It’s around noon on Hollywood Boulevard, a stretch of road that dances between stardom and seediness, where the sacred and the profane overlap with unsettling ease. McDonald’s hums with the rhythm of everyday life: tourists shuffle in, teenagers argue over fries, and a baby cries faintly from the back. Into this tapestry of modern triviality steps Metatron, the celestial scribe of the divine, the Sar Ha-Panim [Hebrew: “Prince of the Presence,” /sar haˈpanim/], often called “the voice of God.”
In this incarnation, Metatron doesn’t appear as the glorious figure described in the Torah, shining with the brilliance of ten thousand suns. No, today he wears a worn leather jacket, torn at the cuffs, and black boots that look like they’ve kicked in a door or two. His hair is dark, unruly, and his pale skin contrasts sharply with the harsh lights of the fast-food joint. There’s something about him—a brooding energy, like he’s seen too much and barely cares anymore. His eyes are ice, as if he’s read every ledger of human sin and virtue, but his movements are deliberate, almost serene.
As he steps up to the counter, the teenage cashier gives him a bored look, entirely unaware of the being standing before him, one of the most exalted of angels. Metatron surveys the menu, his mind already deciding, for as the Chancellor of Heaven [from Greek, “archangelos” /ˈar.kʰan.d͡ʒe.los/] he knows every possible outcome of this transaction. And yet, he plays along with the charade of choice.
“I’ll take a Quarter Pounder with cheese, large fries, and a Coke. No ice,” he says, his voice carrying a resonance that seems too weighty for the environment. This wasn’t just any fast-food meal; it was a study in human indulgence, the corporeal craving for salt, fat, and sugar, a trinity of its own. There’s something almost sacred in the way mortals worship at the altar of convenience and flavor.
He chooses a booth near the window, settling into the vinyl seat. His hands—pale, with black rings tattooed around each finger—unwrap the burger. The scent of grease fills the air, mingling with the faint waft of French fries and the exhaust from cars outside. He bites into the burger, feeling the texture of the meat, the soft bread, the sharp tang of pickles. There’s no need for sustenance, not for an angelic being like him, but today isn’t about need. It’s about understanding.
And as Metatron eats, he observes.
Across from him, a group of teenagers are engrossed in their phones, filming themselves eating their Happy Meals for some fleeting moment of internet fame. One of them looks up, his eyes catching Metatron’s for just a second too long. He shudders, as if a cold breeze just passed over his soul. He knows nothing of the Kisei HaKavod [Hebrew: “Throne of Glory,” /kise haˈka.vo̞d/], or that he just locked eyes with the being who has stood before it, transcribing the decrees of the Almighty. But he feels something, deep in his bones.
Metatron, for his part, muses on this. Humans have always been fascinating in their ignorance—so consumed with the present, they hardly notice the eternal forces at play around them. He finishes his burger and starts on the fries, each one dipped with precision into a small pool of ketchup, a ritual almost as exacting as any ancient sacrifice.
Halfway through his meal, he spots a woman sitting alone in a corner, hunched over her laptop. Her face is drawn, tired—she’s working, editing something, perhaps a screenplay. Her coffee is cold, forgotten. And in that moment, Metatron feels a pull. This woman, like so many others, is creating. She’s writing her small piece of the human story, trying to shape the chaos into meaning, much like he himself once transcribed the words of the En Sof [Hebrew: “The Infinite,” /e̞n so̞f/], the unknowable God.
In a quiet flash, Metatron possesses her—just for a moment, just long enough to write a single sentence. Her fingers tremble, but she types it out anyway, hardly aware of the hand guiding hers:
“What if it’s all just a test, and the answer is not found in success or failure, but in the striving itself?”
She blinks, confused by the sudden clarity. Metatron releases her, returning to his fries.
The world around him continues its hum. People come and go, orders are placed, trash is discarded, but for thirty minutes, this place is his observatory. He watches the ebb and flow of human life, taking in the small dramas, the laughter, the arguments. He could sit here forever, lost in the tapestry of it all. But he has other places to be, other stories to record.
As his time draws to a close, he wipes his hands with a napkin, leaving behind the remnants of his meal. Rising from the booth, he surveys the room one last time. Metatron—this strange, dark version of him, with his punk rock sensibility and eyes that have seen too much—blends into the chaos of Hollywood Boulevard as easily as he does the halls of Heaven.
And as he walks out, he wonders: Is the real test of humanity found in moments like this, where the divine touches the mundane, unnoticed? Or is it in their endless struggle to find meaning, even when it’s hidden in plain sight, like a scribbled note from an angel in the margin of a script?
With a half-smile that no one sees, he disappears into the crowd.
The Cold Liter 
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