Good to Be God (24 page)

“Tyndale, you needed to loosen up man,” continues Gamay.

“Don’t lose your sense of humour, man. It’s all over when you lose your sense of humour.” I emit such hatred that Gamay turns to Muscat: “I told you this was a bad idea.”

“Me?”

I’m uncuffed, the counterfeit officers give me their card, and Gamay and Muscat scoot. They just run. Fast. I’m so angry I can barely stand up and it doesn’t seem wise to drive anywhere in my present state, when a courier appears in the driveway. He has a parcel for Napalm, so I sign for it (with difficulty as my hand is shaking so much) and take it inside.

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I go upstairs and knock on Napalm’s door – it swings open slightly. I catch a glimpse in the wardrobe of a woman, hiding.

“Sorry,” I say, embarrassed, closing the door. “Sorry, I’ve got a parcel for Napalm,” I announce. There is no acknowledgement or sound. This strikes me as odd. “Is everything okay?” I ask.

Finally, I knock again ostentatiously and peer in. The wardrobe is almost closed, but I realize that the woman is a doll. One of those high-end life-size dolls, with perfect hair, eyelashes and lovingly made openings.

I have to save Napalm.

It’s easy to say that it’s his fault, that he has selected this diversion; but that overlooks his looks and bad luck. We’ve all had dates where, with the best will, we’ve smothered the cupid. Everything’s going nicely and then you say: “You have athletic legs.” You mean shapely legs that you’d like to spend time licking. Your remark is interpreted as suggesting your date’s legs are those of a hairy weightlifter. It’s no use explaining.

Similarly, the momentum can go by trying to sleep with her on a first date. Or not trying to sleep with her on a first date.

Failure can stow away anywhere.

We’ve all had the bungle: unwittingly eating garlic, wearing a purple shirt for a purple-hater, supporting the wrong political party. What if every time you had bad luck? And Napalm is starting with considerable disadvantages.

The basic blow-up dolls are a joke. No one sane could imagine using them. But these custom-built dolls are unsettling, because you can just about imagine being desperate enough to… of course, in nearly every way it’s unhealthy to have an imaginary relationship, but if you think it over, most relationships have an imaginary element to them, sometimes a very substantial one.

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We’ve probably all hugged a pillow, and how many women are half-silicone anyway?

The danger of these creations is that they can give you something. It’s like drugs; the problem is not the drugs, but the world, which often is rarely as satisfying. A life-size doll could give you enough, if you were beaten enough, to give up. Because the only law is: laziness always wins.

I leave the parcel by the door.

G

“How are you?” asks Dr Greer.

This is the social convention, but I always find it odd doctors ask this. “Fucking ill, or I wouldn’t be here, would I?” is the reply I normally have to stifle. But this time, as far as I’m aware, I’m perfectly healthy. Apart, of course, from my persistent and embarrassing medical condition, but I’ve worn out seven doctors on that with no result, so I’m not wasting my time raising that.

“I’ve been having these pains in my arms,” I say going on to list many of the other classic precursors of a heart attack.

Dr Greer is immediately alarmed. Doctors as a group have their deadbeats, chancers, and many of them are in it for the money, but you get quite a few like Greer who actually like their patients and want to help them. I admire him for that; it’s not so difficult to be warm-hearted in your student days, but to make the decency last… for someone in his fifties to still care about the generality is an achievement.

“My doctor back home kept telling me I was going to drop dead,” I continue. I don’t like lying to Greer, he really is one of those genuinely cheerful individuals.

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“Do you smoke?” he asks.

“Yes,” I lie. “Not that much. Twenty a day.” I’m sure like all doctors he’ll multiply that by two. Ironically, with all the holiness, I’ve lost a lot of weight and I look good. But I’ve done my research and I’m ready to fake the tests. And if you say you have the pains, they can’t say you haven’t.

I take off my shirt for stethoscope access and so that Dr Greer can see the tattoo I’ve had done on my chest. It’s large, it’s memorable and above all, it’s easy to copy, even for someone like me with no artistic talent: it’s a fish, the ichthys.

Dr Greer prescribes me all sorts of drugs and tests. I’ll take the tests, but not the drugs.

