by Ted Neill
“Let he who is sinless hold the first jacket, or something to that effect,” the judge said, a lapsed Catholic himself.
St. Paul could not help himself. “But Stephen and I are good friends now. We’ve patched things up. I mean, I did him a favor: if it weren’t for me, he would not have been the first martyr.”
The courtroom let out a collective gasp while the TV networks switched to various religious experts who began to debate whether or not John the Baptist had a more legitimate claim to being the first martyr. This led to a lively side discussion that kept viewers tuned in during the court’s ensuing recess.
When the trial reconvened, God was asked to take the stand. Here another technical problem arose when God was sworn in. By who or what would God swear by? The line “so help me God” seemed quite self-serving and hardly impartial. Someone suggested that he swear by his mother’s grave, but a quick explanation of his Prime Mover Proof from St. Augustine, who had come down from heaven to sit in the gallery and watch firsthand, ruled out the notion of God having parents. Opposing counsel then asked a famous physicist to explain how our understanding of the temporality of cause-and-effect did not apply in the beginning of the universe, since the laws of relativity and quantum mechanics were not relevant in the early universe due to its density and energy levels—and therefore St. Augustine’s argument was fundamentally flawed.
Scout’s honor was suggested and thrown out before the bailiff settled on pinky swearing.
The trial continued.
Pundits pointed out, after just a few minutes of cross-examination, that God was not a well-coached witness. He practically admitted to the murder of millions, the flouting of environmental protection laws, and inciting crimes against humanity. St. Paul raised objections to strike God’s testimony from the record, but his requests were overruled. God tried to justify himself.
“You don’t understand,” he said. “I was a different God then. It was the Old Testament. You had to be firm; there were other gods to compete with.”
Opposing counsel began to inquire about God’s business strategies and whether or not some of his methods violated market regulations against unfair and uncompetitive practices during this period. They went so far as to suggest that Christianity may have been breaking laws regarding monopolies in modern times. St. Paul did his best to intervene and pointed out that Islam, Hinduism, and Buddhism also had large “market shares,” at which point Soother’s attorneys brought up the specter of an investigation of collusion among members of an oligopoly.
St. Paul requested a short recess and was finally able to convince his witness to plead the fifth. But they lost ground as soon as cross-examination resumed, and God characterized the Great Flood as population control.
Soother’s lawyers were certain they had the case wrapped up. They had run circles around the plaintiffs and offered strong closing arguments. They portrayed Soother as a good citizen, an enterprising entrepreneur, the embodiment of the American dream. He was a job creator, and a family man who had become a victim of a murderous, racist, and misogynistic deity who also had a long track record of questionable environmental and business practices. The jury did not find God a sympathetic plaintiff. But once in deliberations, they were afraid to rule against God, fearing eternal punishment.
The judge declared a mistrial. Soother and his lawyers left the courthouse in triumph. God, St. Paul, and St. Augustine exited, their heads held low.
But God did not give up. He fell back on his former, Old Testament ways. First, he sent millions of frogs to Soother’s Los Angeles home. But the pollution already present in the city adversely affected them, causing them to grow extra heads and limbs. They became a waste management problem. It was Soother who teamed up with local culinary schools to collect the frogs and prepare delicacies such as frog legs for various homeless shelters. This resulted in excellent PR for Soother, Idolatry Foods Inc., and its subsidiaries.
God tried locusts next, but Idolatry Foods Inc. was ready. Risk management experts had already predicted that God might try such a plague. The locusts were collected, sterilized, and processed into a cheap source of protein, and then converted into nonperishable porridge mix and energy biscuits to be sent to third world countries with food shortages.
Next, God turned thousands of cans of Idolatry Soup into blood. But Soother acted quickly, sending the cans in refrigerated trucks to Red Cross blood donation centers. The Red Cross and the City of Los Angeles presented him with a medal and the keys to the city. Not to be outdone, God resorted to killing Soother’s first born, Cain. In response, while still heartbroken, Soother had Cain cryogenically frozen, investing millions into the technology, hoping that his son might be thawed when doctors discovered a cure for God—or someone else announced that he was dead.
