What in God's Name: A Novel Read Online Free PDF Page B

those prayers. I spent three years sorting them. He doesn’t have to answer them, but the least he can do is read them.”
    “Maybe you should go home? Get some sleep?”
    “I’m not tired,” she snapped, inserting a pinkie into her mouth.
    Craig felt a sudden bizarre urge to grab her hand so that she would stop biting her fingernails.
    “Wish me luck,” she said.
    There was nothing Craig could do. “Good luck,” he said miserably.
     
    God liked to drink beer out of a glass. He couldn’t put his finger on why. It’s not like the glass changed the way the beer tasted or made it any colder. There was just something classy about it, something dignified. It made you feel good about drinking beer, even if you were alone in your office and it was the middle of the workday.
    He topped off his drink and turned on his flat-screen TV. It felt like a good time to check in with his prophet. He found him by the side of a highway in Queens, waving a cardboard sign and wearing a suit made entirely of tinfoil.
    “Hey, Raoul,” God said. “How’s it hanging?”
    Raoul shrugged. “Low and lazy.”
    God laughed. “Cool outfit,” he said. “Is it all foil?”
    Raoul nodded. “It took six whole rolls. Everyone’s been calling me crazy. But I think they’re crazy.”
    God grinned. He loved Raoul’s attitude, the way he let things roll right off his back. He was glad he’d picked him to be this century’s prophet.
    “So what’s the word?” Raoul asked, taking out a fresh cardboard sign and a Sharpie.
    “What do you mean?”
    “What’s your message? For me to tell the other humans?”
    God looked down at his lap. He didn’t actually have a message for the humans right now. But he didn’t want to confess the truth—that he’d only phoned Raoul because he was lonely. He took a slow sip of beer, stalling.
    “‘The End Is Near,’ ” he said finally. “‘Repent.’ ”
    Raoul nodded. “I’ll write it on my sign.”
    “Great!” God said. “That’s great, Raoul. Take care.”
    He turned off the television and glanced at his watch. It was more than two hours until his afternoon meeting, and he had absolutely nothing to do. He picked up his Rubik’s Cube and fooled around with it for a bit. He was almost finished with the yellow side, but he couldn’t make any progress without messing up the red side. And he didn’t want to do that—the red side was the only one he’d finished. After a few frustrating minutes, he twisted the cube back the way it had been and tossed it onto his desk.
    God reclined listlessly in his chair. He couldn’t admit it to anyone, but lately he’d been feeling pretty down on himself. His numbers had been slipping for years. Yes, over 80 percent of humans still believed in him. But in some East Coast cities, he barely had a majority. The Archangels told him it was nothing to worry about, that these things were “cyclical,” but how could he trust them? They were just a bunch of slick-talking yes-men.
    He knew it was unhealthy, but sometimes he looked himself up on the computer to see what people were saying about him. It was terrible for his self-esteem, but he couldn’t stop himself. It was like trying not to scratch a scab; you could only fight the urge for so long. Sooner or later you had to see what was going on beneath the surface.
    He turned on his computer, took a swig of beer, and typed his name into the search box: G…O…D.
    Within seconds, he was watching a conversation in a dirty college dormitory.
    “If there is a God,” a girl human was saying, “like, sitting up there and watching all this on some cloud? Then he’s an asshole. ”
    A boy human nodded and handed her some marijuana, as if her comment was so clever it deserved a reward.
    God winced as the two humans laughed and then, inexplicably, began to make out. He knew they were young and immature and that he shouldn’t put any stock in their opinions. But he couldn’t help but feel hurt. An asshole? How