Making God
by
Stefan Petrucha
Copyright 1997 Stefan Petrucha
License Notes
Contents
What we've learned so Far…
1. Beth
2. Hapax
3. Calico
4. Keech
5. Mom and Dad
6. Chairman of the Bored
7. One Man's Ceiling
8. Another Man's Floor
9. How are you today?
10. Symptoms and Syllogisms
11. Can you get there from here?
12. Yet you fail to see it.
13. A Light on in the Attic
14. I am Forever
15. Aftershock
16. Okay, so maybe I'm not forever….
17. The King of Things
18. Pseudo-man
19. Guns & Nutters
20. Anxiety of Authorship
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Well, what have we learned so far?
To understand anything deeply, one must first understand it superficially.
There is no such thing as free will. Eventually, you have to pay for everything.
Accident and plan are both human concepts, neither of which occurs in nature.
Feared or embraced, change is inevitable, but it by no means follows that therefore change should be embraced.
Our immortality is never thrust in our face as easily as our mortality.
Staying alive is vastly over-rated.
Life offers two main goals: the maintenance of comfort and the following of a spiritual path. Following procurement of the first, the second should be pursued immediately. In times of crises, however, the first should always be forsaken for the second.
There is always a crisis.
Nothing has to be anything.
We value those who speak like us more than those who do not.
Society is mechanical, but people are not. Therefore give to society what is society’s and to yourself what is yours.
Reincarnation is only objectionable insofar as it prevents living in the present.
We must be careful of what we think – it will last forever.
If Sam were kept alive by a tube connected to Joe’s heart, most would agree that Joe shouldn’t have a legal obligation to keep the tube connected. However, if Joe were Sam’s mother, and Sam were a fetus, you’d have problems.
Today, God doesn’t make the man, but clothes do.
The illusion of a politician’s power comes from equating society with government.
What is needed is an ardent belief in moderation – equal in fervor to the passions of the extremes.
If culture does not come out of us as individuals, then culture does not exist.
You only see it when you believe it.
It’s too beautiful for words, or there are too many words for beautiful.
Some things never die.
Some things are never born.
Some things cry, “Whee! Whee! Whee!” all the way home.
There is no choice, other than Apollo or Dionysius.
Entropy only applies to pre-determined things.
If you overestimate yourself, you’ll soon learn if you’re wrong. If you underestimate yourself, you’ll never learn anything at all.
The choice isn’t whether to live or to die, it’s whether to die for nothing or to die for something.
Everything is true, eventually.
That’s it! Ready? Here we go.
1. Beth
When a brand new face appeared at her office door, bright and smiling and unabashedly flirting, for a moment, Beth Mansfield felt rescued from the terrible dailiness of her existence. She wished this new man, whoever he was, whatever he was, would just shut-up and kiss her. Then he started talking, and, after a few minutes, she wished he would just shut-up.
It wasn’t what he said, or even the fact that he couldn’t seem to stop saying it. What bothered her was that when he spoke, he reminded her of someone else, and that meant he wasn’t really new at all. It was said there were really only about 100 people in the world and Beth was beginning to feel that not only had she met them all, she also didn’t really like any of them.
Not bothering to smile politely, she turned her back on the talker, hoping he would slink away with either a bruised ego or a lowered opinion of the opposite sex. Instead, he found her disdain intoxicating. Excited now, and craving to continue, if nothing else, his speech, he hungrily scanned her office, planning to verbally seize upon whatever entered his field of vision.
Seeing this, Beth’s gaze also darted about. A book title peeked out from the pile of papers. She covered it with the palm of her hand. A photo of her parents was propped against some video cassettes. She turned it face down. Seeing nothing of interest on the walls, she pivoted towards the last place in the room she thought might spark a conversation: the dread computer. That was when Beth Mansfield, five year veteran of the Research Division of the Federal Bureau of Investigations, finally noticed there really was something new in her life.
A horrid, little, black thing with even stranger silver things attached to it, almost like wires, sat in a plastic holder on top of the monitor. It looked as though she might be expected to wear it on her head or over her eyes, but she couldn’t be sure. The only thing she did know was that, like everything else associated with the vile machine, it would doubtless cause her pain.
Finding, at long last, his “in”, the talker grinned.
“I see we’ve already installed your transmedia interface for 1,000 Words.”
Still staring at the sleek, insect-like body, she said nothing.
He went on.
“I’m from the computer division.”
He edged closer.
“1,000 Words? The new program? Did you read the memos?”
Finally, she turned to him, a look of horror on her face.
The talker, thinking he’d finally gotten her attention, continued speaking.
“It’s the end of an era,” he said excitedly.
This time, as if to hypnotize her, his hands came into play, describing abstract shapes in the air.
