A Guy Called God By Stanley Johnson "There were frantic struggles to disentangle from the wreckage two or three mashed bodies the number was insignificant from Mr. Cod's office." Bartholomew God from the maroon plush of his window seat saw two automobiles collide far down in the street below. He was too high up in his mahogany and chromium office in one of New York's greatest buildings to differentiate between the common sounds of the street and any special commotion the accident may have caused; but a crowd was gathering around the wrecked cars, and now two policemen rushed in to hold back the surging waves of people. Then there were frantic struggles to disentangle from the wreckage two or three mashed bodies the number was insignificant from Mr. God's office. An ambulance arrived, the bodies were poured inside, were sent slopping off to the hospital, and the crowd dispersed. A bone or two. a smear of blood, Mr. God thought as he turned from the window; how elemental in their construction, how simple in their dying! Mr. God turned to his desk and the business at hand, a compilation of reports from his distant branch offices. His mind dwelt, however, on the evidenced frailty of mankind he had witnessed, on the stolid curiosity of the crowd who stood on the sidelines of the accident. Once, long ago, when Mr. God was just starting business, it had been different and better. The people had been content to wander into green pastures of peace and solitude, to grow together in understanding as they lay beside the still waters on the rich growing earth. They had been nurtured by the soil then, had known the hope of springtime and the satisfaction of harvest, the pain and passion of living and dying. They had not got themselves into so wretched a mess; life then had not the clamor of this mechanized age Mr. God looked upon. A telephone jangled and a lascivious blonde secretary answered it. "Mr. God's office," her voice oozed into the phone. "Just a moment, please." To Mr. God she said, "It's a new stockholder." "I'll take it," Mr. God said. His voice was tired. Mr. God recognized the' voice of an obstetric nurse who had assisted him in various capacities previously. "Another one?" he said, with an almost wistful sort of smile. "I'm glad glad, but I can't allow it. I do want to sell your infant stock in Humanity, Inc. It's customary, yes, but a custom that must be discontinued. My corporation has suffered a heavy loss during recent times. Humanity, Inc., is failing; I strongly advise against buying stock in it. The infant must be counseled to retain its Pre-Natal holdings. I can do nothing for it now." He laid the phone receiver back on the hook. The blonde meanwhile turned her attention to a movie magazine open on her desk. Mr. God knew it was there; he saw her reading it, but he said nothing; he did not reprimand her, he had not the strength. He was tired, too tired ... so awfully tired. . . . The lascivious secretary glanced through seductive eyes at her employer and saw that he was gazing abstractedly through, not at, her. She shrugged. Mr. God was the dumbest guy . . . she had wondered lately if he were all there. Mr. God himself saw the secretary's movement. He frowned slightly, disliking it. But again he let it pass in silence. Secretaries were so hard to get ... he was dissatisfied with Miss Magdalene, but she was the best he had been able to get. No one wanted to work for him any more. . . . Mr. God sat for a long time staring at the report before him. It was a letter from his son, and it troubled him. His son, Mr. Jesus C. God, was attending to an enterprise of his father's. He was in the sheepherding business Out West, and such was the subject of the letter to his father. Mr. God took his head in his hands and shook it sadly. Out West too his business was failing. The sheep over which his son had watch were being eaten by wolves. So numerous were the latter that their destructive raids had got beyond control. The sheep business Out West was failing . . . Mr. God slumped over his desk, as if the weight of the world were on his shoulders. "Good-night, Mr. God," his secretary said. Mr. God glanced up and saw that the clock said five o'clock. He thought Miss Magdalene had turned it ahead ten minutes, but he only mumbled a goodnight and let her go without saying anything. He was too tired just now. Soon Mr. God too arose from his desk and went to get his hat. He was anxious to meet his friend Peter, an ex-fisherman and now a vaudeville magician, for dinner at the night spot where Peter did his act in the floor show. Wearing a lightweight overcoat, for the spring evenings