What in God's Name: A Novel (18 page)

“I’M NOT MAKING NEW SIGNS,” Raoul said.

“You don’t have to,” God promised. “The world’s not going to end anymore.”

Raoul groaned and rubbed his naked stomach. He was lying in the middle of a golf course, surrounded by empty bottles of MD 20/20.

“You should’ve told me yesterday,” he complained. “If I knew I was going to live till morning, I never would’ve hit that Taco Bell so hard.”

He wearily shook his head. “I ate bad things.”

God nodded sympathetically. “That’s on me,” he said. “I had to change my plans at the last second.”

“Why?”

“I lost a bet.”

Raoul nodded, satisfied with the explanation.

“I’m sorry, Raoul. It must be miserable having to stay down there.”

Raoul shrugged. “It’s not so bad. I kind of like it.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, it’s a good planet. You know what I like? The fruit.”

God blushed. “The fruit was my idea.”

Raoul nodded. “Thank you.”

God smiled cheerfully. “You’re welcome!”

He kicked his feet up on the desk and laughed. Maybe Raoul was right? Maybe Earth wasn’t as worthless as he thought? He’d never expected those losers in New York to hook up. But just as he was about to give his demolition order, Vince had drunkenly asked him to check on the two humans one last time. God almost choked on a nacho when he saw them sucking face in the middle of a sidewalk. It was a sloppy kiss—but a kiss all the same—and God had no choice but to call off the planet’s destruction. Part of him was disappointed, but another part was secretly relieved. There was a lot about mankind he would’ve missed.

“You know what?” he told Raoul. “I’ve got a message for the humans after all.”

Raoul whipped a Sharpie out of his underwear. “I’m on it.”

“I want you to make a big sign, your biggest one yet. And I want it to say, ‘God Loves You.’”

“That’s it?”

God nodded firmly. “That’s it.”

He smiled as his prophet copied the phrase onto a flattened cardboard box.  

“I’ll wave this in people’s faces,” Raoul said. “And, you know, scream at them and stuff.”

“That’s great,” God said. “You’re the best.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed his Rubik’s Cube, still lying in his wooden wastebasket.

He hesitated for a moment, then grabbed it.

“I can’t believe it,” Craig said to Vince. “Angel of the Month!”

“You deserve it,” Vince said. “That foul-ball miracle was really something.”

Craig thanked him and greedily opened his prize. A coupon fluttered out of the envelope, landing on his desk. He picked it up and read the text out loud.

“One half-price appetizer at Sola with the purchase of two entrées.”

He turned the coupon over and squinted at the fine print.

“‘Limit one per customer…meat appetizers excluded…expires in twenty-four hours.’”

He shrugged. “Guess I’ll go tonight?”

Vince laughed and unpacked his stapler. God had offered him a job managing reservations at Sola, but he’d turned it down. It’s not that he bore any ill will toward his boss; he was just sick of working with the guy. He wanted to do something challenging—something that mattered to him. He’d asked God if he could take over as CEO of Heaven Inc., but the old man wanted to keep the position, even if it was just an honorary title. After some thought, Vince decided to do the next best thing.  He demoted himself to Angel and rejoined the Miracles Department. He was taking over Brian’s old cubicle, just a few steps away from Craig.

“Holy shit,” he muttered, as he opened the filing cabinet. “This whole thing is full of bottles.”

Craig nodded. “Brian had a bad problem.” He shook his head wistfully. “I wonder where he is now.”

Vince cocked his head. “You haven’t heard? God promoted him to Archangel.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. Apparently they really bonded at that End of the World party. You’ll probably see him at Sola. He’s got a regular spot at the bar.”

Craig smiled. “Good for him. Hey, do you want to come with me tonight? I don’t think I can eat two whole entrées by myself.”

Vince chuckled. “You’re asking
me?
”

“Who else should I ask?”

Vince gestured subtly toward Eliza’s cubicle. She was hunched over her computer, finishing up a fishing miracle. Vince handed the coupon to Craig and nodded. “Don’t blow it.”

“Hey, congrats!” Eliza said. “That sounds like a pretty good prize.”