“…the dawn of a new age!”
He made some semi-circles and twisted his wrists.
“A total revolution in the way we think of communication!”
“Oh goodie,” Beth thought, watching his digits flex and point, “his hands talk, too.”
“Hell, it’ll be a revolution in the way we think. The program actually takes words, written or spoken, and transposes them into three dimensional animated pictograms.”
Fearing that even the slightest movement on her part would engender further discussion, Beth fought to remain still. Her participation was, however, not needed.
“We’ve been using words for what, fifty thousand years? A decade from now, they’ll be obsolete!” he said.
“Oh?” Beth said, perking at the possibility.
“Of course, there’ll probably still be numbers. I really can’t see getting along without them,” he added, apparently a little disappointed.
She nodded in agreement, not quite knowing why.
“I saw a demo a year ago,” he said dreamily. The edges of his mouth raised in a slight smile as though he were trying to recall his first kiss.
“It was just an Alpha version, but there they were, floating in the air, little moving pictures, one next to the other, like a wordless comic book. I knew what they meant, intuitively. It was like I could feel them in my head, you know, with that same kind of power a child must feel the first time they learn a word,” he said.
“Get out,” Beth responded.
“Excuse me?”
“I hate computers,” she said, “With all the passion o
f my heart and soul. If it weren’t for the restrictions that society has placed in my psyche, I would find the people who made them, and kill them.”
“Ah,” the talker answered. Then, at long last, briefly, he remained silent.
Beth was about to feel slightly bad about what she’d said when she noticed he still wasn’t leaving. Instead, he awkwardly leaned over the top of her desk, glanced at the pile of files that lay there, and started reading the titles out loud.
“Koresh, Jim Jones, L. Ron Hubbard, Marshall Applewhite, early Gnostic tracts and abstracts from The Variety of Religious Experience. You’re a cult expert? You must be getting a lot of work with the millennium coming up.”
Incredulous, she said, “And you must be a socially inept computer geek.”
Operating against all of Beth’s expectations, the talker smiled.
“Yes, as a matter of fact I am. But, in case you hadn’t noticed, we have taken over the world.”
Beth stared at him.
“Heh-heh,” he added.
Regrettably, she laughed.
“Ah, I got a smile. Have you ever read a book called When Prophecy Fails?”
“No.”
“You should, I mean, it’s about what you’re doing. It’s a study of a UFO cult.”
“Please. I’ve read everything about Heaven’s Gate that’s been written.”
“No. Different cult. This one is from the 1950s.”
“Even so, I…” she began.
The talker raised his right hand to quiet her, then leaned in closer. He spoke softly, almost in a conspiratorial fashion.
“The book’s about the dynamic of worship – why people believe what they believe, how they believe. And the conclusion is, well, fascinating.”
“I’m sure it is, but…”
“May I tell you the story?”
“No, you may not. I really have a lot to do.”
“And you don’t like me. Five minutes, I promise. You can spare five minutes to hear this.”
Beth stared at him.
“A married, middle aged woman in a small town starts hearing voices in her head. The voices claim to belong to aliens and they warn her about the end of the world. She tells some friends, who tell some friends, and soon there’s a small cult that believes in her aliens. Eventually, these aliens announce that on a particular date, they’re going to pick up the entire flock and whisk them off to another world, while the earth, wracked by geological changes, burns. So the little cult makes a big hullabaloo about Landing Day. They quit their jobs, pack their bags and beg loved ones to join them. Then when the Great Day comes, there's no UFO, no end of the world.”
“So?”
“So, what do you think happened?”
Beth frowned. “What do you mean, what do I think happened?”
“To the cult. You’re a cult psychology expert. Come on, what do you think happened to the cult?”
“Their numbers dwindled and the leader became depressed until the invention of Prozac.”
“Nope,” the talker said triumphantly, “The little cult got bigger. The failure of the prophecy, the evidence that should have proven beyond a doubt that the whole thing was a delusion perpetrated by a well-meaning schizophrenic, only re-confirmed the faith that the believers already had and attracted more people to the belief system.”
Beth leaned back in her chair and exhaled. She rapped her fingernails against the top of her desk twice, nodded to an invisible point somewhere in mid-air, then looked at the talker.
“You know, I’m probably going to hate myself for responding to you at all, computer nerd, but just yesterday I was reading about Sabbatai Zevi – a 17th century cabalist and self-proclaimed messiah. He predicted the redemption on a particular day. It never happened, but his following grew. Then he promised to depose a Sultan and lead the Jews back to the Promised Land. When he stormed into the palace, he was arrested and thrown in jail, but his following still grew. To end the cult, the Sultan ordered him to convert to Islam or die. He converted, but even so, his following grew. I never thought about it before, other than gosh, aren’t people silly, but you’re right, it does have to do with my work, with all these personality cults. They never offer any proof, they can’t, but they still grow. Why is that? I mean the psychological mechanisms that make people vulnerable to conversion are apparent enough, but why is it, bottom line, when something becomes more impossible to believe, more people believe in it?”
