A Handicap of the Devil? (9 page)

Eastman walked out of the room and finished his lunch at his desk.

Jonathan persevered with the rest of them ... until one of the office girls burst into tears. She was pre-menstrual that day and had to be comforted by two of the older women. Jonathan retreated from the lunchroom, whistling tunelessly in his confusion.

An hour later, he was called into Jones P. senior's office. When people were called into the presence of the great man, they quaked. It was never good news to be carpeted by the boss, and it had occasionally resulted in people returning to the main office clutching pink slips.

As Jonathan stood nervously on the carpet in front of Jones P. senior's desk, the corpulent, red-faced owner of the business stared at him from under fat and pudgy eyelids. His eyes were half closed, and smoke from his cigar slowly seeped out of his nose. He silently surveyed Jonathon for a moment before speaking.

"Stop that tuneless whistling."

"Oh, thank you. Sorry, sir. I didn't realise...."

His boss waved his cigar to cut the apology. “You've worked here for quite a while, haven't you?"

His voice was soft and oily and somehow reminded Jonathan of a snake. “Forty-three years, thank you, sir."

"You must have started here soon after the business opened."

"Almost from day one, sir,"

"You obviously like working here."

"Yes, thank you, sir."

"You want to keep on working here?"

"Yes, sir, very much so, thank you."

"Then you will have to stop bringing your strange religious beliefs into the office and sharing them with people.... Alright?"

"If I could just make you see what's going on, sir. I have a message from God and...."

Jones P. senior nearly choked on his cigar. “Yes, I'm sure you have, and you can tell anyone you like—when you're not here at work—
but leave the staff alone
if you wish to continue in your employment. One more word, and I'll give you your week's notice. That is not negotiable."

"I see."

"You can't have all that long to go until retirement."

"About eight-and-a-half months, sir, thank you."

"Well, as this firm has taken your entire working life, you don't want to finish on bad terms, do you?"

"No sir."

"Just keep your opinions to yourself and do your job, and in eight months time, we'll give you the gold watch and a great party for a send off.... Okay?"

"Yes, sir."

"Now off you go, back to work, and let's hear no more of this nonsense."

"Yes, sir ... thank you, sir."

Jones P. senior allowed himself the luxury of a smile as he watched his humble and wretched accountant close the door.
What was God thinking? Deputising a wimp like Jonathan to carry his message.
He half-longed for a more formidable opponent to make the coming struggle more interesting.
It's a bit like beating up your kid sister.
He laughed out loud at the thought.

Jonathan's meek habits of a lifetime had reasserted themselves whenever he was confronted by authority. He went back to his desk and wondered for the rest of the day what God would think of his reaction. Would God expect him to stand up and insist that he had the message he'd said he had...?
And should I try harder to get people like Jones P. senior to accept that message?
He didn't know, and because he didn't know, he was miserable.

It was proving difficult to get anyone to believe him. He had not been born in a stable with a star overhead to guide people to him.

That was obviously easier.

He broke Jones P. senior's taboo and told several other people of his mission that afternoon. The woman delivering computer supplies ran out of the room ... and the cleaner, whom he saw as he went down the hallway to the men's toilet, failed to reply and moved quickly away—crossing herself as she went. It was impossible.

He sat gloomily in one of the toilet stalls and thought deeply. The toilet was one of Jonathan's favourite places while he was at work. In the dark little cubicle, he could be totally alone with his thoughts.
How can I fulfil my mission?
Every time he mentioned the subject to anyone they treated him as if he were insane.

A bright light appeared on the stall door and God's face swam into view. “Hey man, I've been watching you,” boomed the voice. “You're not much use, are you?"

This simply reinforced Jonathan's long-held view of himself, but he thought it prudent to change the subject. “I thought you were only going to communicate with me through the rabbits."

"I'm the man, man. The cool dude in the curved shades and the psychedelic caftan. I'm allowed to make exceptions. After all, I'm not God for nothing.... You've got to get out there and hustle, man. Lay it on them like real heavy, dig?"