I’ll see him a couple more times until I’m known as the man bound to have a heart attack.

G

It occurs to me that I can simply walk into their office and declare that the Church of the Heavily Armed Christ has an interest in burial rites and could we get a group discount. What worries me is that I’d be put on to someone at the top. I don’t need someone at the top. Someone at the top wouldn’t be willing to take a risk for what I can offer. I need someone near the bottom…

I’m approaching the funeral home when, although it seems too early for lunch, I spot a quartet of undertakers sauntering out to the diner across the road. On impulse, I follow them in.

They wait for the waitress with a subdued manner, not on account of any professional lugubriousness, but with a countenance I can remember from my days of employment:
it’s
only twelve
o’clock and it’s thirty years to retirement.

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A girl with tennis-ball breasts and a blue top to demonstrate them, sits down at the table next to the undertakers. Out of the four of them, the one who I’d put my money on leans over and says politely:

“Excuse me. You know that costs are rising all the time?”

“Sorry?”

“Funerals are getting more expensive, year on year. Well above inflation. Buy now, die later.” He hands the girl a card. “We put the fun into funerals.”

The girl walks out.

Two of his companions are too weary to be moved by his antics, but one, who has some authority, snaps: “Didsbury!”

“Aren’t we supposed to drum up trade?”

“Yeah, that worked.”

“She’ll be back,” Didsbury insists. I doubt it. Women are very inflexible in many ways. Once they’ve filed you away under

“arsehole”, there’s nothing, but nothing you can do about it.

You can save the world, but you’ll still be an arsehole who saved the world.

At another table, there’s a young mother facing the burger problem. Her kid is six or seven. She’s a stir-crazy single mother who’s meeting a friend for lunch. She’s tired, not merely in the drained-parent sense, but tired of having made the wrong choice.

The kid was asked if he was hungry, because there are no children’s portions. After a lengthy discussion of the menu, the kid ordered the special burger. The burger is spectacular and comes with a fancy salad.

The kid isn’t eating the burger and burgers don’t get better as they cool. He fiddles with the cutlery. He fiddles with the straw of his drink. He fiddles with some electronic toy. The mother 193

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is chatting with her friend and is pretending not to notice the burger problem. She wants a laugh with her friend. She has been a good mother, providing her child with what he wanted. Now if she challenges her son on why he isn’t eating the burger, there will be conflict, spoiling the lunch. She should enforce the law, because the burger is the most expensive item on the menu, and in about two hours the kid will be bleating for food. This is the hard thing, you do the right thing and it’s not enough – you’re always asked for more.

My feeling is she will let it slide, because laziness always wins.

“Didsbury, go and check up on the hearse,” says the ranking undertaker.

“I went last time, Jerry. Why don’t you go and see if the bodrod is still there?”

“I told you if you call the Cadillac that again, you’re fired.”

“Okay. Okay. Stevie, go check up on the deadsled.” Stevie stares at the chilli sauce, decommissioned, preoccupied with the hopelessness of his existence.

“You can’t call it that either, Didsbury.”

“Okay, I guess I’ll have to check out the woewheels myself.”

Didsbury mooches out. He’s what I want. The square wheel.

I wait a moment then tail him out, round the corner to where the hearse is parked in the shade. Didsbury is approachable, but how to approach him on this subject?

Didsbury, despite my efforts to be inconspicuous, has scoped me. As I stealth towards him, he lights a cigarette and beckons me over.

“It’s a fine machine, huh?” he says, patting the hearse. I agree.

“We have to keep a close eye on it. Betcha didn’t know that hearses are the most stolen cars?”

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“Really?”

“Kids love ’em. Goths are turned on by these things like flies n’ shit. We have every anti-theft device on the market, but we still lose a couple every year. But if you want a ride, you don’t necessarily have to die or steal one. Every other weekend I get to look after the heavenly taxi. If someone wants to hire it for a big entrance at a party or some very private excursion, it’s no problem.” He has me down as a ghoul.

“Here’s my number,” he hands me a card. I smile and take it.

“Thanks, Didsbury,” I say. “I’ll definitely be in touch.”

