My first priority was locating Doctor Hienenberger’s telephone number. I knew I had it stored somewhere. More than likely it was on one of the numerous business cards I had in the drawer of my bedside table. I had no doubt thrown it in with the rest of cards I had collected but had seldom or never used; I remembered my Mother gave it to me “in case of an emergency.” Well, this was an emergency of the highest magnitude, an emergency that the doctor would soon rectify with pills, and maybe even a couple of afternoons on a psychiatrist’s couch. I was about to retrieve the card and return my life to normal when the phone rang again.
Typically, I would not have answered. Normally, I would have let it ring to the machine. If the caller, who I presumed was the same caller who had called two minutes earlier, felt that a message was warranted, then the caller had the opportunity to leave one. That’s how it worked, as I am sure you know. If the caller knew me, he or she would have my cell phone number. All my friends, colleagues, even my parents knew that if I didn’t answer my home number, they should call my mobile phone number. I assumed then that the caller did not know me personally. At this hour of the morning it was probably a cold-calling salesman trying to cajole me into buying something I did not either need nor want. So why then, you may wonder, did I answer? I wish I knew.
“Yes.” I was annoyed, not just with the unidentified caller, but at myself for answering. I had grabbed the phone on instinct; something I was sure most people had done from time to time. My tone was purposely aggressive, and I was sure whoever was on the other end of the phone would pick up on that. I hoped my initial abruptness would be enough for them to hang up, as well as be a sufficient deterrent to make them think twice about calling back.
“Seth?” said the voice on the line. I detected an accent, but I could not place it. Australian maybe, possibly New Zealand?
“Yes, who is this?” I replied, my voice was still aggressive. I hoped the caller would sense my annoyance, Australian or not.
“Seth Miller?” No. Not Australian. Definitely British.
“Yes, again, who is this?” I was becoming impatient. I had things to do. One of those things was not converse with a pompous sounding limey.
“Yes, of course. I am so sorry to disturb you, especially unannounced and at this time of the day. I really do not make a habit out of calling out of the blue. I do apologize; it is frightfully rude of me,” the still-yet-to-be-identified caller said. He sounded sincere, and his smooth, well-spoken voice helped in easing my initial aggressiveness. He did, however, sound slightly ‘uppity,’ and maybe there was even a sardonic undertone to the voice. In a split second, I surmised the owner of the voice was full of self-importance.
“I’m sorry, but who is this?” I said, annoyed at the pace of the conversation. Time was of the essence, and the sooner I got Lord Snooty Pants off the phone, the better.
“Ah yes, well, ahem, son. Wow, been a while since I said that. Anyway, well, it’s me, God. Didn’t your mother tell you I was going to call? Oh dear, I was very specific that she should give you the heads up, so to speak. It’s not the first time people haven’t followed specific instructions. Oh dear, this is a little awkward and a tad embarrassing. I wish people would take these things a little bit more seriously….”
Whoever this idiot was, he could talk. He hardly seemed to pause for breath. I felt I needed to interject, but he continued to speak.
“Maybe if people listened a bit more instead of presuming, then things wouldn’t be in the state that they are. I am so sorry if this is out of the blue, but I thought I should call straightaway, the moment you got home. I was hoping to get you sooner, but you know how it is when you check your diary and things don’t really fall into place….” Ok, this guy really needed to take a breath. I waited for at least a pause for oxygen so I could talk.
“I wanted to catch you as early as possible this morning, so this is perfect timing for me. Perfect. When you are as busy as I am, it is important that your day is structured. I have a team of assistants and secretaries, but my motto is, well, not my only motto, I do have a few, but one of them is ‘never rely on others when it comes to family.’ I had wanted to do this whole thing last week, but some underling managed to screw up my diary, and, well, to be perfectly honest, when you’re as busy as I am, things just seem to get on top of you, and one erroneous diary entry can have far-reaching repercussions. I said to Saint Peter the other day that we really needed to update our office organizational software and that we needed to get someone on board with some new ideas and some savvy, modern-day technical know-how. I wasn’t proposing to bring someone up early; it was more a general comment. I do hope he didn’t think I needed ‘an accident’ arranged. Oh dear, I had better double check that one. We do seem to be behind, though, when it comes to software packages. I really—” Enough was enough.
