What in God's Name: A Novel Page 4

  “Oh my fucking God,” the man muttered, angrily shaking his foot out of a puddle. “What the fuck!”

  God threw up his hands, exasperated. Why was this guy so mad at him? It’s not like he had put the puddle there; puddles were just something that happened when it rained. Honestly, what was he supposed to do? He could say “No more rain,” but that would probably cause even more problems for the humans and make them even angrier. He turned off the computer. Earth was just as frustrating as a Rubik’s Cube. It was impossible to fix something without making another thing even worse. He reached for his beer mug and noticed with mild surprise that it was empty. He cracked open another can and took a giant swig, forgetting about the glass this time.

  God knew that criticism was part of the job. You couldn’t build something as successful as the world without hearing from some haters. But lately things had gotten out of hand. Recently one of the humans, Richard something, had written an entire book saying he didn’t exist. God didn’t mind at first; it was just some fancy-pants Oxford professor trying to get attention. But then the book had become an international bestseller. Now, it seemed like whenever he turned on human television, there the guy was, loudly holding forth on some talk show. God tried to read the book, but it hurt his feelings so much he had to stop after just a few pages. The blurb on the jacket said the author was a “fiery intellectual,” but really he was just plain mean. God thought idly about having him killed or burning his face off, but that seemed like making too big a deal out of things.

  God knew that his obsession with the humans was insane. When he first built the universe, after all, he’d never even intended for it to be populated. He’d constructed the earth for one reason and one reason only: to manufacture xenon gas. It was an extremely valuable element—rare, clean, potent—and the earth’s atmosphere produced tons of it automatically. The Department of Xenon was the most important segment of God’s company—it occupied seventy-four of the eighty-two floors of corporate headquarters. But God rapidly grew bored with that side of the business. The profits were so steady, it was a waste of time to even check the numbers. So one day, for amusement, he’d had his staff invent mankind. The humans had no effect on the production of xenon gas and therefore served no real function. But God quickly became preoccupied with the tiny creatures. Soon, to the dismay of his business managers, they were taking up almost all of his time. He began to care about their sports and their wars and their songs and their discoveries; most of all, he cared about what they thought of him. He created whole departments to maintain their planet and improve their lives. He recruited former humans to serve as Angels, erasing their memories and giving them new identities so they could focus on helping mankind. There was just something about those humans; they reminded God of himself.

  God thought wistfully about the past. In the beginning, the humans were so easy to please. Give them some fruit, some light, and they’d all be singing his praises. Life expectancy was thirty years, and everybody was cool with that. If you started to go bald, you didn’t curse God, you threw him a feast of thanks for allowing you to live so long.

  These days nobody said thank you. God enjoyed all of the churches, especially the weirdo ones in the South. But it had been 5,127 years since anyone had offered him a proper ritual blood sacrifice. He never complained about it, because he didn’t want to be “that guy.” But it was definitely something that kept him up at night. It made him wonder if his best days were behind him; it made him wonder if it was time to retire.

  He picked up his Rubik’s Cube and rotated it a few times in his palm. There was probably a way to fix things, to set the world right. But he was too exhausted to figure it out. He squinted at the cube, with its jumbled splotches of blue and green. And then, with a shrug, he tossed it into the garbage.

  “I’m sorry,” Vince told God. “I told her you were busy.”

  God put down his golf clubs. That strange girl was back, the tired one who’d forgotten his Tabasco.

  “So you’re just going to play golf,” Eliza said, her voice raspy from fatigue. “You’re just going to ditch the office and hit the course.”

  God nodded, confused. “Do you…want to come?”

  “Those prayers in your office? I sorted them. It took me years to isolate those level sevens, and you’ve probably never even looked at them.”

  God furrowed his brow, trying his best to conceal the fact that he didn’t know what a level 7 was.

  “Oh!” he said finally. “You’re the one who sorted all the prayers.”

  Eliza nodded.

  “In that case, I got a question. How come no one prays for field goals anymore? I used to love getting those. ‘Please go in!’ ‘Please go wide!’” He chuckled.

  Eliza took a deep breath and looked into her boss’s eyes.

  “Look,” she said. “I know running Earth is hard. But if you’re not going to try to fix things, if you’re not going to really devote yourself to it, what’s the point of being here? What’s the point of even coming to work? Why not just quit?”

  The room was so quiet, Eliza could hear herself breathing. Vince was glaring down at her, his nostrils flaring with contempt. Eliza wondered if she’d gone too far. She peered up at God, bracing herself for some kind of tirade. But the old man just smiled and nodded.

  “You know what?” he said. “I’ve been thinking the same thing lately.”

  He turned to Vince. “If anyone calls, tell them I’m busy.”

  He put down his golf clubs. “I’ve got work to do.”

  Craig’s eyes widened. “He canceled golf?”

  He shook his head with a mixture of shock and admiration.

  “I can’t believe you just went up there and talked to him. I don’t even like to make eye contact with the guy. One time we were about to pass each other in a hallway, and I got so nervous I hid inside the women’s bathroom.”