G

Never help anyone. There are a number of reasons. One, the ten minutes you spend helping the little old lady across the road or taking the strain on a neighbour’s grand piano is ten minutes you could have spent furthering your career. Those ten minutes here and there add up. Loyalty is a vice: if a friend is in trouble, drop him. Don’t waste time offering advice, solace or lending money.

Find a friend who is going somewhere. Friends in need impede.

If they sort out their troubles you’ll probably see them down the line and if not… there’s nothing more tedious and time-consuming than struggling to cheer someone up because their spouse has died or because they want to kill themselves. A television is more use to you than miserable friends. The time you squander listening to their woes could be spent ingratiating yourself with your superiors.

Honesty? Honesty: a con invented and promoted by the dishonest. Anyone’s who tried honesty knows that it’s painful and unprofitable. The crooks praise it and nurture it, naturally, because if everyone were dishonest there would be too much 195

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competition. There have to be mugs to be gimplied, they are an essential part of the economic cycle.

As for being public-spirited, it’s fine as long as you’re being paid for it. It’s like charity, if you’re working for a charity (holidays, pension, expenses form), charity is a good idea, otherwise: no.

My proof. How many toppers can you think of who are likeable? Not every big boss is loathsome, but most are. The few who aren’t can be regarded as a statistical aberration. The admirable are usually found wandering around without power or prestige.

I hate the rich. The rich who were always rich I dislike because they have no idea; when you tell them about how hard things are they are as mystified as if you’ve said something in a long-dead language.

The rich who’ve made themselves rich I dislike because they, typically, think it’s something to do with them. It’s like the guy with the winning lottery ticket thinking he controls the lottery.

We’re all trapped by our lives. “Anyone can make money,”

said my one rich neighbour; he was clever and hard-working, he’d made his money doing up houses in an age when property prices had boggled everyone. “Money is nothing,” said my mother, although she had grown up in poverty. She was right in a way.

But it’s different for men. Making money is part of it. For women making children. For men making money.

I hate the poor. No money? No job? No prospects? No drive?

Have four, five, six kids that someone else’s taxes can raise.

Throw more souls into misery. The middle folks aren’t much better; they can be ridiculously pleased about owning a house with a garden.

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G

No calls from the Hierophant for over a week now. Something must be wrong. He was phoning every other day.

You always wonder when you don’t hear from acquaintances, when they fade away. Were they too busy? Too happy? Too broken? Dead? I’m of a generation where we had little death in the early years. One or two lost to motorbikes. We seemed pretty unmortal. Now the cardiac arrests and cancers will be clocking in.

I go round to the Hierophant’s house to check it’s still in good order. I jump a good six inches in the air when I discover the Hierophant sitting there.

For a moment I wonder if he’s dead, because my entrance (and it’s a small place where you can’t miss the sounds of entry) hasn’t registered. Motionless. He stares into space. It’s not the focusless gaze of shock or exhaustion. It’s pure emptiness – everything used up.

“Gene?” I ask. He turns to me. He emits a low, but rank odour.

“There’s nothing you can say,” he says finally.

“I’m sorry,” I say because you can’t say anything else.

“‘There can’t be a God,’ she said to me. ‘Because otherwise I wouldn’t suffer this much.’”

This frightens me. It’s terrifying when you see someone you know for a fact is tougher than you, a lot tougher, smashed to bits.

Our earthly time is mostly a battle to conceal. To conceal our odours, our disappointing features. There’s the physical and then there’s the spiritual, striving to hide the greed, the hate, the weakness. Civilization is spiritual clothing. It’s a pretence that we are better than we are, spiritual garb, spiritual aftershave.

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“Is there anything I can do?”

“Go away.” Misery has this quality: there’s almost always a part of you that doesn’t want to be cheered up. And there is sometimes a certain arrogance in thinking you can help others.

I go out and buy some food and leave it for the Hierophant. I have the feeling it won’t get eaten, but I have to try. I know also that I want to help him somehow. I hate myself for wanting to help him. I’m a millimetre away from sinking into the shit and I want to do the hardest thing in the world: to give faith to someone.