were still a bit Page Four chill, Mr. God rang for an elevator and descended to the street. He wasn't as sprightly as he used to be. Being president of Humanity, Inc., wasn't a pleasant task; often lately he had wished there were someone else who could take over the position. It hadn't been so bad in the old days when he was young and the corporation was just getting a good start. The people for whom he had been responsible were not apathetic then, and in the main had been cooperative with the plans for them formulated in Mr. God's office. But now. . . . Mr. God wondered if it were the people themselves who were worse than they used to be, or if Humanity, Inc., were failing because of his less able leadership. He did not want to think of the former reason, and he could not bear the latter. But it would not leave his mind, the thought that his capabilities no longer merited him his corporation presidency. The evening air cooled him, cleared his head a bit. He brightened too at the prospect of meeting Peter. He had done a lot for Peter. Peter was an easy-going fisherman who in his spare time was an amateur magician when Mr. God met him. Mr. God had connections; he had urged Peter to practice his hobby, and when his magic was in professional form, Mr. God had established Peter on the vaudeville stage as an honest magician. Sleight-of-hand had then become his profession, fishing his spare-time occupation. Peter was waiting when Mr. God got there. He jumped from his chair and rushed to the door. "Hello, Bart!" Peter shouted, pumping his hand. "Hello, Peter. Glad to see you," Mr. God answered. The two friends went to the table Peter had reserved. It was near the orchestra pit, where a jazz band blared out continual swing. As Peter and Mr. God sat down, a group of near-naked chorus girls were going through their routine. Mr. God was dismayed to see they wore only a feather or two about their waists; their breasts were naked. It puzzled him; he could not understand why any human being should want to display so imperfect and unbeautiful a thing as his body. Dinner came, and the two friends ate and began their conversation. There was understanding between them. Mr. God rather leaned on Peter for approval of his actions, and Peter in turn had deep respect for the tremendous task that was Mr. God's. Each had news for the other tonight. Mr. God told Peter of his son's failure in the sheepherding business Out West, and somehow the telling made it seem less of a catastrophe, especially when Peter said, "Bart, my friend, you have many sheep; are they all worth saving?" Mr. God looked into his friend's face and felt better. A prostitute approached their table and put her arms around Mr. God's shoulder. Peter grinned. Mr. God attempted to wriggle from her embrace. "Dear beautiful man," she slobbered, for she was filled to capacity with gin. "Please go away," Mr. God said. "I am displeased with you." "Love me," hiccoughed the girl, settling herself on Mr. God's lap. "Get from me, you evil harlot!" exclaimed Mr. God, arising and dislodging the girl. She went then; not because of any fear of Mr. God, for he was of little concern to her, but because she needed another drink. Mr. God sat down again. Then Peter told him of a new illusion he had perfected and was adding, to his program. "I do it with two big vases, see?" and Peter launched into an enthusiastic explanation of the trick. "I have water in one, and the other is empty. Empty to the audience, that is. But in a tiny cubicle in the bottom of the 'empty' vase I have a half pint of grape extract and acetic acid mixture enough to flavor the whole vase of water. Well, I make a great pretense about the vase being empty. Then I have someone taste the water from the other vase. It's water, all right enough! Then I announce a great, marvelous change to come in the water. With the usual abracadabra I pour the water into the empty vase. When I tilt the vase to stir it around, the grape acid runs from its compartment into the water and there you have wine! Isn't that a great one? Water into wine!" "Peter, I'm proud of you," Mr. God smiled. "I knew you could be more than a fisherman," and the two men went on with their meal. Mr. God had called a press conference for the next day. The bigger papers were becoming reluctant to send reporters to cover Mr. God's frequent conferences; and the press was not as generous with space as it had once been. Of course Mr. God was still influential as president of the combination (Continued on page 14) "As Peter and Mr. God sat down, a group of near-naked chorus girls were going through their routine." Page Five