  “It was a scary morning,” Eliza acknowledged. “I mean, it’s been five hours and my hands are still shaking! But sometimes, if you really want something, you’ve got to take risks. You know what I mean?”

  Craig nodded unconvincingly. “Oh, I know!” he said. “Totally. Risks.”

  He swiveled awkwardly toward his computer and checked his e-mail. There was a new message in his inbox—a company-wide memo from the CEO.

  “Hey, Eliza!” he called out, through the wall of his cubicle. “Check your e-mail!”

  He clicked on God’s memo, leaning excitedly toward the screen.

  Hey gang,

  After much consideration I’ve decided to resign as CEO of Heaven Inc. It’s been a fun ride, but part of being successful is knowing when to quit. I want to give a special thanks to Eliza Hunter from the Miracles Department, who really put things into perspective for me. Without her persuasive arguments, I might not have come to this decision.

  The earth will be destroyed in a month. I haven’t decided how to do it, but it will probably be by fire or by ice. (Demolition Dept.: I will make a decision soon, I promise!)

  I realize that some of you might have questions about my decision. I’ve done my best to anticipate and answer them below:

  You mentioned that the earth would be destroyed. Does that mean that you’re also destroying heaven?

  Of course not! We still have lots of xenon to collect. Even though I’m destroying the earth, its atmosphere will remain. I expect our collection numbers to stay as high as ever.

  The humans, of course, will all be killed, so any jobs related to mankind will be eliminated.

  My job was related to mankind. Where do I go now?

  Usually, upon completing your term of service, you would retire from heaven and rejoin Earth’s population. Since there will no longer be an earth to return to, you will simply stay here from now on, in our beautiful corporate campus.

  And don’t worry. Even though your services are no longer needed, you will retain full access to our company’s facilities. You don’t have to turn in your bicycle. Your laun
dry will still be picked up on alternate Wednesdays. You’ll still receive discounts at our gyms and snack bars—you’ll just have more time to enjoy it all!

  Do you really think it’s necessary to destroy the earth and kill all of the humans?

  Yes.

  You’ve threatened to destroy the earth many times. In each instance, though, you’ve had a “last-second change of heart.” Could something like that happen again?

  I doubt it! It’s not that I won’t hear arguments—bring ’em on—but my mind is really made up about this thing. The planet’s been on a downhill slide for centuries, and frankly I think it’s time we cut our losses. Remember: in the grand scheme of our company, the earth and its creatures are not particularly significant.

  What about our bonuses?

  Everyone who was on track to receive a bonus for the third quarter of the fiscal year will receive the full amount, despite the shortened time frame. You’re welcome!

  Will any current humans come to heaven?

  Possibly. But they won’t be required to complete the usual term of service, since the Xenon Departments are full and the Earth-related jobs have been eliminated.

  Isn’t that a little unfair? We had to slave away in cubicles for years—why should these guys get a free ride?

  I know it’s a little unfair. But so is freezing or burning to death in the demolition of the earth! I think it balances out.

  What are you going to do next?

  I’m glad you asked! I’m pleased to announce that next month I will finally fulfill my lifelong dream of opening a restaurant. I’m calling it Sola, and we’re going to specialize in Asian-American fusion.

  I’m not super into Asian food. Is this restaurant for me?

  While most of Sola’s dishes have a Sichuan influence, our menu also includes some “comfort classics” that everyone can enjoy (steak frites, garlic roasted chicken, etc.).

  How can I get a reservation at Sola?

  Call the reservation desk any time from 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. Your party must be four or more.

  “Holy shit!” Craig shouted, his eyes just inches from the screen. “Asian fusion? What the fuck is going on?”

  He charged into Eliza’s cubicle.

  “Didn’t I tell you not to go up there? Look what happened—look what you did!”

  He kept on screaming until he realized she was crying.

  “Eliza…”

  He tried to pat her shoulder, but she shook him off.

  “No,” she murmured. “You’re right. It’s all my fault.”

  She covered her face with her hands. “I was just trying to help the humans. I ended up killing all of them.”

  She wiped her eyes with her sleeve. “What are we going to do now?”

  “It’s going to be okay,” Craig said. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

  A loud crash sounded from a nearby cubicle, followed by raucous laughter.

  “Are people celebrating?” Eliza asked in disbelief.

  Craig shook his head. “They probably just haven’t heard the news yet.”

  Brian rode past them on an office chair, holding two beers. He was naked from the waist up.

  “Have you heard the news? No more work!”

  He offered Eliza one of the beers. She shook her head.

  “Suit yourself.” He took a sip from each beer and trundled down the hallway.

  “I’m taking off my pants!” he announced. In the distance, people cheered.

  “How can he be so drunk already?” Eliza wondered. “God only sent the memo fifteen minutes ago.”

  “It’s amazing,” Craig agreed.

  “You need to talk to him.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about Brian. He’s got a crazy tolerance for alcohol.”

  “No. You need to talk to God.”

  Craig laughed. “Me? I’m just some Angel. I can’t walk into his office whenever I feel like it.”

  “I thought you said you had that kind of relationship.”

  Craig turned away.

  “Come on,” she pleaded. “We can’t let him shut down our department!”