God was discouraged. He swallowed his pride and took a trip down to Hell, where he asked the Devil if he could borrow a lawyer. The Devil, always a fashionable spirit, met God at the elevator door wearing the season’s most in-demand double-breasted business suit with tailored vest, polished loafers (no socks, they were out that year), and chromed-out cuff links, tiepin, and watch chain. A gracious host, he invited God in for a drink. God reminded him that he was there on business purposes only. The Devil, disappointed, made himself a drink anyway. As he opened his cupboard, God saw that it was stocked top to bottom with Idolatry brand products. God turned to go.
“Where are you going off to? My God, you just got here.”
“Never mind, I’ll see you later,” God said, stepping back onto the elevator.
God went back to his throne and slumped down with a sigh. He had lost the legal and PR battles. His only consolation was that he was immortal and Soother was not. The span of a lifetime to us, dear reader, is but a blink of an eye to an eternal being, and soon enough, Soother passed away after a full and happy life.
He went straight to Hell.
The Devil was hard-pressed for a justifiable reward for this mortal who had pleased him so much, but Satan is a creative sort. He decided to place Soother in a room with a screen playing reality television produced by Idolatry Production Company, while hoses pumped endless quantities of Soother’s own Idolatry Soup into him through a high-pressure hose.
Soother’s spirit was broken in a matter of hours, the taste of his own soup mixed with the rubber of the hose and the endless loops of fame-hungry contestants saying “I’m not here to make friends,” was unbearable. His jaw ached from holding the hose, his throat from the flow of scalding soup, his stomach was distended beyond recognition, and his bowels were bloody from the volume of soup flushed through his system. His ears and nose bled soup, and his eyes cried it.
He repented for his sins.
God, being a forgiving and loving deity (despite what the lawyers had said), was moved. He came down to Hell and offered Soother a deal. Soother could start from scratch—provided he use a different slogan for his soup and company. Soother, as best he could with the hose in his mouth, signaled that he would accept God’s offer. With a snap of God’s fingers, Soother was whisked out of his eternal damnation, across time and space, and found himself again along the inspection line, a young man, a peon at the beginning of his life and career, watching conveyer belts of soup cans go by in a blur. It was like waking from a bad dream. He wept—real tears this time. He had his whole life ahead of him, children to be born, a woman to fall in love with and marry, a company, an economy, and a world to save.
Sure enough, as before, during Soother’s time at Megapolis Foods, sales of their signature soup line were flagging. Soother, his mind only half occupied with the cognitive challenges of his position, brainstormed on solutions. Soon, he had an answer to all their problems. He rushed up the stairwell, burst into Mr. Megapolis’s office and blurted out the slogan and rebrand that would save the struggling company: “Megapolis—it’s a Hell of a Good Soup!”
“Brilliant. That is the best slogan I have ever heard!” Mr. Megapolis said before asking, “And who
are you, young man?”
“I’m Soother!”
And so began a new lifetime of success that led to prosperity, fulfillment, and peace. Jobs were plentiful. Everyone in the world was happy, thanks to Soother. Soother (again) wooed and married Mr. Megapolis’s daughter. Soother’s new father-in-law promoted him to CEO and President. Sales grew. Hell of a Good Company Inc. branched into new sectors including technology, electronics, engineering, pharmaceuticals, finance, entertainment, and ecommerce. Life is great! Soother thought as he reclined in his corner office, looking out over the haze of downtown LA. Even the city itself looked bathed in a layer of Hell of a Good Soup as the brown haze thickened every day. Soother was happy. God was happy. Everything was gravy.
