My good friend Marianne once asked me, “What is your definition of a perfect day?”
She was flipping through one of those women’s magazines, reading the questions of some quiz out loud. Kicked back on the couch, her bare feet dangling from the edge, me cross-legged on the floor.
It was one of those long weekends. We were just hanging out on a lazy afternoon, goofing off.
I looked up from my drawing. “My perfect day, huh?”
I thought for a moment and, with a very serious face, told her, “Well, my perfect day would consist of a Star Trek marathon, an enormous bottle of wine and a gorgeous chick beside me who just happens to love comic books.”
She laughed, told me I was a dork and laughed again. She knew all about my nerdy past: X-men T-shirts, favorite movie “Excalibur,” middle school Dungeons & Dragons tournaments.
For Christ’s sake. She knew all about me. We were very good friends and I will never forget her laugh.
But all these years later I remember that moment and think to myself, what would my perfect day be?
If I could tell her now, it would go something like this.
My perfect day:
Wake up and watch the sunrise. Then drink a Mimosa and hang-glide to the moon.
Paint the world’s most beautiful picture, compose the world’s most enchanting love song and write the world’s saddest, yet uplifting poem.
Then fly back to Earth and wait for God to show up at my dinner party.
Later that evening, at the party, I get God really drunk. Not just buzzed. I get God falling down, pig-shit, wasted.
By 10 p.m. the party is going full force. All my friends are there and God is shit faced.
He has already knocked over several liquor bottles on the buffet table, while raving about omnipotence. He is in the kitchen, slouched against the stove yelling at anyone who will listen. Bowls of pretzels are overturned while He is shouting about angels and pins.
People try to shy away from this loudmouth who keeps ranting about wrath and redemption. Some move into the front rooms to avoid God, some try to squeeze past Him, looking for the back door, to join the party in the courtyard.
But no matter how many people try to steer clear of God, the kitchen is always full. He has positioned Himself right between the snack table and the booze table. So … if you want more hummus or another glass of wine, ya gotta talk to God.
This goes on for quite some time, God stumbling every time He tries to lift himself from his chair to make another grand point. Many of the things He says seem quite profound, but it’s hard to tell. His topics of conversation are all over the board and he keeps repeating himself. He contradicts Himself frequently, as well.
God has just spilt red wine down the front of some girl’s white blouse while shouting about free will. It was an accident but this chick’s boyfriend is sooo ready to kick God’s ass.
“God” I say, ”come on, you’re drunk. Let me give you a hand.”
I put His arm over my shoulder and walk Him down the hall to my room. I plunk Him down in the chair next to the computer and I sit on the edge of my bed.
“So what’s up, God?” I say. “You have some explaining to do.”
“ Oh … ” God slurs. “Sorry about knocking those bottles over, I’ll clean it up.”
“No, not that,” I say. “I mean everything. You know. I mean like what’s up with war and famine and death? All this pain and suffering. Why do bad things happen to good people? I mean, what’s it all for?”
“What exactly do you mean, Adam?” God says quietly, sitting in the swivel office chair. He suddenly seems very sober.
I continue with my questions. “What’s it about. ‘The Meaning of Life.’ All that. I need to know that it isn’t all just pointless.” I try another angle. “We’re supposed to be friends, right? You are the ‘Compassionate God,’ the ‘Loving God.’ I need you to tell me the truth.”
God gives me a funny look. “Truth is, Adam, I know what you say about me when you think I’m not listening.”
I gasp, “What?? No, I would never say anything bad about you, God. We’re pals. Buddies.”
“Look,” God says, “hanging out with you is cool and all, but you are always giving me a bad rap behind my back. At the gallery thing the other month you basically told everyone I was just some lame-ass wallflower, kind of there in the background but never making a real impact on anything. After that poetry reading, last week, you went on and on about how I was, at best, a shoulder to cry on. Hell, just last Tuesday you said I didn’t even exist. Come on!”
I plead: “I just need to know what happens when we die. I just need to know what’s really going on.”
God stands up. He seems as powerful and glorious as I always imagined him in Sunday School. “The One True God.” “The One With The Answers.”
I look at him with child eyes.
“Adam, Adam, Adam,” God says, as He put his hands gently on my shoulders. “You want to know what’s really going on? Here’s what’s going on.”
He seems to glow with a divine light.
“Adam,” God says, as His face becomes almost too beautiful to look at, surrounded by a nimbus of Heavenly fire.
“Adam,” God says, as He looks into my soul.
“Adam,” God says, ”I’ve got another party to go to. It’s just up the road. I’ll catch you later, man.”
With that God walks out of my room and proceeds to stumble down the stairs to the front door. He manages to knock over two bicycles that are parked in the hallway and accidentally kicks over a half-empty beer bottle that someone had left on the bottom step.
As drunk as God is, though, he doesn’t slam the door. He closes it with a careful, quiet click. From my bedroom window I watch God stagger away up the street.
This dinner party did not go as planned. They never do.
They never do, when you try to plan them. When you try to think about it too much.…
My good friend Marianne once asked me, “What is your definition of a perfect day?”
If you can hear me Marianne …
My perfect day:
Was just hanging out on a lazy afternoon, goofing off.
Wow, God visits the vicious kitchen and nothing much has changed since the days of lolling about 916.