“Stop!” I shouted into the receiver. There was silence for only a couple of seconds, but that silence was deafening.
“Pardon?” said the voice at the other end. The voice now sounded severe. It was the sort of “pardon” my mother would have said; it was the kind of “pardon” my old high school principal would say if you ever talked back to him.
“Stop, just please stop. I have no idea who you are or what you want. What I need to know is what the hell have you done to my parents, and how much do you want to stop all this?” It was obvious to me that this idiot was somehow involved in the attempt to either brainwash my parents or ply them with the drugs that had sent them crazy. It was ridiculous for him, whoever he was, to think that for one minute I would believe the voice on the other end of the line belonged to God. It was original; the concept of God being some highly stressed, pompous-sounding CEO surrounded by assistants with all the trappings of a modern day office. Software? Oh, please. If anyone were to impersonate God or pretend to be God then that person should not treat me like an idiot. Be original, yes, but don’t go over the top!
There was nothing but silence coming from the other end of the phone. Apparently, this joker had realized I was not as susceptible as my parents were to his silly little ruse. If this biblical imposter had thought I would be playing along with his ridiculous charade, I guessed I had burst his bubble. I imagined my unidentified caller squirmed in his seat. I had probably derailed him from his prepared script.
Nothing. For at least ten seconds, no sound came from the other end. I was going to hang up, call Doctor Hienenberger, and then call the police and have the call traced and my caller charged with a variety offenses. Those offenses, I was sure, would include either the illegal use of hypnotic powers, the distribution of mind-altering and hallucinogenic drugs, or the impersonation of a celestial being. Maybe all three.
But then a sound came over the line. It was laughter. It was quiet at first and then rose to a crescendo. I was tempted to slam down the phone, but once again, for some inexplicable reason, I didn’t. Finally, once the laughter subsided, my caller resumed speaking.
“My dear boy,” said the voice. “I must apologize once again. There’s me rambling on about Saint Peter and how we should get Bill Gates up here sooner rather than later when I really should be getting straight to the point. That’s typical of me, it really is, going off on a tangent and starting something I can’t finish. It reminds me of the Great Plague of London in 1665. Now that was really meant to escalate. It should have gone on for years and done a lot more damage. Not that it was malicious or anything, it was that we needed to clear things up, and I wanted to try some new things without too many people getting alarmed. Unfortunately, cheese, of all things sidetracked us. Now, of course—”
“Shut up!” I cried. This guy was driving me mad. Cheese? “Shut up and tell me what you want and what it will take for you to stop bothering my parents and never to call me again. By the way, where did you get my number?” I asked the lunatic on the other end of the phone.
“You’re in the book.”
“I am not in the book.”
“You are listed.
”
“I am not listed.”
“You’re not?”
“No. I am not.”
“Are you sure?”
“I am certain. Now where did you get my number? Did you threaten my parents to obtain it? Did you hypnotize them?” I was becoming increasingly angry with every breath.
“I assure you I did no such thing,” my caller replied. “It must have been something else, then. I have it here on a post-it note. They must have gotten your number; you know, ‘my team.’ I don’t ask where they get these things; I’m much too busy to search for telephone numbers. That’s why I have a team entirely devoted to that sort of thing. The truth is I really need more help. Getting that one past the committee though won’t be easy, what with budgets and cutbacks and all that other boring stuff. Ideally, I should have four PAs, six secretaries, and a bigger section to help with prayers. It’s not as bad as it used to be, the prayer’s, I mean. A few years ago, it was in the billions; now there’s not as many, but that doesn’t mean it’s any easier. Not at all, actually. People seem to want a lot more these days, and the amount of ‘lucky dippers’ we get is, to be brutally honest, becoming frightfully dull.