“Don’t know. Just trying to get a date for Friday night,” he said, smiling.
“What was the name?” Beth asked, intrigued.
“Ben, from the computer nerd division.”
“No,” she said, shaking her head, “the name of the book.”
“When Prophecy Fails. So what about Friday?”
“What about official miracles?”
“Are you implying that a date with me would be an unofficial miracle?”
“No, in fact, I think my dating you would probably count as a real miracle, but I was thinking of things like the visions at Fatima, where fifty thousand people gathered to see the Virgin Mary, and thousands of eye witnesses claimed to have seen the sun move. Those sightings grew geometrically, and they were ultimately recognized by the Church.”
“It’s a little off the subject, but, well – what about them? Mass hallucination? An externalization of an internal spiritual experience? Do you like Indian food?”
“My question is – if there are so many similarities between the “crazies” and the “legitimate” religions – what’s the real difference?”
“Bloodshed? The Manson family tortured and murdered...”
“No, no, no. That’s absurd. What about the Inquisition? Torquemada could make Chuck Manson blush.”
“Maybe it’s a question of size, of the persistence of consensus reality, or maybe there is no line between insanity and genius. I really don’t know,” he said.
Realizing that there was no response forthcoming to his dinner invitation, the talker glanced at his watch, “I do know I have to go back to work. It’s been great chatting with you, Beth. Maybe we’ll manage that dinner some time?”
“Hmm.”
As the talker finally exited, Beth, her head buzzing with words, picked up a file and tried to concentrate. After a few moments, her mind drifted back to Fatima and the thousands of faithful who saw the sun dance in the sky. She wondered if she would ever see anything like that. She wondered what, deep down, if anything, she believed. Then she thought about the talker. What was his name? Bob? Glen? Did he say something about dinner?
Grabbing a pencil, she scribbled down When Prophecy Fa. Then, the point snapped. She sighed and leaned back in her chair, uncertain of what to do next, left with a question rattling around in what felt like an empty skull.
Why would someone, why would anyone, continue to believe in something after the belief had been proven, completely, irrevocably, wrong? Why?
It just didn’t make any sense.
Hapax. The talker reminded her of Hapax, her first boyfriend. The one with the funny name.
2. Hapax
My fingers, a blur in the lower peripheries of vision, cascade across the keyboard. Green light from the old screen assaults my eyes. Darkness hugs the sides of my head. My clothes are loose, the chair hard. I must be here, yet I know, as truly as I can know, that in fact I have no body at all, and, like the words I’ve just written and the ones I’ve yet to write, I am more than a million miles away.
A string of glowing green words hangs in front of me, pulsing in and out of existence so quickly it acquires the illusion of continuity. Glowing, completely stripped of substance, soundless, pencil-less, inkless, paperless, like myself, these words are just somehow, in some sense, in some strange way, there. Once, I thought they might live after me. Now I know, flesh or not, we are both dying, and it is only a matter of chance as to which of us will go first.
This language, the words which build our world, with which we forge our con
nections to ourselves and each other, will soon perish. It’s bled a little every day since birth, but now, the tongue of Western Civilization, the great, grand web of metaphor over five thousand years old, is about to burst and collapse.
It is not a simple suicide. An inheritor is nipping at the dinosaur’s heels. In place of the words, and at their expense, an increasingly inarticulate abundance of well-designed, streamlined, efficient, ruthless, hi-tech “pictures” are being pumped at a transfixed humanity in a massive, endless stream. It started with mass media, film, then television, now it’s as personal and ubiquitous as the computer. Nothing can stop it. Except, perhaps, for me.
How much time is left? The newspapers and the magazines are already on-line. The Information Highway is open. All those words, transmitted at the speed of light, ordered at a moment's notice, received in seconds, and prepared with all the love and care of a fast-food burger – have already started to mesh and collide, the death instinct inherent in them breeding and mutating like a virus. The day is coming soon, perhaps even on or near the fabled millennium. What a laugh that would be. And what comes after that, I cannot even imagine.
I have done what I could. My Great Work is finally in place. But what if it, a madman’s dream at best, fails? What then? I cannot be certain, but I believe that without words we, always teetering on the edge of some abyss even in the most fortunate times, will giddily plunge into a new Dark Age. It’s not just a question of losing the noblest in us, that’s the least of it. Words shape the world, give it form, order, moral substance, identity. Without that, what will it mean to be human? What will survive other than some pathetic shadow-creatures, stumbling about like roaches in the dark forest of life – happy whenever not hungry, frightened to the bone whenever a cold wind blows? What will we say to each other then? How will we say to each other?
