to learn everything he can about life on Earth, an attempt at quality control. Working at a self-serve frozen yogurt shop in the richest country on the planet is probably not the best place to get a comprehensive understanding of the human experience, but The Angel Gabriel likes toppings. Chocolate chips, raspberries, sprinkles. One night after a shift The Angel Gabriel tells me he spent an hour pondering the mystery of the gummy worm.
College students come into the shop late at night for a cup of vanilla-berry and the aloof beauty of an angel under fluorescent lights, half-apron tied to emphasize his narrow waist.
I email The Angel Gabriel suggestions for further work experience: articles about millet farmers in Gambia, rohu fishermen in Myanmar, salteña vendors in Bolivia, jobs where workers earn less in a day than it would take to buy a child-sized cup of pina colada swirl. The Angel Gabriel marks them all spam.
When his mission is over, The Angel Gabriel tells me he will open a shop that sells only toppings. This will cut out the middle man, allow patrons to divest of the illusion that they are there for anything other than permission to eat Reese's pieces by the spoonful.
This, he says, is his angelic purpose: to reveal us to ourselves.