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church next Sunday. She leaves her book for me to read, with a personal note inscribed on the frontispiece that drips and reeks of sexual innuendo, I convince myself. Dracula and Bradley leave with one more convert to Moronism as my sweet sister Josie runs to the bathroom to see if she has signs of advanced herpes. She takes a thirty-minute shower, throws up three times, and changes her clothes twice. And I form another deep connection between sex and organized religious fruitcakes! My little thigh still burns from the Moron flirt’s touch, and Woody will spill his beans later that evening with the memory of Dracula’s soft, warm hand still smoldering in his loins. Or certainly close to them. Horatiodamnit!!!

Bobby
    I am in a corner of the men’s room in the bar. I hit the “answer” button on my glowing cell phone . . .
    “Hey. How’d you like the Chuck Heston thing? Pretty cool, huh?”
    “What . . . ?”
    “What? What? What?!”
    “What . . . ?”
    “Okay, you need to expand your vocabulary.”
    “God?”
    “That’s a neat trick, yes? Did you freak out when you saw it? The white streak? How long before you made The Ten Commandments connection? I love that. You accept this whole ‘movie’ element that if you speak to me, your hair, beard—and possibly pubics—turn white. Hahaha. That’s a little wacky, but I get it. And the white stripe is a nice touch, I think, when you begin to doubt. Which you did. I was hoping you wouldn’t want to start your own church or shave your head or God knows what else.”
    “This is so not what I thought talking to God would be like. You sound like me. Or ‘me’ if I was, I don’t know, in charge and a bit drunk.”
    “But you are in charge.”
    “Well, no, I’m not.”
    “Well, yes, you are.”
    “This is surreal.”
    “Yes, it is.”
    “So you’re not mad? You’re not going to send a plague or something to kill me, right? Because I’m doing a little better now.”
    The bathroom is starting to empty at a much faster clip now that the occupants are catching on that I believe I’m actually talking to God about possibly killing me. I try to dial it down a little in intensity and volume. And I drop the surname . . . or Christian name . . . epithet . . . title . . . rank . . . whatever it is.
    “Yes, you are.”
    “And this isn’t some weird guy with a computer program orsomething that has information he shouldn’t have plus a great relationship with my phone service provider?”
    “What about the ‘Moses’ white-hair thingee?”
    “Okay, okay. I can’t even begin to process that yet.”
    “Have you had anything to drink?”
    “Wouldn’t you know that?”
    “Of course. I wanted to see if you’d try to sneak that one by me. There’s no point in talking to you people when you’ve had too much to drink.”
    “ ‘You people?’ That sounds so . . . I don’t know . . . callous. Like something I would say.”
    “You think?”
    “Where’s the burning bush? And how come you don’t sound all Godlike and imperious and infallible so that when we hear you speak we all just want to drop to our knees and honor and adore you? Really. What the hell?”
    “Adore me? Okay, how’s this . . .”
    The voice in my ear suddenly takes on a rich, sonorous quality. With a crapload of really cheesy echo. I think I detect an angelic choir humming angelically in the background. The whole thing sounds like some half-assed Oral Roberts program.
    “My son!! I am the Lord thy God. Prostrate thyself before me and pay homage to my magnificence, for I am the maker of all things in Heaven and upon the Earth. I demand thy obedience, thy supplication, and thy occasional contributions of hard-earned cash via televangelists with too much hair spray. Fear me!”
    One of the porcelain sinks in the now completely empty restroom explodes into flames, scaring the crap out of me. It burns with a ghostly purple/green fire like nothing I have ever