My name is Hapax Trigenomen. I am thirty years old, unmarried, unemployed, unconnected, perhaps in some ways unrecognizable. I live in an attic above my parents’ house. I seldom venture outside. It’s musty up here, sweltering in the summer, freezing in the winter, and full of books and papers, but the old computer still works, and, except for the occasional headache, so do I.
For ten years I’ve been laboring on my Great Work. Now, at last, it’s all here, every comma, every clause, every sentence, finally in place. The rest, the printing, the publishing, the enactment of the plan, it seems to me are mere details. The hard part is over.
I expected some sense of closure, some relief, at least some satisfaction. Instead, I find myself unspeakably depressed, and nagged by a quiet sense of doom. I’d like to think it was just the fear of breaking a habit – ten years is a long time to work on anything – but I know this is not the case. This sense of doom is an old one, very old, and so familiar that it seems more an aggravated deja vu than a legitimate feeling. If it could speak, it would say things like: all my wishes, actions and efforts, no matter how desperately planned and presented, no matter how sincere, are utterly meaningless. It would say that all was lost before it began. It would say: life is not gain, it is struggle and death and happiness is a fantasy conjured for children solely to keep them quiet while the adults nurse their headaches and brood. It would say there is no way to go, but down.
I beat it back for these ten long years, mostly through stubbornness. At times I could best it by calling to mind a particularly peaceful dream, then telling myself it was more real than the world I woke up to. Now I’m too weak, emptied. I know my struggle is done, and the rest is all mechanics. I have no more reason to fight it, so the sadness, like a dog, demands its day.
I could have done so many things: Led a life, gotten a job, moved away from home, laughed, loved, interacted with other human beings, perhaps even found one or two like me in some way. If people knew me, right now, they might insist that I had locked myself away up here because I was afraid to take risks. I think they would be wrong. I think I’ve taken the greatest risk I can imagine. I’ve risked my life, my time, my mental and physical health, all for the sake of a dream that even the most devout Romantic would insist was utter nonsense. I have buried myself in books and thoughts to the exclusion of all else, and now I stand at the other end of that tunnel I chose. Did I stay here for safety’s sake? No. My attic has never felt safe, my head less so. And failure, as ever, is so easy to contemplate.
After all, how many great works have surfaced in the minds of men and women across the ages? How many of those made their way onto paper? How many of those were published? And how many of those never reached an audience? I don’t have the numbers, but I’m sure they’re not small. Still, some have done it. There are Great Works to be found if one is willing to look. Yes, but at least they had a context, a culture. Here, in the damned United States at the end of the damned 20th century, there is no culture or context to be found. I had to invent it all from scratch, work both ways out in an interminable void.
Yet, yet, yet, if it succeeds, and I think that in spite of it all it just might, my Great Work will repair what was wrong and provide what’s been missing – a redefinition and revitalization of language in this modern age, a tying together of the diverse moral and social concerns. It will restore the source of the word, by bringing God back from the dead – brand new, re-born and empowered into current consciousness. It will make a new God – start a new movement that will provide a safe, sound bulwark for a healthy culture to grow on. If not, I will have wasted my life.
At worst, my Great Work will make me rich.
Does that seem petty? Perhaps, but if, in the end, the language comes and goes as it pleases, and not at the beck and call of a mind such as mine, that is barely in its body, let alone in the world, wealth is not such a bad plan B. And what would I do with the blessed time and safety that I imagine large amounts of money will bring? I’d spend the rest of my days writing things that no one will understand at all; things that scream Hapax on every page, or whatever I’m writing on when I’m screaming at that particular moment – and I will go on this way, until the end of my days, and all my work will stay buried until, perhaps, one day, it will be uncovered again by some other species, maybe, or by aliens, or a better version of humanity – and they will at long last understand how much and how deeply I love the world.
So, what will it be? Was I too late when I started or is the dream that I followed truly all it appeared to be? Hands shaking, back aching, I push the chair from the desk then lower myself onto my knees. I look at the screen once more, unable to remember what’s been written on it, then I close my eyes and pray. I do not call to some abstract notion of divinity, but to something really mysterious and truly divine: the world. Out through this mind and its memories, out through this huge, dusty head, I send a plaintive plea. I ask the small attic, beg the piles of books and papers, plead to the rotting tapered walls, then implore, up and out, into the cool night air, surrounded by the stars. I pray to the city, I pray to the sea: Please, please, let this work!
3. Calico
Just where do you think you’re going?
Calico put her bare feet together and stared down at them, pretending not to hear.
You listen to me when I’m talking to you.