That is, until his executive assistant buzzed a bicycle courier into his office to deliver an envelope. The athletic young woman with tattoos and sunglasses walked in wearing spandex, a body-hugging satchel, and an aerodynamic helmet. She pinched her nose as she handed the envelope over to Soother. The odor of sulfur was overpowering. Soother opened it. Another subpoena slipped out onto his desk. The typeface was gothic and looked to have been printed in blood. The edges of the paper smoldered and were too hot to touch.
Soother was being sued again, and this plaintiff had no shortage of lawyers.
13.
Patches
When I was eleven, my brother shot my eye out with a pellet gun. I was in seventh grade. That was when my father’s drinking was at its worst, so of course, on some level, there was a connection between the two. But things got better after that, at least for Dad. Seeing me like that was rock bottom for him, I know it. And he went to AA the night after it happened and never touched a drink again.
Mitch. Mitch is my brother, the one who shot me. He’s always had a temper, and I shouldn’t have picked that fight with him that afternoon. I shot him first with the sling shot, and things just escalated. He was sorry, real sorry, cried with his head in my lap the whole way to the hospital. I remember saying, “Don’t worry don’t worry I can still see out of it,” even though I couldn’t. There was nothing left. My eyeball had burst and spread like clear jelly all over my face, shirt, and hands.
Mitch was two years older than me so he went off to high school first. We didn’t really hang out after that. Something was just gone from our relationship. He did all right in school though. On his sixteenth birthday mom and dad bought him a blue Iroc. He was sort of spoiled. It was weird, it’s like mom and dad felt guilty, felt bad for him, like they were all worried about him maybe being too hard on himself because of what he had done.
But the only person Mitch was hard on was me. It was like his way of coping, his own form of denial really. On some level I think he reckoned he was being tough on me to prepare me for a tough world. He picked fights with me all the time, physical fights. He was bigger than me so he always won. But I never backed down. The more he pushed, the more I pushed back. And the more I pushed back, the more he could convince himself I wasn’t broken, traumatized or handicapped. It’s like he wanted to reassure himself that what he had done hadn’t really affected me.
So it sort of cycled on. I guess if I had done what he had, I would have still been trying to exonerate myself in my head, too. Pretty dysfunctional now when I think about it. But at least it did prepare me for the world or any dumb asshole who ever decided to mess with me or call me pirate or say “Aye Matey.” Once I had beaten down a few, the word was out. Nobody messed with me.
Anyway, the blue Iroc. Yeah, Mitch wrecked it six months after he got it, but Mom and Dad paid for it to be repaired, with a new paint job and everything. Now it was a green Iroc. Mitch sold it in college and used the money, plus the money he had made bartending and bought an Acura.
I didn’t get a car on my sixteenth. I got a job. At that point Dad had retired from his corporate position in finance. It had been too stressful and had threatened his sobriety. So he and mom followed through on their dream and opened a little sandwich café. It kept the lights on for them, but well, a car, much less going to a nice college, was out for me. In my spare time, it was up to me to work in the café. Not Mitch, Mitch had to finish school. No one wanted him to be held back, after all he had so much guilt to live with.
Poor Mitch.
It’s all so backwards when you look at it. But maybe it worked out all right but for all the wrong reasons. For me, it was community college, then two more years of working in the restaurant to save up to transfer to a four-year program. But I learned how to take care of myself. When I did get a car, I bought a Jeep with my own money and kept it in working order myself. Unlike Mitch, I never wrecked it either, not bad for a guy driving with one eye.
But Mitch stayed competitive. He was always keeping score, asking me how much I made last year, how much I could bench, how many girls I had slept with, how hot they were, whatever.
It all sort of came to a head this last December. We both were home for Christmas. Our older brothers weren’t. They all had their own families to attend to. On the 22rd, Mitch and I had gone out on a double date with our girlfriends. I know he wanted to meet Elaine, the girl I’m serious about. I know he wanted to compare her to Cindy, the girl he’s not really serious about. That was fine, it didn’t bother me. Cindy had to go to Milwaukie where she grew up. She was spending Christmas Day with her family. As per usual, Dad paid for her to reschedule her plane ticket so she could stay an extra day in town to meet him and mom. He and Mom really wanted to meet her, or at least Mitch made them think they did. Like I said, I think it was all just so Mitch could arrange that double date and compare our girls side-by-side.
