What in God's Name: A Novel (17 page)

“Oh no,” he said. “Oh, crap.”

“What?” Eliza demanded. “What’s wrong?”

Craig shook his head in misery. “I think Sam’s about to dance.”

Sam rocked unsteadily to his feet, nearly spilling his fourth Lemondrop of the evening.

“I can’t believe you picked Ace of Base!” he shouted. “They’re, like, my all-time favorite group!”

Laura beamed. “Really? You like them?”

“I
love
them!”

He wobbled toward the jukebox and began to move to the music, thrusting out his groin in time with the beat. He gyrated for a minute, clapping his hands at random intervals. When the song reached the chorus, he spun around in a tight circle, pointing and winking at imaginary people.

“I saw the sign,”
he sang atonally.
“It opened up my eyes, I saw the sign!”

“I’m going to start a fire,” Craig said.

“You can’t!” Eliza protested. “The kitchen’s full of workers—they’ll be engulfed in flames!”

“I don’t care who dies,” Craig said. “This needs to stop right now.”

Eliza faced the screen. Sam was punching the air with his fists now, shaking his hips in time with the music. Every few beats, he stretched out his palm and playfully slapped his buttocks.

“You’re right,” she muttered.

Craig grabbed the keyboard and typed in a fire code, pressurizing the oven past capacity. It was about to burst into flames when Vince grabbed his elbow.

“Wait!” He pointed at the screen. “Look.”

The Angels realized with shock that Laura had joined Sam on the dance floor. Her palms were stretched to the ceiling in a “raise the roof” pose, and her head was shaking spastically to the beat.

“Holy shit,” Eliza said. “She’s just as bad as he is.”

They leaned back in their chairs and watched with amazement as the humans circled one another, mirroring each other’s terrible movements. Their dancing was flawed in all the same ways. And even though neither could follow the song’s rhythm, their limbs twitched in time with each other’s.

When the final chorus began, Laura mimed a microphone with her fist and held it up to Sam’s face. He grabbed her wrist and sang terribly into her fingers. The song ended and they burst into laughter, oblivious to the stares of the regulars and the bartender’s sarcastic applause.

“Want to get out of here?”
Laura asked breathlessly.

Sam’s smile faded and the blood drained from his face. “Okay,” he said.

She headed for the door, and he followed her out into the night.

Craig turned to his colleagues, his eyelids twitching with anxiety.

“What do we do now?” Eliza asked.

“We watch,” he said.

A large crashing noise rang out from the break room, followed by a rowdy cheer. “Sweet Home Alabama” was playing on a continuous loop, and whenever the opening guitar riff sounded, the entire party burst into uproarious applause.

“Everybody get naked!” Brian was chanting, his voice somewhat hoarse from screaming.
“Naked!”

Craig opened a new window and typed in a search for God’s prophet, Raoul. He found him at a Taco Bell in Flushing. He was sitting alone at a booth, staring at an enormous pile of food. He’d bought over a dozen tacos, along with a family-size tub of nachos, and some kind of chocolate gordita. The Angels watched as the prophet took his Timex off his wrist. He placed the watch beside his soda, reached for a plastic fork, and calmly began to eat.

“Oh my God,” Eliza whispered. “Is he…?”

Craig nodded. “He’s having his last meal.”

Craig zoomed out from the Taco Bell, and then from Flushing, and then New York until the continent began to take shape: the jagged Eastern Seaboard, the murky ocean, the hazy wisp of atmosphere overhead. Soon they could see the entire planet, a bluish ball, splotched with green, studded with shimmering cities.

Craig clicked his mouse, zooming in tight on the Lower East Side. The humans had just left Last Call. It was 11:06 p.m.

“Come on,” he whispered at the screen. “Come on, you guys. Don’t blow it.”

Sam and Laura stood outside Last Call, awkwardly avoiding eye contact.

“I usually go this way,” Sam said. “What about you?”

“Same,” she lied.

“Great!” Sam said, a little too loudly. “That’s great!”

They moved slowly down the avenue, staying about two arms’ lengths apart. Sam realized with terror that they were already at Delancey Street. If he was going to kiss her, he’d have to do it in the next three blocks.