Oh sorry, ‘lucky dippers’ is a term we use to describe the lottery jackpot request prayers. They really do pray a lot, and with so many people doing it, the more prayers we get, and it is, well, I hate to use the word, impossible to listen to them all. How they think I can help them, I have no idea. If I had any influence, don’t they think I would be playing a few numbers myself? They clog up the system. Saint Simon calls it ‘spam,’ but I thought that was a type of meat. We are trying to introduce a prayer filter so we can sidetrack them, but the problem with that is they slip something else into their prayers. You know something like, ‘and, oh please watch over Uncle Harry,’ or ‘forgive me, Lord, for I have sinned.’
I said to Peter, ‘look, what we need is structure, some sort of organizational tree.’ Where I can delegate some of the prayers? Did he listen? Did he take my suggestion to the committee? No. He sat on it, just as he sat on the whole New World discovery back in 1492. Tell me, I said, the moment they find it. What did he do? Left it for a few days, that is what he did. If I had known about those poor Native Americans, then I would have scrapped the whole thing. I swear I hadn’t realized they were already there, but no, ‘the big guy doesn’t need to know, he’s too busy.’ Well, let me tell you, son, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be. Too much dead wood holding up progress, that’s the crux of it. Too many people thinking they know best, too many thinkers and not enough doers. Too much red tape and too many regulations; we are getting tied up in knots up there. I sometimes yearn for the good old days of stone tablets, when I could do my own thing; now it’s all got to go through a committee, think tanks, and advisors. They’re talking about speechwriters, you know? Can you believe that? I invented the speech.”
Once again, I felt the urgent need to interrupt; this man was mentally ill, and I had two other mentally ill people to deal with who happened to be my parents. I had no time for this, and as most people do when confronted by madness, I thought the best thing to do was ignore it.
“Listen. That’s enough. Just stop there right now. I am putting down the phone. This conversation is over. Get help. You need it. You are crazy, a nut, a crazy man.” And then I hung up.
That was when Walter spoke.
CHAPTER
9
“IT’S NOT ONLY THE RED tape; it’s the restrictions on ‘Acts of God’ that gets me. I wouldn’t mind, but this is all my own doing. Thank heavens, no pun intended, that today the ‘committee on the second coming’ gave me veto power and carte blanche authority to do what I needed to get through to you.”
Walter was speaking. Walter—my cat, my lethargic, maintenance-free, obsessively self-cleaning, dried food and tuna eating cat—was speaking. Walter, the same cat who I had inherited five years before, the exact same cat who slept all day and all night, the same cat who had never before uttered a solitary word, sat facing me on his haunches, talking to me in an English accent about red tape, acts of God, and committees.
I stared opened mouthed at my previously mute feline companion. Was I hallucinating? Was the voice coming from Walter? It was impossible. How could this be? I challenge any man, woman, or child if faced with the same scenario, to act any more logically than I did. The damn cat was talking, for Pete’s sake! Walter was speaking, even though I knew that cats did not possess voice boxes. I knew that never before in the history of cats has one ever talked, and I knew if Walter was able to speak, it would certainly not be with an English accent. He was from Greenwich Village. As far as I was aware, he had never left New York. I knew it sounded preposterous. I knew if someone asked me to believe that a cat spoke to them, I would call them crazy too. I knew it sounded ridiculous, but with God as my witness, which ironically, he was, Walter was talking.
“Ah, I see I’ve finally gotten your attention at last. That one always works. Don’t be alarmed for poor Walter here, he hasn’t a clue what’s going on. I’m just speaking through him. I’ve done it a few times in the past, but never with a cat. Sometimes it works, other times, well, I’m afraid sometimes people completely freak out. Never mind those times, that’s all in the past now. Anyway, Walter will be okay. He has no idea what’s going on. He can’t hear me, despite me using him as a vessel. It’s quite safe. Now, Seth, listen. I suppose you’re wondering what in God’s name is happening here, and quite rightly so. I totally understand your aggression and your earlier attitude, but it’s not often I get told to ‘shut up.’”