Calico could stare at her feet forever if she wanted.
If you don’t answer me this second, your father’s going to take you upstairs!
Calico liked to count her toes over and over again.
Calico? Do you hear me?
Her feet felt good against the asphalt. When she pressed her soles down hard enough, it tickled. The nails were a little long and the sores bleeding just a bit, but her pretty toes twinkled up at her as she smiled. She told herself she was a pretty girl. “Look at you!” she said, “Everyone wants to stare!”
And what does the pretty little girl say to all the nice people?
“Fuck you, you stupid shit bastards.”
I would walk a thousand miles just to spend an hour resting.
Pretending she didn’t hear, Calico laug
hed and put her hands up against as much of the sky as she could see between the buildings. Then she sang her morning song:
Tiny little buttercup
Dancing like a whore
Watch the horses galloping
In and out your door
When she was finished, someone stopped and stared at her. A hand disappeared into a pocket, then returned with a few bills.
“Fucking cunt!” Calico howled.
She lunged for the bills. She smiled again when she got them and was about to say “Thank-you, pretty please” but the someone went away.
Sitting on the back of a turtle, all I can see is the ocean, but I know the turtle is there.
A man from the alley shuffled towards her, muttering about Jesus and something bad he had done to his wife. The look in his eyes made Calico afraid. When he was close enough, she pushed him as hard as she could. He felt a lot lighter than he looked – he was all old clothes and bone.
With a heavy sigh, his wrinkled face squished against the brick wall. He didn’t even slide down to the floor after that, the way Calico expected. He just stayed there, against the wall. Wetness filled his eyes, then dribbled down the gray-stubble that dotted his cheeks and chin.
Under the ocean I have no body, and it’s perfectly safe to cry.
Satisfied that he wasn’t going to come after her again, Calico returned to the day, where there was nothing to be afraid of or unhappy about. Calico was a good girl and the world was always hugging her. When it did, she felt a big, long line stretch up from the center of the earth, into her tickly feet, up her legs, through her cervix, up her spine, through the top of her head, into the blue-blue sky and up and up and up and up, forever and ever. It felt so good, Calico smiled and started to pee.
Even the tears dry out in the ocean.
Oh, her body could be in better shape. There were scabs on her hands and head and feet, and a really big one on her side, from when she had been stabbed – but they were always healing, and that must mean she was always getting better.
Why can’t I remember what it was that I wanted?
How old was Calico? 10? 28? 69? It didn’t matter. You are as old as you feel, and she felt like a newborn babe. The comfort of darkness was with her and inside her head there were so many voices speaking all at once that they sounded like rushing water. It was just like the window of the television store, the one right behind her, with all the pictures of all the mouths moving and moving but the sound so low you could never understand what they were saying.
A nice lady held a quarter out to her.
“Fuck you shit die bastard!” Calico screeched.
The nice lady went away. She didn’t even give her the quarter. Calico furrowed her brow.
Oh, Calico, haven’t you guessed? The world doesn’t care how much you cry, it only cares how well you cry. You’ll have to do better than that.
She was about to walk to the grocery and beg some food when the television store caught her attention. Picture, picture, picture. Her gaze danced from face to face, faster and faster and as she strained to hear. All at once, her eyes rolled up into her head and her hands shivered, even though she wasn’t cold. One of the pictures, had gotten into her spine and now all she could do was go along for the ride.
I only want the only thing I ever want. I want the world to begin again.
Calico felt her body pulled back by the shoulders. She spit up a little as she climbed on top of a garbage can. Then, she braced her hands against the glass window that kept all those faces at bay. Some people stopped and stared. Some even realized she was talking, but she spoke so quickly and so softly they couldn’t understand what she was saying.
And Calico said, as fast as she could:
“When I die the ocean will take my flesh and it will get sucked up into the clouds and rained down on the earth and eaten by the corn and the cows and the babes until the earth burns and we are all made into stars but not my bones my bones will stay on the bottom for the mermaids to find and they’ll take them and make flutes from my legs and arms and chimes from my ribs and a drum from my skull and they will play and play and the music will be so beautiful the angels will laugh and weep.”
By the end no one was listening, everyone had walked on. Calico’s head hurt and she wanted to get down from the garbage can, but she didn’t know how.
How could you? How could you? How could you let him fall?
She shook her head back and forth, biting her upper lip.
“Just look at me, okay? Just watch.”
4. Keech
Having maintained his erection for a full six hours, Albert Keech removed the electronic device from his groin and finally allowed the tired girl to leave. Alone in the dark, he lay back and felt his body float above the lazily rolling water that sloshed in the confines of the mattress.
“Light,” he said from the darkness, and there was light.
