Good to Be God

by Tibor Fischer

  “I can’t believe what they want to charge,” Sixto says. “And they say the cocaine cowboys are destroying the country. The engineer’s coming tomorrow at three. Anyone at home?”

  “You don’t need an engineer,” says Gulin. “You probably just need a new circuit board. I can get that for you.”

  Sixto and I look at each other like kids whose homework has miraculously done itself.

  “Well,” says Sixto.

  “I’ll sort it out,” Gulin says.

  Unusually, Gamay and Muscat are at Dogma waiting for me.

  This is a bad sign. “I’m glad you called,” I say, when there is no one in earshot. “I’m glad you called” is precisely what to say when the opposite is true. I learnt this from Bamford. It’s a brilliant technique of wrong-footing. And you must avoid any hint of sarcasm or insincerity, otherwise it’s worthless. Smile.

  Always smile and say thank you when someone hands you a basket of shit. They may doubt if they really gave you a basket of shit. You settle up later, when their backs are turned.

  I look at Gamay and Muscat manfully and pausefully: “We may have to go to war.”

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  Alarmingly, this prospect doesn’t alarm them at all.

  “Imperative,” says Gamay.

  “You know it,” says Muscat.

  “I need you to dig up… some tools.” I give them a map purporting to show buried weapons in the Everglades. I debated long and hard about how vague to make the map. If it’s really vague, then even Gamay and Muscat might guess that I’m duping them. If on the other hand I put in too much detail, they might come back to me and say there’s no blasted oak three hundred yards past the alligator souvenir shop. What I want is for them to wade around in hazardous swamp for a few days until they get fed up or injured and give up.

  Gamay and Muscat are excited. I suppose in all of us there is a desire to have secret knowledge, to lead a secret, outlaw life, particularly if it’s well paid.

  “This is the big test, so don’t mess up,” I warn them, getting up with no intention of paying for the drinks. I hear myself adding, “I ain’t kennedying you.”

  Back at Sixto’s, Gulin is in the garage, operating on the dryer.

  The operation isn’t progressing smoothly – she is glaring at the new circuit board with disapproval – but you can tell that she will succeed. She’s wearing a purple vest which reveals a tattoo of a stylized bird on her right shoulder. Some symbol I suppose.

  Living? Dead? You never ask about tattoos.

  The tattoo surprises me; she struck me as someone who would regard tattoos as a frivolous expense. Her ears are unpierced and as far as my unexpert eye can tell cosmetics rarely reach her face.

  “Here’s a new career,” I say as chatty encouragement. I am humbled by her endeavour. There are so many hurdles to clear before this stage. Knowing what a circuit board is. Finding a 126

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  shop that sells circuit boards. Finding the circuit board in the shop that sells circuit boards. Buying the right one. Buying the right one at the right price. Buying the right one at the right price in working condition. Opening the dryer. And so on. I know I wouldn’t make it. This would beat me. But there’s a chance my divine project will work, because it doesn’t involve any wiring or unscrewing anything.

  I can’t figure out what would be most helpful, to remain in a supportive role, or to leave her alone to fiddle it out with the dryer. I choose to allocate her a few smiling minutes as a nod to either option.

  “It’s not difficult,’ she says. “Not that difficult.”

  “How’s the job hunt going?”

  “Slow. Contacts. Contacts.’

  “What would you like to do?’

  “What would I like to do?” Gulin consults the installation leaflet. “I’d like to be a journalist. But that’s not gonna happen.

  Contacts. Contacts.”

  It’s true. Of course, blaming and claiming is the refrain of the inert, the lazy, the dim, the moaner. I didn’t get the break. I didn’t have this. I didn’t have that. But it’s different with Gulin. I’m in the presence of someone very hard. Someone who delivers. How many times have you heard someone say I can sort that out and yet it remains unsorted? Four hours after her statement she’s here wielding the screwdriver. When she says contacts, it’s not a lament, it’s a statement of fact. And true. What’s the difference between standing in a dusty garage jousting with a circuit board (for no pay, to save someone else a few dollars) and sitting in an oak-lined office earning a car every hour, whether you do anything much or not? A school friend. An uncle. Someone you met on a train.