"That's easy for you to say. You're God.... Everyone thinks I'm a nutter."

"Hey, you ever thought you just might be talking to the wrong cats?"

"Who do you suggest I talk to?"

"Try the church leaders. They might be cool with it.... What about your prime minister? The state premier? Business leaders? The top cats out there...? You know the scene better than I do."

Jonathan was sure he heard St. Peter's laugh in the background. “What do I say to them? ... ‘Hi. I've got a message from God'?"

"What's uncool about that?"

"No one will believe it, that's what's uncool ... wrong about it. I don't have any way to convince people."

"You must have faith, my son. Faith can move mountains."

"I've heard that, but I've never seen it."

"It's a metaphor, you idiot. What do you think would happen if we had dozens—or perhaps thousands—of people who really believed, people who really had faith, going around moving mountains? We'd never know where our mountains were, would we? How would you like it if Everest finished up in your back yard...? No, believe strongly and all will be well. That's what it means. Keep the faith, and stay cool. It's up to you."

Jonathan realized that God dropped the hip language when he was upset. “Alright, I'll keep trying."

"That's the spirit. St. Peter and I are right behind you. If you ever really need to talk, just groove along here, and we'll chew the fat."

"Thank you.... I usually come here once a day."

"Not the toilet, you idiot. Here ... in heaven."

This time St. Peter's laugh was loud and clear.

"Don't I have to be dead to do that?"

"That's the usual scene, yeah, but there is one other way known to very few people."

"Another way?"

"In certain buildings ‘round the world there are elevators which are out of order all of the time. Whenever you see an elevator that is not working, rest easy that there is a hidden control panel—which is operated by a key. Inside that panel, there are two buttons—one for up and one for down. Press the ‘up’ button if you want to see me. On no account should you press the ‘down’ button.... Are you hip to the max with that?"

"I think so, but how do I find the control panel? ... And where is the key?"

There was a short pause and sounds of a filing cabinet opening and closing filled the stall. Several desk drawers were opened and slammed shut. Then the image on the door vanished for a moment, and Jonathan faintly heard God's testy voice in the background. “Peter, where's the worldwide list of elevator key locations? I was looking at it early last century. I know the thing is here somewhere."

Jonathan heard the filing cabinet open again and a rustling of celestial papers, then God's image returned, his voice back to its normal booming volume. “Ah, here it is. Updated only last month. Peter is one deeee—cide—edly efficient cat. Let me see ... the key to your groovy elevator is on the shelf above the window in the gents you happen to be in at the moment. You'll see the keyhole in the elevator just below the ordinary control panel. Like all of the inoperative elevators in the world, your lift isn't supposed to go anywhere else than up here—or down
there
—where the cats are uncool."

"It went for a little while yesterday."

"Yeah, man, one of our heavenly technicians had to crash stop that thing. We were in a pink funk when we thought we'd have that fat lady sashayin’ up here with all her fruit."

"I see."

"Can you imagine it? We got Paradise up here. The elevator doors open and presto—one fat lady arrives and heaven smells like hell."

"I can imagine it. Down here our office smells worse than the toilet."

"It looked as though she must have found the key. Silly thought. What would she have been doing in the male loo? No, the real up button worked somehow. We had to disconnect it yet again after that repair dude fixed it."

"I suppose you do have your problems."

"Hey, hey, hey, you have no idea how difficult it is organizing the universe. Well, must be off. Keep that chin up, man, and soldier on."

God's face faded from the back of the door and was gone.

Jonathan flushed the toilet, pulled up his pants and stepped outside.
In Sunday School, they said ‘God is watching you everywhere’ ... but I didn't believe it! They also had the picture of God all wrong. If they knew what he was really like, they'd throw away the old hymns and play Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd and the Rolling Stones in church.

Eastman was standing at the sink washing his hands. He looked at Jonathan with a half pitying, half-sardonic look. “Talking to yourself, Goodfellow?"

"Uh, sort of."

"Not talking to God by any chance? I thought only your rabbits did that...? You're not well, are you?"

"I'm fine, thank you."

