Good to Be God

by Tibor Fischer

  There’s only one person I know who could help me with my plans. But one can be enough.

  “Hello?” It’s Bizzy’s distrustful voice.

  Bizzy and I go back to the first day of school. Let me tell you about our trajectories.

  The last day of school, I went out and spent all my savings on a suit for my first, proper job, in a travel agent’s. At weekends I’d worked in a supermarket, stacking shelves. So had Bizzy. But unlike me, Bizzy spent his time stealing or helping his friends steal. I’d always felt grateful to my employers for giving me employment, so I never lifted anything. Thus Bizzy had thrice the cash I had.

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  He also needed a suit for his first job. He went to the same place as me. As he was twiddling with the suits, someone sidled up to him and asked him which one he liked, then told Bizzy to meet him outside. Bizzy, who had thrice the cash, got a suit twice the price of mine for a third of what I paid.

  We lost touch, but eventually I heard Bizzy was running a snooker hall. I went to see him, in a shitty area, where I found the snooker hall dark and locked, although the info on the door said it should have been open. After hammering for a while I managed to raise Bizzy. Bizzy smelt off, the hall was dingy and empty apart from a pair of three-legged, leprous tables and a rusty beer keg.

  “Are you renovating?” I asked.

  “No,” Bizzy replied. I left feeling sorry for him, because it looked as if he had been quarantined from luck. Six years later I heard he had retired from snooker-hall management and had bought a twenty-room mansion in Scotland, with a hundred acres. I wasn’t sorry for him then.

  Once I visited him. He never left the property and when his wife and two daughters did, they wore body armour and were accompanied by a squat guy with a flattened nose and no conversation. The whole family spent hours at their very own shooting range.

  “My old boss had an unusual problem: he found himself with too much cash on his hands,” Bizzy had explained to me, cradling the rifle he carried everywhere. He had run a string of snooker halls where no or imperceptibly little snooker was played, but which had been unimprovably profitable. Happiness was universal for six years. Bizzy’s only headache was snooker players wanting to get in and interfering with the money-laundering. Happiness was universal for six years. Then it wasn’t.

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  I left not knowing whether to feel sorry for Bizzy or not. But he’s the only person I know who was into big-time multinational illegality. And just as I know lighting experts in Ljubljana, Seoul or Buenos Aires, it occurred to me Bizzy might be able to help me out in Miami.

  “It’s me, Tyndale.”

  “I don’t know any Tyndale,” Bizzy replies.

  “Yes you do, Bizzy,”

  “I’m not Buzzy or whoever it is you’re looking for,” says Bizzy.

  “Yes, Bizzy you are Bizzy. And I’m Tyndale.”

  “I’m not saying I’m Bizzy, but what proof do I have you’re this alleged Tyndale?”

  “Bizzy, I’m out in Miami and I need an introduction.”

  “Unknown stranger who’s misdialled, let me tell you, I hardly know anyone in America.”

  “I need… how shall I put his?… I need someone not too honest.”

  “Listen, Mr Weirdo, why are you asking me, me of all people, a question like that? How would I, a man with no criminal record, no appearances in court, a man whose tax returns make inspectors weep with joy at their naked probity, why would I know of someone not too honest? I have spent my whole life avoiding anyone even suspected of the teeny-weeniest wrongdoing. I abhor illegality in all its forms and I’m not just saying that because someone might be listening to this conversation—”

  “Do you know anyone in Miami or not?”

  “Well, lunatic caller whose identity is a complete mystery to me, and whose questions are deeply offensive, I only have one contact there, but he might be what you want.”

  “What’s his name?” I ask, poised with pen and paper.

  “Dishonest Dave.”

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  G

  Dishonest Dave’s shop is on the quiet, less affluent end of Fifth Street, away from the glitzier blocks of South Beach, flanked by a couple of porn shops and a Haitian restaurant. The shop has a big neon sign in front, “Dishonest Dave’s”, and underneath it in smaller, but still unmissable lettering, “We fully intend to rip you off.”