With the effortless effort of a Zen master, Albert Keech stood and walked across the room. Reaching a console, he pushed a shiny, silver disk into a black slot. At the press of the soft metal button above it, an unquestioning, yellow light came on, indicating that once again, his will had been accomplished. A steady, gentle, manufactured rush of ocean filled the room, and it was good. With a little smile, Keech stared at the single word printed above the button. It said, “POWER.”
Barely out of breath, Keech admired himself in a full length mirror. Beads of perspiration trickled down his forehead. A few drops clung to the dark, bushy hair on his chest. He was gorgeous. At fifty-five he looked thirty, at his peak physically and mentally.
“I will never die,” he thought.
There was little reason to suspect he would. The best doctors cared for him. A cryogenic capsule waited in the basement. All his vital organs were being cloned. With the advances science and medicine were making every day, advances that his investments were helping them make, anything was possible. Besides, Keech knew, deep down, that if he really wanted to, he could simply will himself to live forever. Sheer determination had, after all, built the Company, the nation, even the universe – from nothing.
Michael could never understand that, hard as Keech tried to explain. The boy thought things were meant to die, or supposed to die, as if there were some sort of dharma, fate, karma or god that operated outside of human will. Sometimes, Keech suspected that beautiful, curly-haired Michael didn’t want to understand. Were Keech weaker, he might sympathize. To be alone and responsible for the whole of one’s life is a terrifying thing, especially for the naïve or idealistic. Michael, Michael, Michael. Strong in his ignorance, stubborn in his heart. Keech shook his head, as if to dislodge Michael from his mind. As he did, bits of sweat flew from him in powerful arcs, only to vanish in the sounds of the sea.
His heart slowing to normal, he looked out of the huge picture window hoping to catch a glimpse of the homeless tart that sometimes danced outside. His brownstone was second in from the corner, affording him an excellent view of the main avenue where she made her home. Twice now, three policemen had dragged her away from there, naked and screaming. No such luck today, though.
All he saw was a world full of patchwork people being led by their little lives. A little choice here, which friends, which college, which major, a little choice there, which mate, which job, which insurance policy, and it all added up to nothing. Still, it was dangerous to underestimate them when they acted en masse. It was, after all, a mob of little patch-work creatures that had taken the Company from him, albeit temporarily. As the sea caressed his head, he imagined wave upon wave of magnificent ocean filling the block, cleaning it, cleansing it, drowning them all, leaving Keech alone at last to start the world again.
The Company never should have gotten involved in politics. That was the problem. Keech always thought it was ill advised, but the others were so giddy.
“We can change the course of history!” they said.
Of course they could! They had the skills and
the resources, but Keech knew, he always knew, that real power didn’t lie with politicians. They were puppets at best. There was a deeper row to hoe. What it was exactly, he could not name, where it was, he could only sense, but he had spent the last few years, since the Company had disbanded, just thinking about it. Given time, even tied to a burning lake, or frozen in the center of the world, Albert Keech would find what he was looking for.
Ah, there she was! Right next to the discount electronics store, lit by the bluish light of a dozen television screens – a true star. Keech leaned closer, pressing his hands against the glass. Even from here, he could tell her dress was torn in all the right places. Shameless, young and chaotic, she was writhing, stopping only occasionally to curse at whoever stared. Within a night or two, he was sure, he could cure her of whatever ailed. Keech smiled, imagining what he might do with her.
The smile remained for a time, but the pleasure suddenly drained. Unbidden, another face had appeared in his mind: his wife’s. He hadn’t thought about her in ages. Perhaps the tart reminded him of her. Perhaps it was just the thought of perfect sex. They’d coupled many times, many ways, for many hours, and often it was perfect. They’d even made love once, and once was more than enough for Keech. How odd. That single moment created Michael.
Now, she was mad as a hatter, shattered as the nubile child that undulated beneath his window. He had no sadness for her, no pity. He didn’t want her back. He didn’t need her back.
As for Michael, Keech once thought he’d seen something of himself in those wide eyes, but he was wrong. He was all but convinced the boy died just to spite him. If Keech were weaker, he wouldn’t blame him. It must be difficult to be a piece of flesh caught up in such a well-oiled machine. Perhaps Michael thought his death was inevitable. If not spite, a self-fulfilling prophecy, then.
After college, Michael joined the Company. In less than a year he learned more than he could handle. Keech saw the change; the sullen expressions, the hesitation in his speech. When Michael started gathering the necessary information to sell them out, to the press, to the government, to the Securities and Exchange Commission, Keech knew all about it, and Michael knew he knew.
So, they went climbing together in Alaska, near Mt. Saint Elias, just the two of them, father and son, scaling the icy peaks, mastering the wildest heights of nature as they’d done a dozen, frozen, joyless times before. Usually there was forced conversation. This time, they barely spoke. There was no need. For his part, Keech had planned the trip as Michael’s final lesson.
