Good to Be God by Tibor Fischer Page B

explanation. They deserve it. There’s reason. That’s what scares us more than punishment however harsh, a reasonless blow from the dark. The dicemare.
    The old guy with the Ugly Sisters, he’s in the God business. I spot the dog collar. Dressed in black, short sleeves. Shrivelled, balding, he is painfully trad, but for the huge dayglo orange crucifix on his chest.
    “Do you pray hard here in Coral Gables?” he asks. He’s working his audience, working them hard, which means he’s not very successful. The Lama had that insouciance of a man with a mile-eating, house-costing sports car revving at the traffic lights, knowing he couldn’t be beaten – occasionally challenged, but never beaten. The best salesman doesn’t have to pretend he doesn’t care: he doesn’t.
    The Ugly Sisters are getting some pep talk from him. By the time they leave, I’ve finished my cafecito and I wonder if I should follow him. He has left some pamphlets at the table. You’re in trouble when you’re leaving pamphlets on easy-to-wipe tables.
    “Free Health Check on Your Soul” I read. “See Hierophant Gene Graves”.
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    GOOD TO BE GOD
    I leave a generous tip, but the waitress is too depressed to care. I always have this strange desire to be friendly to waitresses, receptionists or taxi drivers. I want to say I know you have to deal with oafs all day, but I’m not one. I want to be liked. Why?
    Back at Sixto’s, Napalm is waiting for me.
    “I’ve got some brochures for the Shark Valley Trail out in the Everglades,” he announces, and suggests we go cycling there at the weekend. I’m considering taking up his offer, because I’ve got nothing planned and because I might as well explore.
    Part of me, though I’m ashamed to admit it, would be embarrassed to be seen with Napalm. At school, you’d walk through a burning building to avoid being seen with Napalm.
    As you get older, you get more relaxed about being around failed individuals who are of a lower value than you, because it’s understood that they can’t be your friends, they’ve just drifted into your presence. You never lose that sentiment of caste. We’re all at it. The best players at my golf club would barely say hello to me. Why? Because they had no need to. Because there was nothing they could get from me. They talked to good golfers or the powerful. Politeness is what happens when you’re figuring out people’s value.
    I’m in big trouble, but I can’t see a way out for Napalm from his life. Maybe I’m wrong. He’s maybe five years younger than me, and perhaps by the time he’s my age he’ll be deliriously happy and successful. Maybe his worldly goods won’t be a few clothes and a persistent and embarrassing medical condition.
    What can I do for Napalm? As Tyndale: haven’t a clue. As God: haven’t a clue. Shouldn’t I be able to help him? Yes, this should be a simple task, but I haven’t a clue. Shouldn’t I be thinking about my policies as God? I should have some positions on matters such as Napalm.
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    TIBOR FISCHER
    The doorbell rings and I find Dishonest Dave outside.
    “Thought I’d show you around a bit… show you the sights.
    Yeah. Hit some clubs.” I think about asking Napalm, but because I know he’d say yes, I quietly close the door behind me and tiptoe to Dishonest Dave’s car.
    We go to the pawnshop, where we’re obliged to queue up outside for a few minutes, even though Dishonest Dave is on the guest list and since it’s early the club is empty. Two Cuban bouncers are on duty.
    “Bishop to Knight Two,” says one.
    “Bishop to Knight Two? Are you shitting me? You sure?”
    “You heard. Asswipe.”
    “Okay. Pawn Bishop Four then.”
    “It’ll end in tears, maricón. You’ll chicken out first. I’m castling and you can eat my fianchetto.” They’re playing a game of mind chess, which is one way of passing the time, while we all go through the process of letting some minutes elapse so the club’s dignity isn’t