  I wonder how dishonest you can really be if you’re warning your customers you aim to gimpli them. Inside the shop, one half is devoted to music in various formats, the other half is a miscellany of furniture and household items, rocking chairs, squirrel cages, microwave ovens.

  With a jutting name like Dishonest Dave, I expect the holder to be large in frame, large in manner. But he is average height, wiry, dark, fortyish. He greets me quietly but warmly.

  “So you’re a friend of Bizzy’s? Frank. Ella. Pharoah.”

  I have no idea what he’s talking about. But as always when you don’t understand: smile. Sometimes smiling when you don’t understand will get you a smack in the mouth, but the odds are with you. Dave shows me around his premises, pausing to assure one elderly woman studying a photocopier that it’s “a hundred per cent stolen”.

  “Business looks good,” I say, because you say that even if it isn’t.

  “I do okay. I’m lucky. I got this place ten years ago. Now, here on the beach, I wouldn’t be able to afford the doorknob.”

  “So the sign works?” I ask, gesturing at the rip-off neon.

  “It does. The public notice. Some are infuriated, but mostly, the upfrontness is liked. We’re only saying we’re a business and we’re out to get the best deal for ourselves. Customers appreciate not being clintoned.”

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  “You from Miami?”

  “Port-au-Prince. I’ve lived here for twenty-five years. There are a few who’ve lived here longer than me, but I’ve never met anyone from Miami. That’s what Miami is, a city you come to, not from. When I arrived here, it was decrepit Jews, some folks from the Midwest who’d got lost, furious Cubans and Haitians with their derrières hanging out of their trousers. Now you can’t cross the road for the bankers and galleryistas.”

  We go into his office, where he offers to make me some coffee.

  I notice a jug half-full of coffee.

  “I’ll have that cold.”

  “Okay. I like it that way too, better than fresh, better dusty a little, fermented a little, yeah.” He grins. I’ve passed some test.

  He puts his feet up on his desk. “So how heavy are you? You as heavy as Bizzy?”

  He’s not talking about my body weight. I shrug, which he accepts as an answer. It’s amazing that he hasn’t clocked me for the failure machine that I have become. It’s wonderful to be mistaken for someone; that’s one of the worst things about unemployment – the conclusion you’re nothing. Probably in the great scheme of things we all are, but you don’t want to feel it.

  “So what can I do for you? I can get you anything you want in a couple of days. Except a nuclear weapon. There’s a waiting list for that.”

  “There’s nothing I need yet. I just came to say hello, but I will need some advice later on.”

  “Make sure you ask the right question. You heard about the alchemists? They wanted to turn shit into gold. But the real question was not whether you can turn shit into gold, the real question was is it worth the effort of turning shit into gold?

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  Otherwise, you can have pretty much anything you want… if you’re willing to pay for it.”

  “I’ve noticed.”

  I debate how much to tell him. I outline my interest in holiness without giving too much away. In any case how damaging could it be to be denounced as a fraud by someone called Dishonest Dave? Dishonest Dave fixes me up with an acquaintance who has some rooms to rent ch
eaply, no deposit and no questions. I leave Dishonest Dave’s with a Duke Ellington compilation (the music was playing in the background and when I commented favourably on it he insisted on burning one for me) and a punchbag (eighty per cent discount) which he swears will change my life.

  A large man is protesting angrily to one of Dishonest Dave’s assistants that the toaster he was sold is not as advertised.

  Wearily, Dishonest Dave wraps a tea towel around his right fist and tests the tension. “It’s always the toasters.”

  G

  I phone Nelson to tell him I’m stealing his credit card and to give me four hours until he reports it. “Okay,” he says, “I’ll get myself something too. Have a good time, did you?”

  “Yes I did.”

  “You see, no one can be unlucky all the time.”

  I rush to the nearest most expensive boutique and buy myself a charcoal-grey suit, some shirts and additional underwear. When you have a persistent and embarrassing medical condition and you want to impersonate God you need some sartorial backup.