Anyway, after dropping Cindy off at their airport Mitch and I rode back together in his Acura.
“Too bad we didn’t drive separately,” he said, “then we could race home.”
“It would be no contest Mitch,” I said, “I drive a Jeep, it’s torqued low. It’s not a highway vehicle. I’d only have an advantage off road. This thing couldn’t get past the shoulder.” I tapped the Acura’s plush armrest for effect.
“You’d be surprised how well a sedan can do off road,” he said. That’s what he actually said. He was stretching. He just couldn’t even admit that my Jeep, any Jeep, was better off road than an Acura.
“Yeah right.” I said.
Mitch made everything into a competition. He hates going shooting with me. I’m a better shot and I can always make tighter clusters, with whatever we’re shooting with, rifles or pistols. He hates it. Not bad, when you consider I had to learn how to shoot with my left, non-dominant, hand after he shot my right eye out.
This Christmas, when we went shopping for Mom and Dad it was just a challenge of who could get the better gifts. He always tried to out-do me. A school counsellor once told me that Mitch was afraid that Mom and Dad wouldn’t love him anymore and so he was striving for their approval. Maybe, but he also had that damn temper. It was the temper that made him shoot me in the first place, it was his temper that caused him to wreck the Iroc. But what he didn’t realize was that Mom and Dad had always favored him anyway. You know, when I woke up in the hospital after surgery, the first thing I did was started throwing up. Something about trauma to my vagus nerve, the pneumogastic or something. I think they called it my “tenth cranial nerve.” Whatever. I woke up vomiting and couldn’t stop. That was the first thing that happened. The second was that I asked for my mother. She wasn’t there. Neither was my father. They were at home comforting Mitch.
Anyway, for Christmas this year we agreed not to spend more than two hundred dollars on our parent’s gifts. When we got back to the car after shopping together, we compared receipts and we had both kept our word. I spent $196.73 and he spent $198.55. Fair was fair.
But of course it didn’t stay that way. The night before Christmas Eve, the 23rd, I was up watching Star Trek reruns. I just couldn’t sleep. Mitch comes in late with a shopping bag from Britches
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit. What is it?”
“You don’t know?” he said.
“No, I don’t have x-ray vision.”
“It’s for Dad.”
“What are you doing buying an extra present for Dad?”
“His fifteenth sobriety birthday is the 30th.”
He was right. Dad gave us the BB gun and sling shot on Christmas Day. He and Mom went back to work on the 28th, leaving Mitch and me to fend for ourselves. Day two, my eye was shot out. That was the 29th. Dad was in AA on the 30th. That was also the day Mitch destroyed the gun. He still kept a piece of it hidden somewhere. But he won’t show me. I guess that is part of his bag of rocks to carry.
But just then, I was mad because Mitch had pretended to keep his word on the Christmas gifts, but was trying to get away with remembering Dad’s sobriety birthday without telling me. I should have known he would pull something like that. Just to get him back, I went and ordered Dad a present online that night, I got mom a little something extra too. It worked out fine because when Christmas morning rolled around, turns out Mitch had ended up getting Mom some extra slippers that he had bought on the sly.
He just can’t stop.
Mom and Dad went out on the night of his sobriety birthday. Mitch didn’t want to go, and I didn’t want to go alone with them, so we let them make an intimate night of it. Mitch and I went to a movie. On the way back we stopped at a bar where I had a Tom Collins and he had a Manhattan, since it would have been rude to drink in front of Dad.
“This thing tastes like piss,” I said after one sip.
He tasted it.
“Don’t leave a tip,” he said. “I could make a better one.”
“Well I could too. I made a lot of those when I was working as a bartender in college,” I said.