Good to Be God by Tibor Fischer Page A

inanimate. I’ve had two fights in my life. The first was at school when I was six. One kid had swapped my new chair for his crappy chair. I was tugging back my chair, when the teacher spotted us. Instead of stopping us, she said, “Go on then, slug it out.” I won and got my chair back, but I wasn’t happy. I wasn’t happy because I’d discovered I was in a brawn-ruled world.
    My beer is served by a tall blonde. Generally, I have no interest in attractive barmaids, because the standard attractive barmaid has no interest in me, and attractive barmaids are constantly accosted by glibber, more appealing or more obsessed customers than me.
    The poise of hot barmaids makes them as approachable as a mountain peak. But this barmaid fumbles over every order, which makes her more charming. Her unrevealing attire also suggests she must be some grad student who started on the job fifteen minutes ago. She’s friendly and conscientious not because she’s being paid to be, but because she is.
    Dedication is sexy. I hate laziness and sloppiness. We chat and I get a wobble. Suddenly, I get a burst of loneliness, and my uni goes off in another direction. I want a life with the barmaid, to take some poorly paid job in a warehouse that wouldn’t matter because I’d be with her.
    “Any chance you’re free for dinner?” I ask not with any expectation of success, but because if I don’t ask the regret will be a stone in my shoe.
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    GOOD TO BE GOD
    “Hey, if I were single…” she says. I suspect this isn’t true, but it’s a decent way of saying no. That future has gone to where all the other unused futures go. I’m surprisingly undeflated.
    The wobble’s over. But if you’re not too bothered about the no, you’re not too bothered about the yes.
    I briefly scan the section on religion, but there’s no book clearly marked “How to Fool Everyone You Are God” and so I give up.
    On the way home, I get lost and hungry. Near the Government Center, I stop at an unfancy Cuban restaurant where the waitress is dejected and the menu is laminated. The whole place is run on an easy-to-wipe-down basis. Even my chair is plastic. I order a pork chop.
    The pork chop is simply done, but it’s so good, so unimprovable, it’s terrifying and unnatural. It’s as if I’ve been waiting twenty years to eat it. The mashed potato it comes with is unfancy as well, but it’s the best mashed potato I’ve ever had. I realize it’s one of those useless miracles.
    These miracles occur when you get exactly what you want –
    usually without you knowing what you want. Seeking to repeat the experience, you might enjoy it, but it will never be as good, because perfection is only once, and perfection is even more perfect when it is a surprise.
    Across the room at another table, I catch the talk of an old guy, talking to two ugly sisters. Not plain, ugly: they’re never going to sneak into beauty for a night out. No nose job, gym membership or implant will make a difference.
    They’re not at Napalm’s level of disassociation, it’s not the end of the world. They probably have doting husbands, satisfying jobs, pride-making kids, but no man is heading home to beat off in remembrance of them. Women go on about love, tenderness 47

    TIBOR FISCHER
    and how disgusting those pictures are, but most, at heart, like the idea of men oinking for them. And the sisters aren’t going to get that. It’s unfair, because there’s nothing you can do about that; it’s not like being poor, or not very smart, or being born in an agricultural region: you can compensate for that.
    It’s unfair in the born-without-an-arm way, and there’s nothing you can do about that. The one-armed, no-legged often say they don’t mind, but I don’t believe them. I’d be furious. I’m enraged enough about my life as it is. The reincarnation crew say you get a handicap like that because of your actions in a previous life. I have no idea whether that’s true, but it’s a great