"Why don't you ask the boss for some time off. Go away for a while. Take a break. We all suffer from stress sometime or other."

"Thanks for your concern, but I'm fine. Can I tell you something?"

"No, no you can't.” Eastman beat a hasty retreat.

Jonathan dried his hands and then went to the ledge over the window. Sure enough, the key was there, just as God had said it would be. It looked as if it had been there for a long time, and he carefully washed the dust and grease off it, then dried it on a paper towel. He wasn't sure, but he thought he heard St. Peter's clipped, slightly nasal voice softly say, “well done.” He carried the key down the stairs and, making sure that there was no one in the lobby, pressed the button to open the elevator doors.

It was dark inside the lift, and he had to go down on his knees to find the keyhole by touch. It was there, and the key slid smoothly into the lock. He opened the panel and a light came on to reveal two buttons—one with an arrow pointing up and the other pointing down. Frank Sinatra's voice began to croon through the speakers. Jonathan touched the up button and considered pushing it, but decided not to.
After all, I've just seen God. What more do I have to say to him right now?

He went back to work but still couldn't settle. He had never been faced with questions and problems of anywhere near the magnitude he now faced.

Jones P. junior called him in towards the end of the day. While Jonathan stood in front of the younger man's desk, Jones P. junior stared at his computer terminal. “Your work's going to the dogs. What have you actually achieved today? First of all, you come in late. Now it's knock-off time, and according to what I see on this screen, you've done bugger all.” Jones P. junior paused and glared at Jonathan. “Just lift your game around here, that's all.” Junior tried hard to look as mean as his father, but it didn't quite come off. There was a nice person inside him struggling to get out. “Shape up, or ship out.” Jones P. junior was big on platitudes.

Jonathan listened to the words.
Lift my game? Ship out?
It reminded him of God's instructions to ‘move mountains'. He wondered if Jones P. junior might be a distant relation to God—somewhere along the line—but decided that was not possible.
Not if Jones P. junior is descended from Jones P. senior.

He decided not to attempt to turn Jones P. junior into a disciple ... for the time being.

God could never be accused of being an unthinking God. He thought deeply about what Jonathan had said about needing miracles to convince people that Jonathan was the Messiah. But God was not a happy God after his talk with Jonathan in the Gent's loo at Jones P. & Son. “It seems to me, Peter, that my management style is being severely questioned by my ... my ... what's that confounded word again?"

"Messiah.” Peter smiled a thin and humourless smile. God was rattled and that meant that he wouldn't try his hippie lingo—at least for awhile. “You should know the word. After all, wasn't your son a Messiah?"

"Of course he was. That is, I was. He is Me, after all."

Peter sighed. “Quite so. I've never fully understood that trilogy thing. You must explain it to me again."

"Not now. I'm too busy trying to think through this problem. Why can't he just get it together by himself?"

"He is but a mere mortal, sire."

"I am well aware of that.” God wanted an ordinary, mortal man to be able to convince people that
the truth
was as it was.... That
their
God did indeed exist and would look after the people of the world—if said people of the world would stop pillaging, raping and killing each other and generally being vile. No, He didn't want to grant miracles to Jonathan as a way of convincing doubting humanity. The equation seemed simple enough to him.

"If you believe in me then you must believe in miracles, Peter. Does that not make sense to you?"

Peter nodded and smiled.

"In that case, does it not follow that if you believe in miracles—and believe that I work in mysterious ways—that I might choose to deputise someone to bring a message of hope to the world? A message that people must reform. Must choose the paths of truth and light over the paths of darkness? What's so hard about that?” What's....

Peter held up his hands to interrupt God's flow of words. “What's hard about it? You choose the meekest mildest man who ever lived and ask why it's hard for him? Can you imagine Jonathan Goodfellow chucking the moneychangers out of the temple...? No, you can't. When Jesus ... you ... whichever one of you or all three of you went down last time to do the Messiah thing, that being could change water into wine, make a few loaves and fishes go a long way, walk on water. You're asking this guy to reform the world, but he hasn't got the tools to do it with."