  Normally, I have no time for grey, but the cut of the linen suit is so perfect, I can’t resist it. It was waiting for me. I put it on straight away and bag my old clothes.

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  GOOD TO BE GOD

  Enjoying a new suit this much makes me a little ashamed, but the suit makes me feel new, heavy and holy. It just does. It is ridiculous that it can give me this much propellant, but it’s good that it does: a surge of self, however undeserved, shows that I’m not entirely beaten.

  But it is discomforting, the pleasures that stay with you. I don’t really enjoy golf any more, and you can’t say it’s because I’m bad at it, because I was always bad at it, but I used to enjoy it. Your body can cause you a lot of embarrassment, yet it gives you some reliable joys: a good shit, the drawing-out of a constellation of snot from the depths of your nostrils. Ignoble, yet frustratingly pleasurable. I wish strenuous exercise or absorbing some masterpiece of art could gratify me as much, but they don’t.

  Downtown on Flagler, I take out as much cash as I’m per-mitted from an ATM, then, catching my new suited self in reflections whenever I can, I make for a dingy stamp shop and purchase their most expensive stamp, one with Benjamin Franklin. Nelson’s card is now litter. I stroll across the street to another dingy stamp shop and sell it for cash that I stuff into my wallet.

  The address Dishonest Dave gave me is in Coconut Grove, away from the water, and the house is impressive in scale and style, although major reconstruction is under way.

  Sixto, the proprietor, shakes my hand in a formal way. He’s short, dressed in a long-sleeve shirt with tie, which in this heat is fairly radical; he has a faint moustache, presumably grown to add gravitas to his face, but failed in its mission. He resembles a fourteen-year-old dragged to a family photo shoot.

  The room on offer is huge, but bereft of any furniture; the swimming pool’s not bad, the rent is moderate. Cash only. I can’t move in for two weeks.

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  “I’m having some alterations done,” says Sixto. “Are you around during the day? You might find it disturbing.”

  Am I around during the day?

  “What is it you do?” Sixto asks as I hear Dishonest Dave’s voice saying no deposit, no questions. What is it that I do?

  “I… I’m in the illumination business.” I say hoping to be convincing. Sixto doesn’t laugh or enquire further. I realize he’s being polite. He doesn’t challenge me on my ludicrous statement. I turn it back.

  “And you?”

  “Project manager.” I’m not tempted to ask more, as I don’t really care, and it’s always good to save some small talk for emergencies later.

  “I’d like to move in now if that’s okay.”

  “I can’t get the bed out of storage today.”

  “No, it’s okay. I can sleep on the floor.” It takes Sixto a while to grasp I’m serious, and he gives me that look you give people whom you thought were all right but then show signs of worrying weirdness.

  We dodge past some workmen to get into the kitchen, where I meet another lodger.

  “Hi, I’m Napalm. My girlfriend is a dominatrix,” he says.

  Let’s consider the evidence. First of all Napalm is too old to be calling himself Napalm. He’s well into his thirties.

  Furthermore, I’d wager he’s not a musician, tattooist or hired killer, professions where a preposterous name is a plus.

  I’ll never be the focus of an ad campaign, but Napalm…

  Napalm is especially unfortunate. I would describe Napalm as a twelve-year-old lesbian. With a beard stolen from a burly fish-erman. Not a good start, and Napalm tops it off with a basin haircut, binocular-thick glasses and one of those large-mesh 38

  GOOD TO BE GOD

  vests popular with very muscular black men that makes his depressingly white skin more depressing. In my entire life, I’ve only met one other person so far from the accepted standards of allure, and when I described him no one believed me.

  Immediately, I want to help. It’s so unfair. I want to give Napalm some money for contact lenses or a haircut, some fashion tips, grooming suggestions, but I can already see he’s disqualified.

  You don’t want to tournamentize, but Napalm’s disqualified.

  It’s impossible he has a girlfriend. Women can get very desperate, and can be very compassionate too, but this is not on. Even paying for it, Napalm will struggle. He’s not even sinisterly or intriguingly ugly. Merely no-use ugly.