“I’m glad it stopped snowing,” he said.

Laura laughed as if he had made a joke. “Me too!”

They came to a halt at a traffic stop. It occurred to Sam that this was a perfect opportunity to make his move, but just then the light turned green. They trudged on wearily through the night.

Laura reached into her pocket for some mints and realized with panic that she’d left them at the bar. Her breath was almost certainly terrible.

Sam was also thinking about his breath. There was a pack of gum inside his coat. But in which pocket? He was debating whether or not to search for it when he realized they were already at his apartment.

“Is this your place?” Laura asked.

“Yeah,” Sam said, pointing stupidly at the number on his awning. “Ninety-three Ludlow!”

He could feel a few cold drops of sweat stabbing through the pores in his armpits. Before going out, he had made his bed for the first time in weeks, on the off chance that he might somehow convince Laura to come back to his apartment. He couldn’t face that bed alone, with its absurdly folded blanket and painstakingly fluffed pillows. It would be too much to bear. He had to at least kiss her, or he would never forgive himself. The conditions were perfect: a breeze in the air, a moon overhead—there was no excuse to fail.

But then he thought about how drunk he was and wondered if he was imagining things. What if Laura’s flirtatious grin was merely a polite smile? What if he swooped in for a kiss and she started to laugh—or recoiled in disgust! If the kiss was unwanted, she could technically charge him with assault. That was unlikely, he realized, but fully within her rights as a woman. It didn’t seem worth the risk.

“Well, hey,” he stalled. “It was really cool hanging out with you.”

“Yeah,” Laura said. “I had a great time.”

She thought about grabbing his face and pulling it down to hers, but she’d never done anything like that before. Besides, it was increasingly clear he wasn’t interested in her. If he were, he would have made a move by now.

“So,” she said, “I guess…I’ll see ya?”

“Yeah!” he said. “Yeah…I’ll see ya.”

They shook hands stiffly and went their separate ways. They were both disappointed, but only slightly. After all, it was just one night. They’d have other chances. It wasn’t the end of the world.

Craig stared numbly at the screen as the humans parted ways. Vince patted him on the shoulder and rose to his feet.

“Well, fellas,” he said. “It was nice working with you.”

“Where are you going?” Eliza asked him.

“The party,” Vince said. “It sounds like a real rager.”

He took off his pants and headed for the break room.

Eliza sat in her swivel chair and sidled up to Craig.

“There’s still forty minutes left,” she told him. “That’s enough time to try something.”

Craig shook his head, his eyes fixed on the screen. “It’s hopeless.”

Eliza raised her eyebrows in disbelief. “I never thought I’d hear you say that.”

Craig shrugged. “Me neither.”

She was about to squeeze his shoulder when a crashing noise distracted her.

“Oh no,” she whispered. “Look.”

She pointed down the hall. God was wobbling out of the bathroom, trying to find his way back to the party. Craig averted his eyes; he was in no mood for a conversation with his boss. But the old man quickly spotted him and came over to say hello.

“Big day tomorrow!” he said. “You as jazzed as I am?”

Craig nodded wearily.

“We’re starting a restaurant,” God proudly told Eliza.

“I’ve heard,” she said.

“Let’s see what you guys are working on,” God mumbled, throwing his arms around them for support.

“Oh!” he said, peering at the screen. “That thing.”

He shook his head and laughed. “Why do you guys work so hard? What’s that
about?
”

Eliza shrugged. “We like doing it.”

God smiled, genuinely moved.

“You know what?” he said. “You’re good people.”

“I guess that makes sense,” Eliza said. “We got into heaven, right?”

God squinted at her, confused. “What do you mean?”

Eliza shrugged. “Just, you know, you picked us to get into heaven. So we must be good people.”

God laughed. “That’s not what it’s based on.”

“It’s not?”

“Nah.”

“So…what is it?” Craig asked. “What’re the criteria?”

“You guys don’t know?”

“Just tell us,” Eliza said.

God smiled. “It’s rock skipping.”

Craig and Eliza nodded, waiting for God to elaborate. But he didn’t seem to think he needed to.

“What are you talking about?” Craig asked eventually.