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  Naturally, in order to win the lottery, you have to buy a lottery ticket. And you can work hard to buy lots of tickets, you can buy lots of tickets if you put your mind to it. You can buy lots of tickets and win nothing.

  G

  Orinoco has returned, a little displeased. I’m not angry with the cat, because wherever it’s been, it’s definitely not the cat’s fault. Orinoco’s not that kind of cat. Gulin is cheered by Orinoco’s return, but annoyed because she has been offered a childminding job, but she has no car, and it will take a three-hour combination of bus and foot to get there. She is tough enough to take it, but she can’t arrive there early enough to satisfy her prospective employers, who aren’t willing to offer her a live-in position.

  She hasn’t got enough money to get a closer place (Sixto’s letting her live rent-free until she gets a job). She left her car behind in LA on the basis that cars can be traced, and flew into Orlando, hired a car, drove down to Miami, dumped her stuff, then drove to Tampa to drop off the car, confident that should bury her tracks.

  This is the stuff that infuriates me. Here you have someone decent, that rarity, someone who wants to work, someone at ease with hard, menial, poorly paid work, but who can’t get to the job, and until she gets there can’t scrape together the money to get there. Gulin is the only one in this house with an interest in honourable employment, but can’t reach it.

  “You know, you can always borrow my car,” I say. Sixto has two cars but his spare is on loan and he doesn’t know when he’ll get it back.

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  “No,” she says. Politely, she manages to refuse twice, but is so desperate that’s as far as she can go. Most of the places I need to get to I can reach by public transport, which isn’t bad at all but, like public transport everywhere, is much favoured by the mentally ill, junkies and the generally nasty. It is noticeable that wherever you travel the stupid and ignorant are always the loudest. They can’t talk, they have to shout, and are always to be found on public transport. Also, I have no hesitation in using my legs, unlike most Miamians, who would sooner drive half an hour to avoid a five-minute walk.

  Gulin goes off to test the route to her job. Sixto then appears and studies the new windows. He strokes the paint.

  “It’s like they had to reinvent the concept of the window. It’s taken them four months to change two windows. And these clowns came recommended.”

  I don’t know why the thought comes to my mind, and as soon as I say it I regret it: “Have you checked if they open?”

  Sixto’s not good at rage, which is a novelty in someone of a Cuban background. He doesn’t shout, swear, wave his hands or throw things. His mouth twitches a little and his breathing gets hard as the two of us are unable to get the windows to open even a fraction.

  “You know, what’s the worst part of this? I could have these guys killed. One phone call, a solution architect would fly in, bang, bang. That’s what’s so hard. One phone call. One phone call. I could really have them killed, no questions asked. It’s so hard not to.”

  He circulates around the kitchen, nodding and breathing hard, I suppose having conversations of an imaginary, hostile nature with window-fitters.

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r />   G

  On Collins Avenue, a bare-chested man who is a V of rocky pectorals and is wearing white naval bell-bottoms hands me a small plastic sachet. He is jigging around the sidewalk, handing out the sachets to passers-by. I usually accept proffered leaflets or items because if you’ve ever had to do a job like that, you will spend the rest of your life accepting proffered leaflets or items.

  The sachet contains a clear substance which according to the packaging is personal lubricant. Since I have no immediate plans to bugger anyone, I’m not sure what to do with it.

  Having enjoyed two lattes and an exceptionally good tuna Niçoise sandwich in the Loews Hotel I am about to leave without paying the bill, when I get a call from Gamay and Muscat. Not having heard from them for a week I had happily concluded that they had given up on joining an international criminal organization.

