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If I could wake up with a superpower, I would want to meet God, but in a way I already have. Everyone has a different image and concept of what and who God is. Some people view him as the traditional God, a white man with a beard, almost Santa-like. Some view God as a woman or a black man, but God just seems to manifest himself to me as a Mallard duck. This duck appears at odd times to annoy me and give unsolicited advice.
I don’t go on many dates, never had a boyfriend and hate people touching me. Today I have a date, the second one of my life, with a boy I have liked for a while. I thinks he is cool, mysterious, and I respect him for the amount of lesbian friends he has. I sit in the tree-lined Panhandle waiting for him, reading Helen Hanff’s Letter From New York, trying to calm my nerves.
God waddles up to me: “Are you reading this to look intellectual or are you actually reading this book because you’re interested in these stories?” God squawks. I shoot the duck a menacing glare.
My date comes walking over to me, wearing a beanie and carrying his skateboard. He stuffs his hand into the pocket of his navy blue Dickies and pulls out a pack of Newport shorts.
“Hah. Smoking in a park.” God stabs. “Oz, what are you, a freshman in high school? This dude is such a cliché.”
We talk. I pull a piece of grass into tiny pieces while he spins a wheel on his skateboard. He seems like a nice guy. He’s cute and likes nature. I want to skip the talking and do something more fun. We agree to walk around and end up going to his car to go for a drive and listen to music. God hops into the backseat. “Messy,” God whispers, flapping his wings. The car itself isn’t too cluttered, but there are many crumbs, and a plastic-wrapped brownie sits on the center console. He offers it to me. I laugh and tell him no thank you. “This is boring. I’m bored. How long is he going to be on aux. Who keeps texting him. Why is he telling you about his car?” God chirps from behind me, pecking at the window. I ignore God and ask my date about his major and some mutual friends. He shows me that he can drive with just his knees. God and I straighten and clench our legs. I think my date is really cool. After a few hours of aimless driving he takes me toward home. “This is it,” God says, “tell him that you like him, you think he’s cute, and then kiss him.”
I tell him he can drop me off wherever because I like walking. He pulls the car over a block away and I sit there looking at him. “Tell him, tell him,” God is smiling at me from the back seat. My date hugs me and I get out of his car. I tell him goodbye and slowly walk away.
“What was that?” God says as my date drives off.
“Dude, I don’t know. I’m pissed at myself, too, you know. Maybe if you weren’t there, I would have been smoother. Isn’t this your fault anyway? You made me like this,” I respond.
“Your mind made me like this.” God responds, looking up at me with his beady black eyes.