On the Etiquette of Godsclubs

I first met God in a crowded little pub in Finchley, North London. It had one of those very pubby pub names - you know, the usual: The Gold Goose. The Three Kings. The Lonely Lady. Even though the smoking ban had been in place for years in the UK, the inside of the pub smelled quite strongly of smoke, thick and old and grey. It seemed to have seeped into the walls and table tops and even the bones of the staff. The floor was uneven and sticky, covered in a layer of spilt beer that would probably never vanish, like brewed permafrost.

I sat alone at the bar, all hunched because I’m one tall b*****d, plowing my way through a mountain of fat fries and trying to enjoy my third glass of beer. I felt lonely and miserable. Something was bothering me, yet I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. Perhaps the colorless English weather had wormed its way inside me, painting my own guts just as drab and monochrome.

“Why so glum, mate?” God asked. He was sitting on a wobbly stool right next to mine, sipping His beer like a connoisseur, His gaze glued to the football match on screen. He grinned at me. He had a shitload of freckles and a single bad tooth, the upper-left canine, all yellowed and sharp like the tusk of an old walrus.

“Just one of those days,” I replied, watching the match disinterestedly. “Sometimes you wake up with s**t in your veins and then beer's the only medicine.”

“Heh! I’ll drink to that - hell, who am I kidding? I’ll drink to anything,” God chuckled, the hearty chuckle of drunks and children. “Well, cheers,” He said. We clinked our glasses together and drank our beers in noisy gulps. “I’m Jimmy. Jimmy Brighton,” God said. We shook hands. He had a funny handshake, firm but strangely wriggly.

“Friðrik Gunnarson.”

“Freakingwhat?” He laughed. “Where the hell are you from, mate? Bosnia or something?”

“Iceland, actually. The frosty a*****e of the Arctic," I joked, trying not to sound too resentful at the land from which I'd fled. "And if Friðrik's too much for your tongue - even though it's just like Frederick, really - you can call me Frikki.”

God seemed to have much fun trying to pronounce my nickname, failing to make the -h sound you’re supposed to for the first k. “Free-huhhh-kee”, He said. He laughed again. “Well, Freaky it is. I hope you don’t mind my renaming you, mate. Never had much of a knack for languages. So. Freaky. What brings you Londonside?”

“Backpacking,” I shrugged.

“I see. Been all around the world, then?”

“Not yet. That’s the plan, though.”

“I see,” He nodded, seemingly pleased. “Lads, we’ve got ourselves a true vagabond! A wanderer!” He exclaimed, though there were no lads around. In fact, He looked even more lonely than me. “I’ll let you in on a little secret, Freaky. I hate this bloody island. Hate it hate it hate it. From Dunnet Head to Lizard Point. You think Iceland’s got it bad? I’ve got news for you, my friend. I’ve been to Iceland, and bleak and barren it may be, but it’s got f*****g heart! This place, though? This is pussyland, mate.”

“Why’s that?” I asked, getting increasingly curious now. He seemed to be much drunker than I’d thought.

“There’s just no wonder here anymore. This land used to mean something. It was old and strong like a glass of 50-year-old whisky. You should’ve heard it sing back then. It had a lovely voice"all Frank Sinatra with a little of lil' Nancy too.  Now, though, everything is just so… cosmopolitan,” He literally spat that last word.

I could think of nothing to say, so I smiled politely and ate my very last fry.

"Freaky, my friend, you sure are one handsome chap!" He clapped me on the back merrily. "You know, I don't usually open up to strangers like this, but to hell with it. It's against the rules, sure, but it's not like it hasn't been done before. It's not like I'm the only one. Life's for living, innit?"

"Hell yeah," I nodded.

"Very well,” God sighed. “Freaky, my good mate. We’ve been sitting here talking, but I get the feeling you still haven’t realized who I am. No, wait, let me finish. I know I've told you my name, but names only go a certain way. They don’t really get to the bottom of things. What I mean is - do you still not know who I am?”

“Let me guess - now’s the time you tell me you’re a former football star, the one who missed out on going to the World Cup in ‘86 due to a busted knee. No, wait, I’ve got it: you’re a distant cousin to Kate Middleton’s childhood neighbor or something.”

“Oh, laugh while you still can! No, it’s much, much better than  that.” He leaned forward to whisper drunkenly in my ear. “I’m God, mate.”

And before I'd even stopped laughing He paid both our checks and invited me to join Him outside for a smoke, and after the best cigarette I’ve ever had He showed me many strange and wonderful things, scenes too weird and fantastic to fit into memory, and He introduced me to people too remarkable and witty to really exist, and at some point in our mad romp through North London He taught me how to spot the very old faces who hide behind the stars, and how to count all the leaves in any tree in a single glance, and how to whisper the word love in a language older than both language and love, and ten hours later I woke up with my head inside a filthy toilet in a strange hotel room, naked and cold, a thin line of puke still running down my chin as if to keep me company.

God had left, and I was alone.

Author's Note

The opening to a short story I'm currently polishing up.
I'd really like some feedback on its effectiveness in getting you curious about what happens next.
Thanks! :)

Reviews

[bisskat]

super interesting and very well written! (i grinned more than once reading it.) i'd love to see more, actually. i'm super curious. dialogue is brilliant, as is the humour of the narrator. the way you wrote the first and last lines definitely left me intrigued!

[Jonas Leao]

Thank you so much!
:))

[bisskat]

no problem! c: