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God's Brats
When
Bertolt Krupp made his interparallel breakthrough and discovered that God is a
woman, I was just a toddler. Nothing outside my own little world mattered to me
at the time, but later in school I learned how that new knowledge set this
planet wobbling on its axis. That’s ancient history, of course, and for years
it didn’t interest me. Now it does.
If
God weren’t a woman – and a single parent to boot – she probably wouldn’t be
having problems with her offspring. But she is, and it’s affecting a lot of us
down here, myself included. I was
swimming in our pod pool and heard a rumor that God’s preteen twins had been
playing around in Records, messing with people’s Phase Plans – just for laughs.
I didn’t give it a thought. There are billions of us in this parallel alone, so
I figured the chances of God’s boys bothering me were remote. Wrong!
A
while back I was taking a TV classics course at the ed unit – “Bart Simpson as
Existential Philosopher” – and met Dieter, a really interesting guy from Pod
10. First man I’ve been attracted to in ages. My friend Cheri, who’s a sector
agent, did a little backgrounder on him; turns out his ideal female is Natalie
Portman. Everybody these days wants a lover that looks like a celebrity from
the early two thousands for some reason.
Well, I immediately booked full body work; in a few weeks I’d be a dead
ringer for Nat.
Then
it happened. Nicole Kidman’s face appeared in my bedroom wallpaper. At first I
ignored it, figured it was a random glitch. But when her face surfaced again,
this time on my kitchen cabinet, I knew I’d been targeted. “No!” I bellowed up
toward Alpha. “It’s Natalie Portman or no one. Read my lips!”
That
blatant act of defiance got God’s brats locked in on me. If I’d ignored them,
maybe rescheduled my body work appointment, they’d have lost interest. But I’ve
always been short on patience, and I’ve paid the price. Soon after my outburst,
the face of an Afghan hound rose up in the pile on my bath mat. “You’re really
twisted,” I shouted toward Alpha.
Clearly
the little devils had learned about my wretched phase as a pet owner. Monique,
my last dog, hogged my bed, ate my food, and woke me at all hours to take her
out – way out, beyond the pod perimeter. I adore animals, have no boundaries
with them. By the end of Monique’s life she’d taken over all my furniture and
I’d been relegated to the floor. So you can see why I had no intention of
including a pet in my next Life Phase.
Anyway,
I charged ahead, had my operative session, and emerged a cute, pert Natalie
look-alike. As soon as I’d adjusted to the change in my height and foot size, I
invited Dieter to our pod’s solstice party. When he walked in that night my
heart stopped. He had an Afghan hound on a leash; Olga, his new “love,” he
said. God’s boys could have stopped at that; Dieter’s owning a pet was enough
to send me running. But, oh no, they had to toss acid on the wound. Dieter had
undergone some “re-do” work himself – just head, not full body – and he’d
picked the one physiognomy I dislike most: Lyle Lovett’s, crowned by that ridiculous
hair.
After
Dieter left I fled to the roof of the pod to prostrate myself in prayer,
beseech God to mop up the mess her errant offspring had made. “Look,” I said to
her, “I’ve done the career thing for fifteen years. Now I’d like a family, so I
need a mate. Dieter seemed perfect, but your sons have. . .uh. . .can’t you do
something?”
At
that instant a strange little man ambled out on the roof and started chatting
me up. Jacques, his name was, a fashion designer. Seems he’s bringing out a
unique line of evening wear for petites, and he hired me on the spot as his
lead model. Soon my mug will be flashing on every wall screen in every pod in
this parallel. No doubt I’ll meet tons of men as a result; they’ll be clawing
on my door, wanting to couple.
It
gave me a warm feeling to know there is a higher power, that she is listening,
and – most important – that’s she’s still in charge.
Susan Snowden has published numerous stories, poems, articles, and interviews, and won prizes for my work.
E-mail Susan Snowden
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