by Brock Rhodes
There is a man with no name. He was an abandoned baby, no one adopted him, and he never made up his own name. The government has been forced to take care of him for his entire life because no one would be foolish enough to hire him. His presence would cause any business to crumble. No one can stand him.
He's a liability because he's a sorry, grotesque sight for all who see him. The way he moves, the way he stands, the way he sits, the way he sounds, the way he is, his mere presence is hideous because of his legs. His mangled, popping, crippled legs are just too much to cope with for even those with the strongest of stomachs to bare. He's never had any friends, and at his adult age, he's never even had the most innocent of girlfriends. No one wants to look at him, and touching him is out of the question. He's lived a life of rare and disappointing contact, alone, miserable, inescapably alone.
Several times he's asked himself, “What did I do to deserve this?”
He has never done anything to anyone. He's been categorized by random children who were forced to be in the same room as him while he developed, grew up, as a “gentle freak” who isn't so bad as long as "you don't look at him or hear him move." He's harmless. He's never stolen anything. He refuses to kill even the most annoying of bugs, who, at least, don't seem to judge him so harshly. He never even swears.
So the only answer he has found for his most persistent question is, “I was born.”
The only window of his entire house is the peep hole of his front door, which he checks, just in case, at random but expected cues.
A woman screams outside, “Somebody help! Somebody please help! There is a bleeding baby in the street!”
He discovers the woman conveniently in the range of his limited view with her back to him, and what appears to be a bleeding baby lying helpless on its back in the traffic free street.
He clears his throat to make way for his rarely used voice and yells, politely, “I'm sorry, but I've already tried to tell you several times that you're wasting your time. I think this is the fourth time someone's tried to trick me with the bleeding baby in the street scenario. It is a nice touch that I can see the woman this time. However, I notice that her back is to me and far enough away that if I come out she can run off before she has to see me. It's just not going to work. I've seen it all. Again, I must politely decline. Y'all have a nice day.”
The woman screams again, “This is an emergency! There is a bleeding baby in the street! It'll die if no one will help!”
He yells again, “Yes, I know you're going to say this is serious. I'd really rather not waste your time going through this again. The whole back and forth will just end up at the same end. I'm not doing it. Sorry. I'm leaving now and I'm not going to respond any more today.”
He gazes for a few more moments at the woman, studying her as best he can in this, very good, brief and distant encounter. He wonders if she would have looked at him if he had come out, because he would expose himself to the same tired proposal if she would, just to test her face. Throughout his study, she never moves her head in order to keep from looking in an unfortunate direction if he were to come out, and he knows it's best just to give up. So, he does, and uses his horrible legs to do whatever they do that he calls walking through his dark home, world, into his kitchen to find a snack in the packages of food he pays to have mailed to him.
A man outside screams, “Fellow citizen, please reconsider.”
He answers, “I can't.”
“Think of all the money.”
“It's just not worth it. I'm sorry. Think of yourself in this situation. Would you do it?”
“Yes, I'd be a fool not to.”
“You're only saying that because you're not in this situation.”
“Oh, come on. I can relate.”
“If you can, then tell me what it's like to be me. If you can do it, then I'll accept your offer.”
He feels the time of the pause, a little longer than usual.
The voice from out side concedes, “Okay. I'll come back when you're feeling better. Until then, please don't go outside.”
“I'm sorry about that. I try not to go outside much, but sometimes I feel like I have to or I'll lose my mind.”
“But others can see you.”
“I know. I try to do it at times when no one should be around, but sometimes they are. I'm not trying to trap anybody. It just happens sometimes. I can't say I won't ever go outside. I can't promise that. It may happen because of something beyond my control. I could go crazy again. But, I can promise that I'll try for as long as I can to not go outside.”
The muffled voice from the outside fades away in mumbles, and is replaced by the most powerful voice in the universe, “Are you decent?”
“I'll be decent as soon as I can, God.”
He hurries in an indescribable motion to a chair that God has made him. God has asked him to sit there while they talk so it can cover him well enough for God to face him.
“I'm ready.”
God attacks in his most booming of voices, “You know I can eliminate people from existence? Do you have any respect for that?”
“I know you can, God. But how can I exist without my legs?”
“You'll still exist with different legs.”
“But I'll be different. I'll no longer be me. I've never had any other legs. These legs are me. Everything I am is about these legs. I am what I am, and I'm a good person. No matter what, I will always be with myself as long as I am who I am, and this is who I am, and I have to protect myself the best I can.”
“Even with your life the way it is? You're lonely. You're miserable. No one could ever possibly love you. No woman would touch you, even for the novelty or charity. No one can stand you. You can't leave your home or be in the presence of others.”
“My life and my legs are both mine, and I wouldn't be me if either were different. If I have them both, I am still me. Myself is all that I have, and I have to do what I can to protect it. I'm sorry.”
God exhales.
He asks, trying not to sound too concerned, “How are you doing, God?”
“I don't know what else I can do. I need to do something about your legs, but I can't bring what you feel is harm to you. You are a good man, the most pure and most kind of all of my creations. You've never told a lie. Why have never even blamed me?”
“You created the universe. You're the reason I am here, but what could you have done after was born? I could never blame you because I don't know what you could have done. I was already me.”
God pitches, “I've offered you all the wealth and all of the love in the universe before and you declined. And now I offer the only offer I have left to give. If you ask me to fix your legs, I'll make you God.”
“What do you mean I'll be God?”
“You will be God.”
“What will happen to you?”
“I will be God.”
“We'd both be God?”
“You would be God.”
“So, we would both be God?”
“You would be God.”
He ponders for awhile, and decides that he can't make sense of the offer, but that it also doesn't matter. “I'm sorry, God. I'm not sure what you mean, but if you changed my legs I would not be God, because I wouldn't have my legs. It works out the same. I still wouldn't be me anymore. If I become God, I wouldn't exist because I wouldn't have my legs. I have to decline your offer, sorry.”
Frustrated, God argued, “I don't have any legs and I exist.”
“But you were born without your legs.”
God pondered a moment and concluded, “Good point.”
The presence of God disappears, and he returns to the kitchen to get his snack wondering if no one really thinks about things the way he does.
SPOON