“You’ve got to get seven skips,” God explained. “On any one throw.”

Eliza turned pale. “That’s it? Just skip a rock seven times and you’re in? That’s
all?
”

“What do you mean, ‘that’s all’?” God said. “Rock skipping is hard. Almost no one gets to seven skips.”

“Seven skips,” Craig repeated in a dazed monotone. “Unbelievable.”

“Well, for women it’s five,” God said. “You know, so it’s fair. They’ve got weaker arms.”

Craig shook his head, stunned. “Why didn’t you base it on something
important?
”

God stared at him blankly. “Like what?”

“I don’t know. Like, righteousness? Or courage, or faith…”

“I thought about making it something like that,” God said. “But those things are too hard to measure. Like, how can you tell how righteous someone is? It’s not something you can just add up. With rock skipping, though, you can be like, ‘Hey, that was four skips.’ Or ‘That was eight skips.’ It works.”

“What about disabled people?” Eliza asked. “They’re just fucked?”

God shook his head. “Wheelchair people can skip rocks,” he said. “Maybe it’s a little harder for them to get leverage, but I’ve seen some make it work.”

“What about landlocked people?” Craig asked. “People who live in places without water—like Nepal or New Mexico?”

God thought about that for a moment.

“They’re fucked,” he admitted.

In the distance, the opening chords of “Free Bird” blared through a giant loudspeaker.

“Oh, man!” he said. “That’s my jam. I gotta go.”

He bounded toward the break room.

“See you at Sola, Greg!”

Craig and Eliza didn’t speak for a few minutes. Eventually, their silence was interrupted by a beeping sound.

Eliza smiled bitterly.

“Look,” she said, pointing at Craig’s monitor. “A Potential Miracle in Miami.”

Craig did not respond.

“Hey, listen,” she said. “I’m sorry things didn’t work out. But at least you tried. That took real confidence.”

Craig started to thank her, but the words got caught in his throat.

“Well, anyway,” she said. “It was really nice working with you.”

She awkwardly thrust out her hand; he shook it.

Craig watched in silence as she packed her bag and headed toward the elevators. Then he turned back toward his computer. He was about to turn it off when he stopped himself. There was still about half an hour left. He might as well enjoy it.

Beto Lloreda Jr. sat in the right-field stands, working the bottom of a jumbo-sized Cracker Jack box. The Marlins were trailing 12–4 in the seventh, and his father was clamoring for them to leave so they could beat the postgame traffic. Beto stood on his chair to get one last good look at the field. Miami was down to its final strike of the inning, with no runners on and the pitcher up to bat.

“Come on,” Beto Sr. said, snapping his fingers impatiently. “Come
on.
”

Beto Jr. reluctantly took his dad’s hand. His Marlins jersey, caked with sticky crumbs, hung down past his knees.

“Can I bring the Cracker Jacks?”

Beto Sr. shook his head. “It’ll make a mess in the car.”

The boy hung his head in disappointment. He was rooting around for a final handful when he heard the crack of a bat, followed by a rising commotion all around him.

“Look out!” someone shouted. “Kid, look out!”

He tilted his head up and watched in shock as the foul ball hooked wildly toward him. For a moment he stood motionless, too frightened to move an inch. But a second before contact, his instincts kicked in and he held the box up to shield his face. He closed his eyes, bracing himself for injury. He heard a muffled thud—then an eerie silence. When he finally opened his eyes, the stadium erupted in applause.

Beto reached into his Cracker Jack box and pulled out the baseball, still warm from its collision with the bat. Then he stood on his chair, held it above his head, and basked in the cheers of thousands.

Craig watched as Beto Sr. lifted his son onto his shoulders and carried the young hero out of the stadium. The Jumbotron broadcast their entire exit, even after the game resumed and the pitcher popped out to center field.

Craig laughed out loud as the Lloredas made their way to the parking lot, slapping strangers’ hands and posing for the occasional picture. They were almost at their car when Craig reached for the power switch.

“See ya,” he whispered.

He closed his eyes as the screen went black.

“IS IT TOO LATE?” SAM demanded, his voice thick with anguish. “Please, tell me it’s not too late.”