  “Can I make you a coffee?” Napalm asks. All his top teeth are struggling to form one big tooth, and they are covered in a delicate yellow film.

  It gives me a boost. I may have a persistent and embarrassing medical condition, but clothes cover it, and I still have a chance.

  No matter how unlikely, I’m still in the game.

  “I have my own business. My company produces high-end custom-made waterskis for the blingers and the jocks,” Napalm explains. “You’ve probably heard of us.”

  Love the us. Love the probably heard. Truth: I have a shed where I fiddle with fibreglass. Napalm selling anything is questionable. No one with a tan, athletic ability, success at any level would tolerate Napalm’s presence in the same room. Sixto is shuffling around, anxious that Napalm will scare me away.

  “Why isn’t the water boiling?” asks Napalm.

  “You haven’t plugged in the kettle,” I point out. Napalm was nowhere in sight when the good stuff was handed out. But he’s still game. I admire him for that. He’s fighting when there’s no hope. That takes uncommon courage.

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  The coffee, when Napalm has coaxed it into being, is terrible.

  I don’t know what he’s done wrong, but it’s undrinkable. I long for an opportunity to pour it down the drain but Napalm gives me his full attention.

  What galls me most about failure, is the amount of effort I’ve gone to to achieve it. I was given the manual. I followed the instructions. Shake hands firmly. Look people in the eye.

  Buy your round of drinks. Help with the washing-up. Tell the truth. Keep an eye on elderly neighbours. Remember birthdays.

  Be polite. Save your money. Don’t drink and drive. Recycle. It’s like getting a computer, following all the instructions, but the computer refuses to work. A computer you can at least shake, or kick around. Sadly you can’t do that with your existence.

  This reflection I banish as weakness. A wobble. Be unidirectional. Towards deification. You’re well ahead of Napalm.

  “Let me show you round the neighbourhood,” proposes Napalm. “Being the boss of the company, I can take time off whenever I want.” The old me would have politely agreed.

  “Thanks, no. I need an early night.”

  My room is completely bare and white. There’s an agreeable purity to it. A big white womb that will give birth to great things. However, Sixto may have been right about the bed. The floor is concrete an
d cold. A few blankets won’t do. But I want my base. I don’t want to waste money on a motel.

  I take an unhinged door from the corridor, some empty paint pots and create a makeshift bed. It’s much better than it sounds, though I lie awake for hours seeking sleep.

  But that’s nothing to do with the bed. I often journey through the night awake.

  Revenge passes the time. I think about how I paid taxes all my life, how my parents did too. Then when my mother was 40

  GOOD TO BE GOD

  ill, how nothing happened at the hospital. You pay tax, and you get nothing. No, that’s not true, you get shit. I ponder how my bosses didn’t like me taking time off to look after my mother.

  How that helped get me fired.

  I think about revenge. Pointless weakness. I strain to submerge the thought. Be unidirectional. But the rage bobs back up time and time again. My guts are fermenting. I fart rage. I can’t stop thinking about how I’d like to have half an hour with my former bosses and an iron bar. Revenge colonizes our thoughts. Stories on television, at the cinema, in books, they’re usually about revenge. Why so much about revenge? Because in reality it never comes to pass.

  I abandon consciousness wondering whom I would track down and kill first if civilization collapsed.

  G

  I wake up early, beaten. What am I doing here? Sleeping on a door, far from home, wanting to fool everyone that I’m God.

  I pray. I pray because there’s nothing else. I don’t pray for myself. I pray for everyone. I pray that God will set everything right. Save me, sure, but save everyone else. Why do we have to go through all this? All this… and all this… all this… trampling?

  Unluckily for me, deep down, I’d like a world with a smattering of justice.

  In the bathroom mirror, I inspect my face. To regular observers of Tyndale Corbett there’s no doubt he’s cracking up. “Portrait of a man about to go pop” could be the caption. I plant myself on the toilet in an attempt to jettison the hopelessness.

  Napalm’s waiting for me in the kitchen. “How about some coffee? I do great waffles.” I have to laugh.