“Can’t you just say, ‘Let there be smokes?’”
“It wouldn’t be a good idea.”
“Why not? Seems like a good idea to me.” My hand brushed something on the counter, by the glass—something smooth, small and box-shaped. I picked it up and frowned at it, turned it so the street light coming through the blinds could shine on the tiny print on the side: Surgeon General’s Warning. The floor was cold on my bare feet, and I began to shiver.
“Oh, sure, it seems like a good idea. But it would be interfering. Like violating the Prime Directive.”
I put the phone down and walked around the counter to the window, where I pulled up the blinds and raised the sash. The cars parked along the street were flat and monochrome in the orange glow of the sodium lights. The early-morning silence was a tangible thing, as though it were something covering my ears and not merely an absence of sound. I raised the screen and tossed out the pack of cigarettes. I stood a few moments longer, chilled from the outside air, just looking out onto the street. Then I shut the window, lowered the blinds, and went back to the counter.
I picked up the phone. “Hey, thanks,” said God. “I owe you one.” I hung up, turned the ringer off, and went back to bed.
Even if you finally decide on a method, you have to find God to use it on him.
I thought maybe it would be a good idea to visit the places God goes. The places he’s been, the places people travel miles and miles to visit, just in the hope of meeting him. It seems manageable when you first think of it. The list starts with a few sites—”Well,” you say to yourself, “I’ll go to Jerusalem. And Rome. Pity I can’t get to Mecca, but it’ll have to do.” And then you buy your tickets and your travelers checks, and off you go. On the plane you think, “I should visit Bodh Gaya, and Chak Chak. Ise, Mount Abu, Amritsar, Fuji, Lourdes, Mexico City.” Your list is getting longer, but it’s still doable.
But every city on your path has one or more churches or temples or whatever that you should visit. Set down in a place like Benares, and you find that every three steps you take, you blunder onto a pilgrimage site. And now that you’re looking, now that you’re really seeing it, it’s clear that the list is endless. God should be everywhere you turn, inescapable, but he’s never there, only the signs: God was here. Once. A long time ago.
Still, I persevered. You don’t undertake to kill God as a casual thing.
He was waiting for me outside my apartment building, leaning against a sunny strip on the brick wall, a cigarette hanging from his mouth. I’d thought he’d be there, and I was ready, my hand in my pocket, fingers wrapped around the handle of the blade.
“Hey, you did call in sick,” he said when he saw me, straightening. I walked past him without saying anything, and he fell in beside me. He knew—he had to know—but if I was right, he was helpless against the weapon in my pocket. I walked towards the main road, not sure where I was going. I could do what I intended anywhere, but I wanted it to say something, wanted it to be the kind of ritual gesture God seemed to like so much.
He walked with me for half the block. “Where’re you headed?” he asked. I shrugged. “Come on, Mike,” he said, stopping. “Quit playing around.” I turned to face him, saying nothing. He gestured around the empty street, the row of apartment buildings, the houses further down the block, all bordered by neat strips of grass. “There’s nobody here but you and me. Everybody’s at work, and the kids are in school. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
I pulled the blade out of my pocket. It was six inches long, wicked-sharp on one side. It shone dully gray in the sunlight. “I’ve got this,” I said. I looked for some reaction on his face but only saw a bland, serious expression.
“I’ve got to hand it to you, Mike. When you do something, you do it right. Where’d you find it?”
“EBay.”
“Damn,” said God. He took the cigarette out of his mouth. “You really can find anything there.”
“It’s the real thing,” I said. “The guy changed his name to William of Occam, just so he could sell them.”
“Yeah.” He dropped the cigarette to the sidewalk and ground it out with his foot. “Yeah, I can see it’s the real thing.”
“It’ll work.” My conviction was wavering slightly in the face of his calm.
“Oh, it’ll work. The question is, do you really want to use it?”
“No,” I said. “That’s not the question. The question is, how can you be all powerful and all good and let things happen the way they do? Earthquakes and hurricanes. Wars. People starving all over the world. It’s bad enough people have to die, but you make them die of AIDS, of cancer. Long, painful deaths, wasting away.”
“Hey,” God said, “I’m sorry about your mom.”
“No you’re not.” My voice was raised. I couldn’t help it. “If you were sorry it wouldn’t have happened to begin with. You’re God.”
“Yeah, I am. And you’ve got Occam’s razor in your hand. You gonna use it? Or not?”
“Am I free to use it? Or am I just your puppet?”
God shrugged. “See,” he said. “You’re asking the wrong question. It’s amazing how often that happens.”
“Answer the damn question. Do we have free will, or is everything predestined?”
“Yes,” said God. “There’s your answer.”
“How can it be free will if it’s all according to plan?”
“There are a hundred and seven theologians who can answer that question for you.” He frowned. “Wait—a hundred and six. The hundred and seventh, she isn’t born yet.” He shook his head. “Time,” he said.
“Don’t bullshit me, God,” I said, and hefted the blade. “I’m not kidding around.”
“I know you’re not, Mike. But I don’t think you really want to do this. It won’t change any of those things, death and earthquakes and whatever. It’ll all still be the same. That’s how Occam’s Razor works.”
“I know how Occam’s Razor works!”
“Sure you do. So why did you spend ten years blowing your savings on books and travel when all you needed was five minutes with eBay? Why didn’t you use it when you got it, or last night? How come you’re standing here arguing theology?” He spread his hands. “Fish or cut bait, Mike. Here I am. What the hell are you waiting for?”
“Nothing,” I said, and swung my arm back for the strike.
“Excuse me,” said a voice behind me. I turned my head. The mail carrier was behind me, bag on his shoulder, a stack of grocery store fliers in his hand. “Can I get by?”
“Sure,” I said, stepping aside. “Sorry.”
“No problem,” he said. He raised his free hand. “Hi, God. How you doing today?”
“Fine, just fine. And yourself?”
“Can’t complain. Won’t do me any good.”
God laughed.
“Take care.”
“You too,” said God.
I watched the mail carrier go into the apartment building nearest us. We were both silent for a few moments.
“No time like the past,” said God.
I turned to look at him again. “What?”
“Twilight Zone. You know, the one where Dana Andrews went back in time to shoot Hitler. Only he kept getting interrupted and couldn’t do it. Except he could have, you know? Because he had Hitler in his sights. Why would a knock on the door stop him? Do you think it was the unchangeable past, or his indecision?”
“I think it was crappy writing,” I said, and put the blade back in my pocket.
“That too.” He reached into his jacket and pulled out a cigarette. Behind me I could hear the traffic on the main road, two blocks away. I couldn’t think of anything to say.