  “We’ve got the tools,” Gamay announces with the sort of pride a sixteen-year-old would have after bedding three beauty queens in one night.

  I’m perplexed. Unwisely I tell them to meet me at the church.

  Gamay and Muscat struggle into the office carrying a large metal container they can barely carry. Then they go out and grunt back in with two more containers, dripping with sweat. They don’t say a word but look at me grinning.

  I have to do it. I open the latches on the uppermost container.

  Inside is an abundance of black sacking material, which contains a weighty object. I unfurl the material, and find myself holding an automatic weapon. If all the containers are full, there must be three dozen of them. I like to consider myself a man with a ready retort, but I’m unworded.

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  “It wasn’t easy,” beams Gamay. “Socio, your map wasn’t that good. But hey, delivery is us.”

  I examine the gun. I don’t like guns. They say people kill people, not guns. That’s not right, people want to kill people, but the guns do it. I am quite tired of living, but this scares me. This is heaviness way beyond my abilities or interests. These containers contain illegality and danger out of all proportion to their volume.

  “You boys really disappoint me,” I say. The DJs are hesitant.

  Is this multinational criminal irony?

  “These aren’t ours. I don’t know where you got these. But if I were you I’d take these back straight away, because the owners might be very angry. Buriers of guns aren’t known for their sense of humour. Or for that matter, hesitation in shooting former DJs.”

  “Muscat, why are you disgracing us like this?” says Gamay.

  “Me?” says Muscat. I, of course, have no interest in hearing the two of them volley the blame back and forth, but I hear it anyway.

  “You shouldn’t be here wasting Tyndale’s time. You’re just too soft.” Gamay storms out and returns with a small box. “I thought we established who’s Mr Bad,” he continues, opening the box to reveal two scorpions. “Let’s see who’s hard.” He takes one scorpion and dangles it above the back of his trousers.

  “You’re not doing that,” exclaims Muscat. But Gamay drops the hapless scorpion into buttockville and then sits down, with considerable gusto and a crunching sound. My heart goes out to the scorpion. Gamay whoops as if downing a tequila and extracts some squished remains from his nether regions.

  When I was growing up I had many dreams, but I never had one where I was sitting in an ailing church, vainly striving to be 131

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  mistaken for God, surrounded by stacks of firearms, while an oxygen thief crushes a scorpion with his backside in an attempt to be recruited by an non-existent multinational criminal organization. A round of applause for the Unexpected.

  Let’s consider Gamay’s show. Who carries around two live scorpions? You’d only do this if you’re expecting to put on a show. Again, I can’t divine how Gamay has cheated, but I’m convinced he hasn’t exposed himself to any significant pain or toil – that’s not his style. That he chose the larger scorpion is for me confirmation of a con.

  Scorpions vary in their toxicity and, furthermore, like snakes you can milk them for their venom. I can talk about this with some authority, because one of my neighbours invested in a company making scorpion restrainers. Also, since their attack depends on penetrating skin, if you were to cut even a tiny amount off the very tip of the sting, it would no longer be hypodermic. We weren’t given a chance to inspect the scorpion before it was arsed out of recognizability.

  “You’re harder than me,” Muscat concedes, “harder and crazier.” Gamay has the cheek to offer me the other scorpion.

  I instruct Gamay and Muscat to take the guns away. I know they’ll probably just stick them under their beds, but I want them gone. “This is on a need-to-know basis,” I say, “and I don’t need to know.” They get sulky about having to lug the containers back out. For big, strong lads they are extraordinarily lazy.

  “Don’t phone me. I ain’t kennedying you,” I say, already picturing myself on flights out of the country; or, who knows, maybe my luck will change and I’ll get a nice situation in the prison library to see out my declining years?

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  G

  Sometimes a good night’s sleep makes prospects look better, but not when you’re strictly ruined. The misery is right there by the bedside table. I had to knock myself out by raiding Sixto’s drinks cabinet, but the great thing about being abstinent is that when you have a drink, you get your money’s worth.

