There you go again, bouncing on those stairs, and flaunting your round perfect little badonkadonks, inside that holy place and diverting my attention away from the drill machine, and shit, I am just one careless moment away from pegging a nail through my thumb, like come on, why would you do that on a Monday, on a Tuesday, on any goddamn day or night for any goddamn god?
It’s worth no trouble, plus your god, I say, if at all he is out there, is not listening to you, or your prayers, or your gospels, or your aartis, and he isn’t accountable for your mess or desires—he is busy. He is busy like I am busy, and I am busy like I am supposed to be, and I am supposed to be busy like I already am— being an obnoxious, breast staring, butt pinching, foul mouthing pervert.
But don’t blame me for how I may think, or behave, because your higher power isn’t blaming me either, and for all you know, he is perhaps pacing in his heaven corridor too, panicking and smoking a holy cigarette or a virgin joint—because he is the god and he is the virtuous one, and he doesn’t like adulterations and all that?—and man, I don’t know, maybe he is also kicking buckets and vandalizing heaven’s properties, because he is upset, and doesn’t have answers to all your prayers and maybe, he is also kicking a crystal pedestal lamp amidst the clouds from one end to the other, putting lives and people down, making some of you paralyzed for some shit you did in seventh grade, and when he is done throwing the towel, he is going like, this sucks, that sucks, you suck, your mom sucks, I don’t know why I agreed to do this shit, this whole program is buggy and this overall human race is fucked up!
Plus, only, believe me, it’s not his beeswax, to answer your prayers on Facebook like you would want him to. He is not out there sitting with a calculator in his basement, counting the number of likes on your Facebook shares; you know the ones with the captions like, one like equals to one prayer, to save some bloated up photoshopped baby with a rare disease in a random state in America, like North Dakota or something.
But I am definitely out here, impatiently counting the number of days before I snap, I snap and I confront, I confront and I do what perverts do, and what perverts do is, what you loathe. Besides, it seems to me, you are brought up that way, believing in fairy tales and god, but also, I feel, it’s more of your fault, that you remained that way, and anyway, the fuck you gonna do when you are confronted and you are alone? Call your god? Dial his number? 786, is that the code? Or is it 108? I hope I am not getting heaven’s area codes mixed up, like I am sure, you don’t want to be put on hold either, in intense situations like these, by some non-important receptionist god, telling you to call back after half an hour, because it’s the lunch time for the big boss or imagine the worst case altogether; your call is transferred to a different holy department, and that’s going to be, ouch, very bad for you.
So as you take your ass to the holy place again climbing on those stairs today, I am putting my drill machine aside, I am removing my fluorescent jacket, and my protection glasses and putting them on the bench, I am also removing my hard hat and giving it to my colleague, and asking him to keep it in the safe, and I am swiping out from my roadside garage half an hour before my shift gets over and I am following you after that, because I had enough of enough. I am slow chasing you like a lost puppy, my arms are in the pocket and I am whistling Dixie, fantasizing about what comes next and you are oblivious to all of this, like your god is to your prayers. Your hair is tied in a bun and you are feeding the beggars on the stairs, who are still here, this late, and saying things like, god bless you and may you get what you want and you think they mean it and I am laughing at the way you are reacting to their blessings; all proud and peaceful and nice, because they are nice, but that’s only because, and believe me, they have to be nice.
I am waiting outside, in a corner, until you come out of the temple, meanwhile, I light a few more cigarettes, and crush butts with my shoes, laugh a bit all by myself, at you and at your god and at your beliefs and at the whole world and then grin at your Hilfiger cutoffs and how you have put those fancy glasses on your head, like you are a professor, but for sure a stupid one, like the ones from those porn videos.
And I am impatient now. Come out of the goddamn temple already, will you? I am thinking. And I see you coming out, it’s a moonless dark night, so it’s all going to be quiet and it’s all going to be quite easy for me. Why do you travel all by yourself this late, I still can’t fathom. Anyway, you are out here on the streets now. You see me and you avoid me, like come on, don’t you know what this is all about; you the pretty one, you the vulnerable one, me this asshole looking guy in a dirty outfit, and this road, the perfect alienated zone. What do you think is going to happen?
You are terrified now, and this is right, you should be, plus this breeze is creepy, plus there is no one here, plus I am too close to you now, but I just have one question before I do anything to you, and even though, this may not seem like a question you would expect a stranger to ask at this hour, the answer really means a lot to me.
“Where is your god now?” I ask you.
“Right behind you,” you say, almost expecting a truck to hit me, so I turn around, not because I believe your beliefs, but it’s your tone; it’s fucked up, but very convincing.
“Nice try, there is no one here” I turn back to you, but you aren’t there either. Where the fuck did you go, I can’t see you anywhere. I am puzzled. I scan this road from one end to the other and back, and then when I turn around, I hear sounds and I hear the screeching breaks of a lorry and I feel the breeze turn warm, there is a bright light making me squint hard, my arms are crossed in front of my face like a shield, and the bloody truck is right in my face.