  Craig thought about a miracle he was working on. A lost dog in Norway had wandered twenty miles from her owner. He had a plan to steer her back home, using a series of delicious airborne scents. He’d been so excited about the project—now he’d never get the chance to try it.

  “Please,” Eliza begged him. “The entire earth is counting on you.”

  “Why me?”

  “Because you’re the only Angel good enough to fix this. Nobody else on this floor could’ve rigged that piñata or cued that iPod…”

  Craig squinted at her. “How’d you know about those?”

  Eliza hesitated. “I snuck onto your computer,” she admitted.

  Craig’s cheeks reddened slightly. “You liked those?”

  She nodded firmly. “I loved them.”

  A surge of adrenaline coursed through Craig’s bloodstream, as potent as a gallon of espresso.

  “Okay,” he heard himself say. “Okay. I’ll go talk to him.”

  “You can’t talk to him.”

  “Please, Vince. It’s important.”

  “What department are you in again?”

  “You know I’m in Miracles,” Craig said. “In General Well-Being?”

  Vince grinned. “Then how important could it possibly be?”

  Craig winced. He didn’t care if people insulted him personally; but when people insulted his department, it really stung. Sure, Miracles wasn’t as important as, say, Gravity Enforcement or Ice Age Prevention. And, yeah, it wasn’t as hip as Cloud Design or Peacock Production or the Department of Sunsets. And of course, technically, none of the human-related departments were as vital as Xenon Collection.

  But Craig was proud of his little division. He would rather work in Miracles than anywhere else in heaven.

  “What have you got against us?” he asked Vince. “You used to work on seventeen, remember?”

  “Yeah,” Vince said. “Before my promotion.”

  “Is it okay if I sit in the waiting area?” Craig begged. “Until God’s free?”

  Vince shrugged.

  “Knock yourself out.”

  Vince Blake squinted at the chunky, unkempt Angel in his waiting area. He’d hated Craig for as long as he could remember. They’d started out in Miracles at the same time; they’d even taken their introductory tour together. But it was clear from the start that they were very different people.

  Vince, for instance, hated being an Angel. The endless research, the tedious coding, the maddening anonymity. He could still remember Craig’s first miracle: he’d spent forty-eight hours weakening a plank of wood with termites so that a scrawny girl would be able to chop through it at her karate exhibition. When the kid smacked the board and it crumbled apart, the entire floor burst into applause. Some of the senior Angels started chanting Craig’s name, like he’d cured cancer or something.

  “That was beautiful, Craig—just beautiful!”

  It was ridiculous—who cared about some random girl’s karate class? How could they devote so much time to something so trivial?

  Most Angels viewed themselves as artists, delicate craftsmen striving for elegance. Their goal was to remain as invisible as possible, to change the world with subtlety and grace. Vince thought they were a bunch of pussies. On his very first day on seventeen, he made a private vow: he would only design miracles that were bold, loud, and guaranteed to get press coverage.

  In his first month on the job, he gave an infertile woman in Boise sextuplets. His colleagues warned him about the health risks and tried to convince him to lower the number of babies. He responded by adding two more babies to the mix, making it the first octuplet birth in medical history. The other Angels called the stunt “sloppy” and “reckless.” But Vince didn’t care. The New York Post had called it a miracle.

  One week later he made a Brazilian statue of the Virgin Mary weep tears of blood. He was suspended for three
days, but he returned more brazen than ever. On a sunny afternoon in May, he guided a flock of geese into the path of a 747 jet. As the plane plummeted from the sky, he weaved it between two skyscrapers and directed it into the Hudson River. There were dozens of injuries but no fatalities—making it the most “miraculous” crash landing in memory. The event was so spectacular, even the media had to acknowledge heaven’s hand.

  “Miracle on the Hudson!” raved the tabloids.

  It was God’s best press in years. As soon as he saw the headlines, he gave Vince a promotion to the executive wing, where he’d been ever since.

  Vince squinted across the room at Craig. He was disgusted by the Angel’s physical appearance. His coffee-stained khakis clung unflatteringly to his hips and his wrinkled blue Oxford was missing at least one button. His filthy brown hair was speckled with visible dandruff flakes. He wore socks with his sandals and the socks didn’t even match.

  The men accidentally made eye contact, and Craig ventured a smile. But the Archangel just glared at him. Craig was one of the pretentious snobs who had criticized his octuplet miracle. Vince had overheard him talking about it in the break room—he’d called it a piece of “hackwork.” Craig probably didn’t remember saying it, but Vince would never forget it.

  The Archangel was so lost in his thoughts, he failed to notice his boss’s arrival. “If it’s about the bonuses,” God was saying to Craig, “I already explained it in the memo.”

  “It’s not about the bonuses!” Craig promised.

  Vince quickly stepped between them.

  “Can’t you see he’s busy?” he snarled at Craig. “If you have any questions about the earth—”

  “This isn’t about the earth,” Craig lied. “It’s about…uh…it’s about the restaurant.”

  Vince stared at him incredulously.

  “I think Asian fusion is the future,” Craig said. “I want to get in on the ground floor.”

  God raised his eyebrows. “Are you telling me you’d like to invest?”