“Yeah, I know!” Craig said. “I mean, you know, it’s nothing to sneeze at.” He toed the carpet. “Anyway, I was wondering…” He looked around helplessly. “Uh…I was wondering if maybe you’d like to grab coffee sometime?”

She smiled gently at him. “Grab coffee?”

He looked down at his feet. “I mean…” He cleared his throat and looked into her eyes. “I mean, do you want to go on a date with me?”

She nodded. “That sounds like fun.”

He sighed gigantically. “Great! That’s great. So…when do you want to leave work?”

“How about right now?”

Craig laughed. “We can’t go
now.
I mean, look at Sam and Laura.”

He gestured at his screen: the two humans were sitting alone in their apartments, staring at their iPhones, each one waiting for the other to call.

“What if they screw it up?” Craig said. “What if they both chicken out and never call each other? What if, after everything we’ve done for them, they still manage to ruin it?”

Eliza shrugged. “It’s in their hands now.”

Craig looked into her eyes and smiled.

“You’re right,” he said, reaching for the off switch. “It’s in their hands.”

I first read the Bible in 1997, when I was studying for my bar mitzvah. It scared me so much that I pledged to keep kosher for the rest of my life. I kept the vow for nearly three days, when I accidentally ate a full rack of ribs. Since then, on some level, I’ve been waiting for God to kill me.

I want to thank Central Synagogue Hebrew School for forcing me to study Torah. They failed to turn me into an observant Jew, but they succeeded in turning me into a comedy writer.

My family also deserves a lot of the credit. I want to thank my mom (for letting me watch five episodes of
The Simpsons
every day for ten years); my dad (for buying me two separate Neil Simon anthologies when I was twelve); my stepmom, Alex (for getting me my first subscription to
Mad
magazine); Michael (for giving me
Catch-22
); Nat (for letting me steal the Philip Roth novels off his shelf); and my hilarious Grandma Nita (who introduced me to the phrase “What in God’s name!”).

Daniel Greenberg believed in this novel when nobody else did (including me). If it weren’t for his support and advice, there’s no way this book would exist.

Reagan Arthur drastically improved these pages with her shrewd critiques and brilliant suggestions.

Susan Morrison, my editor at
The New Yorker,
once casually suggested over lunch that I write a novel about God. I’m not sure if she remembers saying that. Anyway, Susan, here it is, five years later. Thanks for the idea!

I want to thank Lee Eastman, Patricia O’Hearn, Gregory McKnight, and everyone else at Allagash Industries for believing in all my crazy projects. I don’t know how I would survive without you.

And I want to thank Professor Kimberley C. Patton at Harvard Divinity School, whose fascinating courses first inspired me to write about angels.

Jake Luce, as usual, helped me enormously at every stage of the writing process. The day he stops reading my drafts is the day I stop writing books.

Thanks also to Dustin Lushing, Amelia Gonzalez, Marika Sawyer, John Mulaney, Seth Meyers, Lorne Michaels, Steve Higgins, Andrew Singer, Marlena Bittner, Sarah Murphy, Rebecca Gray, Anna-Marie Fitzgerald, Kathleen Hale, Peg Anderson, Melissa Fuller, Deborah Jacobs, Laura Tisdel, Peggy Leith Anderson, Jon Klemm, Erik Motyl, Montague Wines and Spirits, Pixar, and Tabasco sauce. You all helped in your own way.

Thanks to all my friends for putting up with me.

And thanks, above all, to my wonderful big brother Nat, who taught me everything I know about books, life, and baseball. This one’s for you.

Simon Rich has written comedy for
The
New Yorker,
Pixar,
Saturday Night Live,
McSweeney’s,
The Believer,
and various movie studios. He’s the author of two collections,
Free-Range Chickens
and
Ant Farm,
which was a finalist for the Thurber Prize for American Humor. His first novel,
Elliot Allagash,
was optioned for a film by Jason Reitman. Rich lives in Brooklyn.

Elliot Allagash

Free-Range Chickens

Ant Farm: And Other Desperate Situations