[Pt. 3 of 3]
I come to an old automobile that is parked near a flaming sword. It’s a 1938 Plymouth DeLuxe — the car, that is, not the sword. The sword is one of those auto-floating weapons that stays in midair without needing to be held by any angel’s hand; and it keeps spinning around and jabbing every which way. (There mere possession of such a weapon is a war crime; but God will be God.) I duck and dodge the sword for several moments, while I try to pick the lock on the car’s door. Finally I manage to get the thing open, so I climb in and hotwire the ignition.
I drive over to the Cities of the Plain where the good and evil angels have reconciled their differences and are rumored to be shooting an adult movie. I stop and watch for a while, just sitting in the driver’s seat. This really is an X-rated feature. “Not too bad,” I say to myself, while lighting a cigarette.
Then I hit the gas and drive all the way to Monte Carlo. Pulling up outside the Hôtel de Paris, I beep my horn two times, and a whole multitude of mistresses who were apparently waiting for foreign diplomats to arrive and honk twice come running out. I press the accelerator just enough to stay ahead of them, as they chase me for a few versts; then I decide to speed off to Honolulu. I do not stop to sleep, because the elation that I feel from the knowledge that the angels back in Eden have achieved another ceasefire gives me a natural high, such that resting would seem an unnecessary nuisance. I pick up some prostitutes and we have some fun discussing interesting ideas; then I pay for each of them to go to college, and they all become tall, gorgeously astute archivists at the Library of Alexandria. We buy some bear meat and hotdogs from God’s Taco Shop and sing psalms under the moon.
I note that God himself is working as the vendor behind his own cart. So, as I’m paying for my meat and the dogs of my dames with a ball of crumpled U.S. dollars, I inquire as follows: “Dear God, would you mind answering one last prayer for me? Something is just not sitting right about this paradisal aftermath.”
“Sure, Bryan; disburden your heart — I think I already know what you’re going to ask; and, of course, you could simply speak to me face-to-face, as I’m right here where I’ve always been, or at least since the late 1970s, but if you feel a nostalgia for the prayer process (I’m guessing Pegasus turned you on to the whole telepathy thing) then go ahead a say a prayer: I’m all ears, and I promise I’ll answer — no joke, I’m being serious. What!? Speak your peace!”
God is smirking, that’s why I have a hard time believing him; but nonetheless I fold my hands and close my eyes and whisper:
“Lord, I ask you in Jesus’ name to recall your rival Tolstoy. I know that you remember him, because I put him in our previous scriptures, so don’t try to play ignorant again. Now this Tolstoy has a character: Ivan Ilych. All I ask is that you abolish Mr. Ilych’s suffering. Give him total relief from his pain. Utterly blot out the torment that you inflicted upon him. That’s my final request. Amen.”
I look up and God appears thunderstruck. “Well what do you want me to do — give him more and more life, with no end in sight, so that he continues to spend days and months and years in perfect health, occupying that home alongside his wife and kids that he doesn’t even really enjoy living with!? You’re verily squeezing me into a predicament here. I really wanted to answer your prayer when I told you to perform it, but now that I’ve seen the finished product, I really don’t know… I just don’t know if I can do this.”
“You MUST,” I pound my fist down on the cart between us (unfortunately one of my hotdogs was right where my fist happened to slam, so mustard and ketchup squirt out in either direction and land on mine and God’s business-suits, right on our pants’ respective crotchal regions: God gets the yellow mustard, signifying that he peed himself; and I get the blood-red ketchup, signifying that I’m menstruating. “I don’t care how stupid it sounds to you; I demand that you save Ivan Ilych from that miserable death — that’s my prayer demand. Take it or leave it.”
“Alright, alright,” God raises his hands as if this is a stickup, “stay with me, let’s talk this thru — are we not men?”
“We are devolving, both you and I: you surely know this; stop feigning ignorance,” I answer sternly. “You must act NOW.”
“Alright,” sez God; “so, I repeat: What do you want me to DO with your precious character (whom, I might remind you, remains the intellectual property of Leo Tolstoy; so you’re asking me to sin against human law) — should I just keep extending his life within the text, without bothering to ask for permission or collaboration from his author, so that the man suffers an ongoing, dissatisfying family-life of sheer mediocrity, that’s not even very well-written? You think that sounds better than a most distinguished composition detailing a few days of screaming in agony and then a full stop?”
“Look, God,” I say, calming down a bit and beginning to feel that a compromise might be within reach, “you own everything, even the manuscripts of Tolstoy; therefore don’t worry about the legalities of what I’m suggesting — your law trumps man’s law. OK, now listen up: I’m asking you to simply augment Tolstoy’s story so that instead of expiring in wretchedness, Ivan Ilych continues living in perfect health. And, before you interrupt again, let me explain how I envision Mr. Ilych might avoid the nightmare of familial discord that you suggest will result if we grant him access to our famous Tree of Life — the one that blesses the partaker of its fruit with vapiricism. — If you go back and refresh your memory of his account’s contents, you’ll notice that he was beginning to learn how to focus the majority of his time and effort on his official occupation, as a judge or whatever, before the pain grew unbearable — this, I believe, he would continue to do, if his life were free from suffering, until he reached a sweet spot of existence where the amount of contact with his wife and children would be minimized, while the amount of energies directed to his career would be maximized. I see this as resulting in an infinitely sustainable and pleasant outcome for all — and by ‘all’ I mean the entirety of Russian society — and I strongly believe that it is preferable to a slow death in agony.”
God nods for a very long time, chewing his last mouthful and still holding the rest of the once-bitten hotdog in his left hand absentmindedly. After the clock chimes thirteen, he swallows and sez:
“I’ll do it. Honestly speaking, I didn’t think that you’d be able to convince me to commit an act of literary sabotage as solemn as this (the word DEATH is in the story’s very title, for crying out loud); but, after weighing this argument that you delivered before the court of my mind here today — and now that I’m enjoying the feeling of a bellyful of bratwurst — I’m willing to make an amendment to the fate of Mr. Ilych. Do you want to shake on it, to seal our deal, despite the fact that my free hand is covered in mayo? For, if we clutch firmly, then mayonnaise might discharge and besmirch our suits.”
“It is SO like you to fuss over physical foulness, although there never was a time when our suits were not spiritually besmirched,” I smile and give a strong businessman’s shake to the left hand of God, thus causing mayo to squirt out all over everyone’s eveningwear.
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