A Boy Called God

The peripeteia of meaning.
  April 6, 2004

It’s a cruel joke, a name that has no meaning in one language but in another acquires significance better invested in subway graffiti or scratchings covering bathroom stalls.  An even crueler joke, a name that elicits smiles at point A and hateful scowls at some distant but deadly point B.  It’s all in a world’s turn, though: one man’s Lion becomes another’s Swine; this town’s Charity is that one’s Tramp; and bewildered looks are the only threads that connect the passing of unfortunate souls with names out of joint, the marks of ill fashion.  Designation is consignation.  The misnamed are consigned to unmerciful fates.

God’s parents thought it cute to name their son “Year.”  Meaningful names imported much for Tractor, his father, and Beam, his mother, both children of the Revolution who settled into Its final hissing boilover with what little dignity they could muster.  Times were rough and exciting; a lot could change in a year, or nothing at all, and their son’s name was a reflection of that uncertainty, of change and permanence neatly folded into one word.  “Hush baby hush,” Beam would sing to baby God at night, “there is no rush.”  And convinced of her wisdom he would stop whimpering and gratefully accept a left breast swollen with milk.

He grew up tall and reticent, and left for S., as they all did at one point or another, with a suitcase in his hand and dirt clinging to the soles of his shoes.  During the flight, his neighbor talked to him about the unpredictability of hungry coyotes and the importance of kangaroos; God nodded politely and tried not to snore dozing off.  Before parting, the neighbor asked for his name.

“God,” God said.

The neighbor looked at him with surprise and laughed a singular hollow laugh, “Ah hoh!”, like rumbling in a barrel.  “You’ll have a fine time of it,” he predicted out of a crooked smile and shuffled away with a bow, only half-ironic.

Time, fine or not, was of no great consequence to God.  He knew it passed, could feel it flying by sometimes—it was like wind brushing against his forehead and tousling his hair.  His name was time, big time; he only needed to concern himself with its large portions while ignoring the details with impunity.

A phone would ring.  God would pick it up and hear buzzing computerized silence.  Presently a click would usher in a human voice.

“Hello,” the voice would say, “may I speak with Mr., uh…  Gaud?  Gode?”

“God,” he’d correct.  “This is he.”

“Your name is God?”

“That’s right.”

“Oh, man!  I don’t suppose you want to hear about our fabulous new homeowner’s insurance that protects you against floods, fires, eathquakes and other Acts…  Ahem.”

“Good day,” the placid God would say.

“Good day, sir,” the discombobulated phone would answer, and rest.

He got used to stares and spontaneous giggles whenever someone swore in vain in his presence.  He got used to explaining the history of his name, over and over again, until the words wore smooth and left his lips without the slightest traction, slipping out unnoticed.  He got used to the dumb jokes.

“Hi, I’m God,” he’d say in new company, and inevitably someone, usually a girl, would echo: “Hi, I’m Satan.”

“Nice to meet you, Satan,” he’d say politely and never talk to her again.  Perhaps they were all Satan, he thought at times; the multifaced Enemy peeking at him from behind masks, but who was he to peek at?

At one point, his boss called him in and brusquely ordered him to change his name.

“We can’t have someone called God answering the phones,” he huffed.  “This is ridiculous.”

“You have someone called Dick doing that very thing right now,” God pointed out.

“Dick is a fine respectable name.  We’re all for Dicks.  We can’t have Gods, though.”

God stood drowning in the plush green carpet and regarded the other man with sadness.

“I am not really god,” he said.  “I don’t even mean what you think I mean.”

He quit his job that day and headed home through the gently rustling rain,  smelling the breath of rotting leaves and imagining all the different names he could have had, but for the one he owned.  At home, he made a pot of oatmeal and stared at the weeping windows, lost in a reverie.  Sometimes he dreamed that at one of the parties he would run into a girl who wouldn’t think of him as a joke.  Her name really would be Satan, and it would mean “Flowers.”

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