A Vulgar Display
by William Monette
I have written a ton of stories in my head that I have forgotten completely before I could get them down on paper. I have, likewise, written a lot of others much better in my head than they came out. They always come to me at night, but by the time I fumble in the dark for the light switch, find my glasses, and locate pen and paper, much has been lost.
This happens because God does not want me to be a writer. He told me so Himself. We play golf at the Salamander Club, off I-75 down in the green part of town where the old folk’s homes are. He says there are so many writers these days, though neither of us can name any. He smokes Camel cigarettes and drives a teal pickup from the mid-nineties.
I know He is the one true God because He said so, and God would not lie about that—though this is not to say He would not lie. I am not so sure how I feel about His claims that He has never really destroyed the world. He says The Flood did not happen like that. And the Cities on the Plain? He tells me His lawyer has advised Him not to discuss the matter. He claims to be the victim of libel and slander in these matters.
God is, of course, an abysmal golfer. I have asked Him why He does not use his powers to simply dominate the game. He tells me this would be a vulgar display of power. Even so, I did catch Him calling forth a bird to retrieve a ball from a distant mud bank on the fourth hole once. In general, He has an athletic swing that matches His wiry body. He looks taut and virile under His medium pastel polos. The head pro believes God should be much better than He is given the grace of His swing.
I have asked Him why He cannot tolerate one more writer. I said that the world is big. I said one more writer would not disrupt His grand plan.
“Oh I can’t stand that,” He answered. “This notion that there is a grand plan. There’s what, seven billion of you? There have been many billions before you and there will be many billions more after you. You think I have time to orchestrate all your lives?”
I agreed that this sounded exhausting. He continued: “the truth of the matter is that I like you quite a bit. But some people must be ordinary. You can’t all be geniuses or billionaires or presidents. If everyone could be extraordinary, the whole meaning of the thing would be lost. So, most people must live dull, mundane lives so that the special ones know they’re special.”
I nodded. This made sense on a fundamental level, but it also seemed unfair. I did not have to say this aloud, for He, being the Omnipotent, Lord Almighty, could read my thoughts.
“‘I work in mysterious ways.’ ‘The gifts of the Almighty are weighed and parceled out in a scale peculiar to Himself.’ So on and so on. Etcetera, etcetera. Now please, give me a minute to hit this drive.”
I stepped back and gave Him the tee-box. He took a mighty lash and sliced the ball seventy yards right into the trees. Obviously, I let Him have a do-over.
William Monette was born and raised outside of Detroit, Michigan. He holds an MFA from Columbia University. He currently lives in Washington DC with his dog. His work has previously appeared in The Ravens Perch, The Great Lakes Review, The Ponder Review, Typishly, FLARE: The Flagler Literary Review, and SHARKREEF.