In a sad, little, patchwork way the boy had come of age the moment he tried to betray his father, but that wasn’t good enough for Albert Keech. There was to be no more skulking around. Now that Michael had become a man, he would have to face his father as a man, whether or not he understood what that meant.
Keech hadn’t planned the particulars. Oh, he may have sensed them, guessed them, but he didn’t plan them. Michael slipped all on his own. Before he’d even turned in response to Michael’s shout, the beautiful boy, no, the beautiful man, was hanging precariously by his hands, above an infinite expanse of snow.
“Don’t look down, Michael,” Keech cautioned.
Michael, breathing hard and fast, pulled his gaze away from the drop and turned to face his father. Their eyes locked, and for the first time, understanding passed between them. Albert Keech’s hand glided out towards his son, but the hand, the father hand, the teacher hand, the hand that had, on occasion, been there to catch the boy when he fell, was intentionally short, just a few inches. It was only a few inches, but it was an obvious few inches, in fact, it was the few inches. Keech wasn’t reaching as far as he could. He would not reach as far as he could. Michael looked at the hand, less than a foot away, trying to gauge if he could grab it, trying to decide if he should.
“Remember what I’ve taught you. It’s up to you. All up to you. Michael, remember what I told you. It’s all an act of will.”
Keech wondered, would he finally get it? Did he understand? Had he learned the only lesson his father had to give, that he could survive, easily, that he could thrive, readily, if he relied only on himself, if he just didn’t look outside himself for help? He had all the pieces, and the perfect teacher. Michael knew how easy everything would be for his father, for the Company, if there was just a small slip. There was an outcropping in the other direction, he could reach for that instead.
Michael, you want to destroy the company, and I have to watch out for myself.
Keech wanted Michael to see that, he really did.
Don’t take my hand, Michael, it’s a trick.
But either Michael didn’t understand or Michael wanted to die. Youth was over. There comes a time when the nestling doesn’t find the parent’s back to land on anymore, when it has to fly for itself.
And that’s exactly what Michael did. He flew. Silent, Keech watched the beautiful boy sail into the air, against the ice, against the white snow, getting smaller and smaller. After a time, he was so small he reminded Keech of when he was a baby and he could hold him in the palms of his hands. Finally, Michael became so small he just vanished, and Keech became so large he felt as though his head, so full of so many worlds, would burst.
Days would pass before Keech realized the full import of that moment. The papers, the files, the evidence that Michael had gathered had already been sent. The charges were already being filed. The little patchwork men, like dogs, would have their day. Michael didn’t have to die at all, if only he’d told Keech. Spite. It must have been spite.
Years later, back in the brownstone, hands pressed against the glass, Keech watched the mad dancer sadly perform. Now what? What next? What was there left for him to do? Tied to a burning lake or frozen in the center of the world, Albert Keech was sure he would think of something.
5. Mom and Dad
“WHAT IS THIS?”
Hapax fell without even knowing it. Violent shadows, creatures of the dark tore at him, seeking his soul with their claws. As they shook him into the world, his heart skipped a beat. He’d been dreaming when his parents woke him.
“What is this?” his father repeated.
Having no idea what “this” was, Hapax propped himself up on his elbows to see. A smell of sweat mixed with vodka assaulted his nostrils.
“Thank God,” he thought. When they were sober, sometimes they made sense, and it was depressing to think there still might be human beings somewhere in there under all those habits.
His relief was only temporary, however. Turning his head, he saw his drunken mother standing next to his computer. She had turned it on its end. All manner of cables, holes and frail wires were exposed. Seeing his poor system, the center of his escape plan, as helpless as a giant turtle rolled on its back, Hapax scrambled out of bed and leapt to his feet.
“Get away from the computer!” he screamed.
His mother swayed to and fro, an overburdened ship listing in a storm. The ice in her glass made a chinking sound as she staggered slightly forward in an effort to register surprise.
“You giving me orders now, Happy? Since when?” she drawled.
“Mom, please, get away from the computer.”
“You got things a little backwards, Hapax. You ain’t giving me orders,” she said, pouring her drink into the back of the helpless device. There was a brief collection of sparks followed by a sickening hiss. The system fan stopped whirring. The screen went dead.
“Okay, you little shit” his father said, spitting the S’s as he spoke, “Now tell me what this is.”
On his feet now, Hapax saw “this” quite clearly. A dog-eared, partly torn copy of the Great Work was warped in his father’s fat, clenched fist.
“Thirty year old man,” his father screeched in disgust, “Doesn’t work! Doesn’t have friends! Doesn’t go out! Instead he stays up here typing this… this... I’m going to ask you one more time, what is this?”