I remained stood and opened mouthed, staring at my cat. Walter proceeded to jump down from the sofa and walk toward me. Initially, I wasn’t sure whether or not to run. He rubbed against my legs, weaving in between them as he did when he wanted food.
“Are you hungry?” I asked Walter. “You need feeding?”
“I beg your pardon?” replied Walter. “Oh, heck no. No, I am so sorry. This isn’t me; it’s an involuntary reaction. I can only control his voice, not his actions. I do apologize; I hope I’m not getting hair on your rather soft trousers. Just ignore it if you can. But I have to say, it does feel good. Maybe you should sit down, Seth.” I did as Walter suggested. I sat down.
By then, of course, I realized it was not Walter speaking. Whilst the words were definitely coming out of his mouth, it was the same voice that had spoken to me on the phone. Please believe me when I tell you I had no choice. I had no choice but to accept that it was indeed God speaking to me. I am sorry if you may feel that I accepted it too readily and far too quickly. I assure you, I am a practical man who explores every logical explanation when dealing with problems or occurrences. But I plead with you to understand, the voice came from Walter! He sounded convincing and coupled with the events of the previous evening, I had no doubt I was conversing with God! Believe me, please, when I say I was still searching for a logical explanation. I waited for any evidence that would disprove that I was talking to God. I looked for wires, hidden microphones, and cameras. Please do not think I did not try my best to find some sort of more earthly and logical explanation.
“Now, let me explain, Seth,” began God, still talking through Walter. “All this is my fault. I should have been in touch a lot sooner. A lot, lot sooner, like, maybe twenty-nine years ago. Unfortunately, I had another project on the go, a big one, actually, which I can explain later if you require, and I haven’t been around that much lately, as you could probably tell by the state of things down here. To be honest, in ‘God’ years, as we call them up there, thirty-two years isn’t that long at all in the grand scheme of things. I know that’s a lame excuse, but it’s the only one I have. I sincerely hope you realize that none of this is your mother’s fault; well, not all of it, at least. I let things slide, and to be brutally frank, I forgot about you.”
I sat, now with my mouth now closed. While I listened to what God said, I was not exactly taking it all in. It was only late
r, when I went through the day’s events in my head, that I dissected and analyzed the conversation, which up until that point had been virtually one-sided.
“You forgot? You forgot what?” I asked. Forgot about me, did he say? Why would he even care about me? What was special about me? Unless what my parents had told me was true. While I gradually accepted that I was conversing with God, I had not accepted that I was his son. Surely he wasn’t saying the same thing. Confirming Mother’s claim of her virgin birth? Surely he was here to explain that there had been a mistake, an error by one of his underlings. Oh please, tell me this is not what he is saying.
“What are you telling me?” I asked, looking Walter directly in the eyes. Walter’s eyes squinted. I have heard that is a sign of affection, but I am no cat expert.
“I am telling you I am sorry for abandoning you as a child, for being an absent father, for not being there to guide you and help you develop. I should have organized a training package, but I didn’t,” said God.
“Are you,” I began, “trying to tell me that what my mother said is true? That I am your son? That my father is not my real dad? That I am Jesus?”
“No,” said God. “You are not Jesus.” That was a relief. Though I was still tense, I felt a little better. I wasn’t Jesus; phew, that was something.
“What I mean by that,” said God, “is that technically you are not Jesus.” Oh no. The tension was back. My relief was short lived. “Jesus is his own man. In fact, he is up in Heaven; he is a member of the committee. No, you are not Jesus. However, you are Christ. You are my son, as he is, but you are Seth, not Jesus. Jesus was my vessel, who did an excellent job; I hasten to add, but he you are not. You are the Messiah, though, if that helps.” Helps? Oh yeah, that helped.
The Reluctant Jesus: A Satirical Dark Comedy Page 6