There was dead silence on the other line. Sam closed his eyes, bracing himself for rejection.

“I know I made a mistake,” he continued. “I waited too long. I’m sorry—really, really sorry. I just…it would be so amazing if you could come over.”

“Apologize first,” Raj demanded. “Apologize for calling so late.”

“I apologize!” Sam cried earnestly. “I lost track of time.”

Raj hesitated. “I have no puri left—only naan.”

“That’s fine,” Sam assured him. “I’ll take anything!”

“Okay,” Raj said. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

Sam thanked him profusely and hung up the phone, relieved that the night’s crisis had been averted.

Laura was taking off her jeans when she felt her cell phone vibrate. She rummaged through her pocket, hoping it was Sam—a text message, maybe, wishing her good-night. But it was just an unknown number with a Staten Island area code.

“I win the prize?” an older man asked her.

“Which prize?” she answered, her voice soft with disappointment.

“Jets tickets.”

Laura looked at her cell phone. It was 11:41 p.m. She thought about sending Sam a text saying she’d had fun. But what would that accomplish? Besides, he was probably asleep by now. She didn’t want to wake him up.

“Hello?” the man said. “Lady?”

She glimpsed her reflection in her laptop, and the sight was so humiliating she had to close her computer. She hadn’t worn makeup for weeks until today and the sight of her rouged cheeks made her cringe. There was nothing more depressing than wasted cosmetics.

“Lady?” the man repeated.

“No,” she whispered. Her voice was so small the man couldn’t hear her.

“What?”

“No,” she said. “You lost. In fact, the contest is over.”

“Really?”

“Yes, we’re not doing the prizes anymore, so you can stop calling. I’m sorry to tell you this, I just don’t want you to get your hopes up anymore. There aren’t any more prizes.”

“Jesus. Lady, are you okay?”

Laura realized with shock that she was crying.

“Honey,” the man said, in as gentle a voice as he could muster. “It’s no big deal. I don’t even like the Jets.”

“I’m really sorry,” she repeated, before turning off her phone. “See ya.”

“Is not healthy,” Raj warned as he counted out Sam’s change. “One dinner should be enough for one man.”

“This is my first dinner,” Sam said. “Actually—it’s my first meal all day. If you don’t count bar nuts.”

Raj crinkled his massive eyebrows. “Bar?”

Sam blushed. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I went on a date. Well, you know, it was just going to be coffee. But it kind of turned into a date. I think.”

For the first time in their relationship, Raj’s lips curled into a smile.

“Describe the girl.”

“Come on, Raj…”

He reached for his dinner—and Raj pulled the bag out of reach.

“
Describe
her,” he commanded.

Sam reluctantly told him about Laura—how they’d met, how he’d run into her at the Apple Store, how they’d danced and laughed and almost kissed.

“I really like her,” he said.

“And how does she respond?” Raj demanded, his voice loud and resonant. “When you make your advances?”

Sam laughed. “I don’t know,” he said. “I’ve never exactly made an ‘advance.’”

“Do it now.”

Sam laughed again and reached for his food. Raj yanked the bag out of reach.

“You love this girl,” he said. “Admit this.”

Sam sighed.

“Okay,” he said. “I admit it.”

“Then you must make an advance,” Raj said. “Or else I will not serve you.”

Sam clenched his fists and stamped his right foot like a frustrated child.

“This isn’t funny,” he cried. “I’m
really
hungry.”

Raj’s eyes narrowed. “My mind is stone.”

Sam threw up his hands in frustration. “Fine!” he said. “Fine. I’ll send her a text.”

“What is ‘text’?” Raj asked, spitting out the unfamiliar word with disgust.

“It’s how people communicate now.”

“Is not how a
man
communicates.”

“Okay,” Sam muttered. “Jesus! I’ll call her. I’ll ask her if she wants to go out again.”

“That is not good enough.”

Sam took a swipe at Raj’s bag, and Raj slapped his palm with a surprising amount of force.

“You must do it in person.”

“She’s probably asleep by now!”

“You must try. Or else no food. No vindaloo, no naan…” His eyes narrowed. “No sauces, green or red.”

