Seattle 164, or Fiction

(Sometimes, the Fiction Monster takes little bites out of my heels until I figure out something to do with her.)

G-d and I meet for lunch at a place neither of us have ever been to, but the Yelp reviews are fantastic, and it’s halfway between our houses. The paparazzi arrive just after we do, and I thank my stylist, Melanie, who agreed to a short-notice appointment this morning and managed to get rid of my split ends. Not that I thought G-d would care, but this is New York City and some things just matter. G-d looks at the menu miserably and says,

“Would you keep it a secret if I ordered the veal? I’ve gotten eight thousand emails from every kind of vegetarian, Hindu to hippie in the last hour alone, and my inbox really can’t handle that kind of publicity.”

I nod, and G-d asks for some drinks with our meal. The waiter starts to make a joke about holy water, but his tongue turns into a snake that then bites him on the ass and he shuts up.

“I hate that line,” G-d mutters. “The tap water’s bad enough in this town without stale prayers floating around in it.” I nod with extra sympathy, as if I know something about holy water. G-d kicks off her flip-flops and runs her fingers through her beard and asks,

“So, why me?”

I want to say something about Krishna being booked solid till next October, or the way Horus never returns my phone calls, or how the Flying Spaghetti Monster has turned into a complete diva since the website launched, but instead, I start inhaling my osso buco, and spill a spoonful of wine sauce down the front of my shirt. I reach for my water glass, but G-d points to my chest and, following a sudden burst of warmth, my shirt is completely clean.

“Thanks,” I say. “Really, I just wanted to pick your brain about some things, see if I could find some answers.”

“7,” says G-d.

“Excuse me?”

“Well, you were looking for answers. 3+4, days of the week, last digit of Pi…”

“Really? Pi has a last digit?”

“Yes, but don’t tell the mathematicians. They’d lose faith, and that’s way more fun than answers.”

“I guess I wanted to know if you were planning to cut my grandmother a break any time soon. Like, either let her die or ease up on her body. She’s in a lot of pain.”

“That’s really what you want?” says G-d, who would be raising an eyebrow, if she had eyebrows. “I offered you the answer to one of your people’s greatest mathematical mysteries and you instead ask me if a human is going to die?”

“At least I didn’t ask you to end any wars,” I shoot back.

“And I’m glad you didn’t,” G-d says with a huff. “I’m not IN the war department. There’s a reason Death exists, you know. He’s a fabulous secretary, and what’s more, he handles all the war and medical research, which leaves me much freer in the afternoons.”

“Medical research?”

“Absolutely. Doesn’t it make sense, to pair up the things that try to control mortality?”

“Fair enough. Can I have a bite of your veal?”

“Of course,” says G-d, pushing the plate towards me. “Listen, darling, this was a fabulous choice of restaurant. I’m glad we had time to catch up. Last time I saw you, you were too busy fighting Death to really pay attention. Tell your grandmother I said hello, and I’m sorry about the inconvenience.”

“I will, but I doubt that’ll make her feel any better.”

“Right,” says G-d, floating towards the door. “Right.”