“A book.”
“A book? A boo
k. Do you know what the bible says?”
“Which translation?”
The back of his father’s free hand slammed into Hapax’ face, sending him sprawling back to the mattress. Blood dripped from his mouth. One of his teeth felt loose.
“You little shit! You think you can piss on everything. You piss on yourself. You piss on me! Now you piss on God.”
Hapax fought the pain and tried to concentrate on strategy. What if they found the other copy? What if they had the disks?
“I’m not pissing on anything,” he gurgled, afraid the blood in his mouth might make him sound as though he were mocking their drunken slurs.
His father forced the Great Work into the bruised side of Hapax’ face. Hapax thought he would pass out. It was getting hard to focus.
“This is piss!” his father screamed.
“Why?” his mother sobbed, shaking, “Why did you write it?”
She took another sip to steady herself.
“Answer your mother!” his father said, prodding him again.
Foolishly thinking he might be fast enough, Hapax made a lunge for the book, but missed. Two thick, powerful hands grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him close, closer than son had been to father in years. Hapax was so close he saw a vein on his father’s temple throb. He could the red lines in father’s glazed brown eyes.
“We found the other copy. Trash took it away this morning. It’s long gone,” his father whispered, “And we’ve got those discuit things, too, right here.”
He pointed towards a little pile of floppies on the desk. Hapax’ knees went weak. With a pathetic little whimper he went down to the floor.
“Why did you write it?”
“To make money.”
“To cheat people? To take weak people from God?”
“No.”
With the theatrical flair of a mad stage magician, his father tossed the Great Work into a trash can. It was followed by the diskettes and a healthy amount of kerosene. His mother, acting as assistant, held up a pack of matches for her son to see. Hapax made a weak movement towards her, but his father blocked the way.
“Come on,” his father said, “Do something, you little shit. Try to do something!”
“It’s for your own good,” his mother said.
Not knowing what else to do, Hapax started screaming. His voice leapt an octave, but he kept shouting. He didn’t make any words, he just screamed. For a while it seemed that screaming was all Hapax would ever do again.
“Lower your voice,” his mother said, reprimanding him for what would be the last time.
Silently, Hapax straightened himself, wiped some of the blood from his mouth and stared at both of his parents. His father looked down, his mother, away.
“Okay. I’ll tell you why,” Hapax said softly, “You won’t understand, but I’ll tell you anyway. I wrote it because of something that happened to me about ten years ago. It was one of those night’s dad was so drunk he couldn’t hold his head all the way up, and he sat in the kitchen screaming about how the Jews fucked everything up. Then you chimed in, Ma, and said it was the Blacks or the Hispanics, because they never worked. Then you screamed at each other about how neither of you knew what you were talking about. Typical night at home.”
“So, I crawled up here to the attic and shut the door. All of a sudden, I couldn’t hear you at all. It was as though you were gone. It was quiet. So I stretched out on the floor and stared at the ceiling. After a while, I guess I must have fallen asleep, because I had a dream. I was still on the floor, right here, but in the dream, I had a book, a nice, clean, new book. Just holding it made me feel good, so I opened it up and started reading. With every word I read, I felt better and better. It was as though a veil was being lifted from my eyes. I started skipping around from chapter to chapter, excited, reading a bit here and there, and then I realized why this book was so special. See, it explained everything; good, evil, the spirit, the body, the nature of god and the universe, everything. Anything anyone would ever need to know was in that book. It was even illustrated. And, you know what? My name was on the cover. I had written it, or at least it had somehow come out of me. Ever since I woke up, all I’ve been trying to do, all I’ve wanted to do, was to make that moment real. That’s why I wrote that book. You’re the only ones I’ve told. You’re the only ones I will ever tell. Please don’t destroy it.”
“You think this book has all the answers?” his father asked, eyes glowing.
“No, that’s not what I said. It was a dream.”
“The devil’s dream, Happy,” his mother said, “The devil lived inside your head. He wouldn’t let you out. Now we’ll free you, my baby.”
Resting her drink on the dead computer, she struck a match and tossed it into the basket. The remaining copies of the Great Work burst into flames.
Hapax was staring at the flames when he felt his body start to move towards them. His father barred the way. Hapax saw his hands reach in front of him. He felt his fingers wrap around his father’s throat, then tense and squeeze. His father tried to struggle, but Hapax held tight.
Without warning, Hapax felt a dull thud at the back of his head. All of a sudden, his fingers relaxed and his hands were letting go. He was falling, wondering if perhaps, all along, this house, this attic, had been the dream, and his one moment with the book had been the only reality he would ever know. Dream or not, the last thing he saw was his mother holding a shovel, getting ready to swing again.
Making God Page 1