Sam shook his head wearily. He was so weak from hunger he could barely keep his head up, and his brain was still foggy from all the gin.

“I’m not even wearing pants.”

Raj folded his arms and squinted. “It is time to put them on!”

Sam staggered up Ludlow, buckling his pants as he walked. After a few minutes of rigorous debate, he’d agreed on a compromise with Raj. He’d walk to Laura’s awning and send her a text message. (“It’s like a telegram,” he’d insisted to Raj.) If Laura was still awake, he’d ask her to come downstairs and say hello. Otherwise, he’d walk straight home. Either way, the food was complimentary, along with two complimentary servings of garlic naan for his efforts.

It was such a short walk he hadn’t bothered to put on his coat. But as he trudged through the October night, he began to regret his decision. The light snowfall—already odd for this time of year—had escalated into another blizzard. He paused to look up at the sky. The snow was tumbling down in sheets.

Sam considered bailing. According to his phone, it was 11:57 p.m.—which meant he’d been walking for a good five minutes. If he turned back now, Raj would have no reason to believe he hadn’t made it all the way to Laura’s.

There was only one problem with that plan: Raj would never believe him. He’d never successfully lied to him in his life. Sam took a deep breath and trudged onward, shielding his face with his forearm.

Laura sat by her window, taking off her makeup. She was relieved it was almost midnight. A new episode of
Bizarre Bodies
was about to premiere.

She was on her way over to the couch when she heard a thump against her window. She assumed it was a piece of hail, but a second thump convinced her to peek outside. A man stood shivering beneath her awning, caked with snow, tossing clumps of ice against her window. She was thinking about calling the police when she caught sight of Sam’s face beneath a streetlight. He waved at her awkwardly, and she ran down the stairs to the door. It was 11:58 p.m.

“Your phone was off,” Sam explained, his voice shaky from the cold. “But I saw you in the window…so…I threw ice.”

“What are you doing on my street?” she asked.

“Raj said I had to,” he sputtered through chattering teeth. “For dinner.”

“What?”

Sam cleared his throat.“I never bought you dinner!” he said, recovering. He had to shout to be heard over the howling wind.

“Oh!” she said, laughing. “You don’t have to! I mean, unless you want to.”

“Well, it’s not a date without dinner.”

She smiled self-consciously. “Was that…were we on a date?”

Sam looked down at his feet. “I don’t know, were we?”

A thunderclap sounded in the distance, followed by the crunching collapse of a snow-laden tree. Sam noticed that Laura’s teeth had begun to chatter, just like his. He instinctively rubbed her shoulder, trying to protect her from the cold. She grabbed his hand and blew on it, warming it with her breath. His thumb brushed against her lips, and she held it there for a moment. When she exhaled, he could see her breath through his fingers.

“Sorry to keep you up so late,” he whispered.

“It’s not that late,” she said. “It’s not even midnight.”

She squeezed his hand, and for the first time in his entire life he looked directly into her eyes.

“I like you,” he said.

She laughed. “I like you too.”

“No, I mean…” He looked around helplessly. “What I mean is…”

A series of thunderclaps sounded, one after the other, and the blizzard suddenly intensified. The awning began to creak, straining under the weight of fallen snow.

Sam closed his eyes, still searching for the right phrase. He was about to open them when he felt Laura’s lips on his. He tentatively kissed her and, with some anxiety, opened his eyes.

They laughed awkwardly—then kissed again, less fearfully this time, Laura’s tongue probing bravely through Sam’s parted lips.

Sam took a deep, slow breath. There was something he desperately wanted to ask her, but he feared what her response might be.

“Laura?” he whispered. “Do you like Indian food?”

“I
love
it,” she said, her eyes bright with intensity.

Sam was so relieved he kissed her again.

“Let’s get some,” he said. “Right now.”

“Is anyplace open?”

“Not exactly,” Sam said, debonairly. “But I’m kind of a big deal over at Bombay Palace.”

“We could get takeout and watch
Bizarre Bodies
!” Laura blurted. She was immediately embarrassed, but Sam was already nodding and taking her hand. At some point, it had stopped snowing. The humans marched proudly down the avenue.

It was 12:01 a.m., a whole new day.