  I catch my reflection in the mirror. I look rather mad. I am probably going mad, but perhaps one of the consolations of going mad is that you don’t mind too much.

  In a mechanical, lifeless way I head off to the church and do some pastoral acts in a mechanical, lifeless way. I’m hoping I can escape our parishioners for surgery as there’s no one around.

  Just as I’m locking up, the Reinholds greet me. Have they come to give me a present in gratitude? Because no matter how much punishment you take there’s always a part of you that’s hoping someone will walk in and hand you a fat cheque.

  They don’t look happy enough for my taste, and we have some pleasantries in the office before we get to the unzipping.

  “We’re grateful, we’re very grateful for your help, Tyndale.

  We don’t want you to think we’re ungrateful. And I know you’ll find this funny, but we need you to get Cosmo back.”

  I don’t find it funny at all. I’m not that angry because if you’re being burned at the stake, you don’t get that upset if someone in the crowd throws on another bit of kindling, though you might be surprised to see who’s throwing it.

  The Reinhold’s daughter has completely gone off the rails, her behaviour is even worse than before, so they want Cosmo back.

  There is only one question in life worth asking: is it written or not? Is there anything I can do to change my fortune or should I give up now? Are losers losers, or winners-in-waiting?

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  “I’ll do my best,” I say, because I want them gone. “But I can’t promise anything.”

  Reinhold leaves his newspaper behind. Out of a desire to escape my life, I pick it up. On the front page of the Miami Herald is a bizarre abduction story involving the Dade County Police Commissioner’s wife and teenage daughter. On a trip out to the Everglades, they were abducted by two powerfully built white males. Instead of being robbed or sexually assaulted as they feared, they were given spades and forced to dig holes for two days. Their abductors kept calling each other “Gammy”

  and “Musky”. I don’t bother reading the rest of the article.

  Never, never work with people.

  G

  I’m on the verge of getting comfortable with complete despair, when something good happens.

  While I’m handing out turkey subs to the homeless, the young guy, Fash, taps me on the shoulder and hands me my wallet, which must have fallen out of my pocket. It surprises and annoys me. It’s so inf
uriating when you’ve settled into a doctrine of perfect misanthropy to have your philosophy challenged in this way, because you start asking the questions again: is there good?

  You waste so much time thinking. One of the great strengths of religion is that it gives you answers, you’re ready with the thinking and saying. If nothing else it saves you so much time and energy. It’s like shopping: if you don’t know what you want you can spend the whole day looking at, say, trousers, whereas if you do you can buy them in ten minutes.

  And it is pointless. One man exhibiting decency on the street in Miami isn’t going to change anything. But you feel guilty, 134

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  you feel wrong about throwing away that act of decency, as if it doesn’t matter (although it doesn’t – does it?).

  Back at the church, before I can close the doors, a fifty-something woman slides in. This is the one of the dangers of offering help: the needy come and ask for it. The unneedy too.

  However, I feel better because it confirms my theory of swings and roundabouts. Someone hands me back my wallet, I get stuck with an irritating woman called Marysia.

  I don’t remember seeing her at any of our services, and let’s face it, worshippers aren’t hard to spot at the Church of the Heavily Armed Christ. My guess is she is here because all the other, better, proper churches have shown her the door.

  Everything about her is… irritating. She has a strange European accent, and emphasizes everything she says to underline how well she speaks English. Students of a language tend to fall into two main categories: the taxi-driver class where you have enough vocabulary to ask for the fare, and the show-off class.

  “I was driving by when I saw your Church abutting on the…”

  Abutting? When was the last time you heard anyone use the word abutting? Have I led a very sheltered life? Is abutting making a comeback?

  I check the clock when she arrives, because I intend to accord her ten minutes before claiming urgent prior commitments.

  When I repeatedly say things like “I must go” she ignores them so completely it’s evident she’s hardened to escape attempts.