. I’ve always believed in you.” Then he, too, was gone.
I never saw them again. Eventually, I convinced myself I’d made up the experience, but I still talked to them when I was alone. I still believed.
I sold the house — It was so easy! — bought an RV and traveled for a couple of years. I met more than a few like-minded people. We’d sit around campfires at night, play cards and tell jokes, even make plans to meet up in other campgrounds.
Sometimes I’d give people a lift. Some of them became my family. Oh, and I published a memoir, nothing fancy, and brought copies to give away. I sold almost 500 signed printings. It wasn’t about making money but making a statement: Hey, I lived a life. I’m not rich or famous, but I’m awesome at chess and making grilled cheese sandwiches on the barbecue. I was never alone.
I sold my RV and bought a single-wide mobile home in a trailer park with a fishing pond in a place that never sees winter, a place where old travelers gather and reminisce. Once or twice, when I was really tired and alone with just one other person, and we were heading in different directions in the morning, I heard stories of other people who had met — or at least recalled meeting — their spirit guide and guardian angel.
Maybe it really happened or maybe it didn’t. All I know is: when I die, I’m looking forward to my reunion with Norman and Paunch, or whatever their names are, to thank them and finish up this long journey knowing it wasn’t such a bad life.
Copyright © 2026 by Charles C. Cole
