The Perfect Shot

When you are God, you know lots of things. Well, everything actually; but some of the things that I know would tickle you silly. For instance, I know how many people have ever inhabited the earth. Yea, it's a pretty big number, but try this one out for size: I know how many ants have ever inhabited the earth. As of the year 2012, it actually takes me a full fourteen minutes just to tell you that number so I think I'll pass on it for right now. Not that I'm running out of time--I just know how easily you humans lose interest. Or how about this one--I actually know which conspiracy theories are true, and which ones are just stupid theories that people have made up over the generations to get attention. I do actually know the answer to Life, the Universe and Everything and 42 isn't it. Unfortunately for you guys down there, it's a little bit more complicated than that, but 42 was a very noble try. Hairs on heads? Child's play. I know if time travel is, or isn't possible--I just won't ruin it for you right now. And yes, I do know if the chicken or the egg came first. I don't think I'll tell that one either right now because I'm keeping a list of how many serious arguments over it people actually have.

I guess one thing has just been intriguing me a lot lately. It has to do with basketball. Yea, it's a very American sport, and there are a lot of sports that humans have invented over the course of history that are a lot more difficult than basketball, and more fun to watch, and more physically challenging, but that's besides the point. The point is, how big of a deal everyone makes of it! I mean, sure, when you aren't God you get bored easily because you can't just create new things to entertain you, but I'm not sure why everyone is so enamoured with putting a little orange ball through a small circle. I guess some things are lost on me a little bit in the translation from humanity to divinity because it's no challenge for me to do that; I guess pastimes are pastimes. I create new galaxies and species, and those new species, instead of doing helpful things for the people around them, bicker and fight about the things that they do which have no actual impact on society. Now this brings me to my point.

While I'm sitting around up here taking an interest in your lives--yes, I actually do--I notice how all of the sports casters are sitting in their little booths talking about how amazing certain shots by professional basketball players are, or how they managed to get the ball past all the defenders to score. I guess some of that stuff is kind of impressive for a human, but whatever. The one that really gets my goat is when they say, "A perfect shot". No, it's never a perfect shot. Sure, all of those people who practice day in and day out and make their lives revolve around this sport manage to get it into the hoop pretty well, but they are far from perfect shots. This brings me back to all of the interesting things that I know. I can name every single "perfect shot" in existence. Every single perfect shot wherein the ball entered the hoop with the exact same distance from the rim around its entire circumference. Actually, there is only one. He was a 12 year old boy playing horse in his back yard with his friend, on January 14, 1963. He even ended up losing the game of horse and soon grew up to have a career as an accountant, playing basketball a total of 10 more times in his life.

Maybe some things just aren't as important as you make them.

The Toy

There was once a little boy named Ryan and his friend. They weren't bestie's for life, or BFF's as some might call it, but they got along well and weren't mean to each other. They did lots of fun things together, and even though they were very different people, they managed to see past their differences. They both loved toys though, and they would play with them together for hours on end. Sometimes the little boy's friend wondered if they didn't play with their toys together if they would even be friends at all, but he realized after some time that this wasn't the case.

It was Christmas time and Ryan's friend had been keeping his eye on a very special toy for quite some time; but he was a little bit poorer than Ryan, so he was unable to buy it. Ryan's friend mentioned it in passing to him once, and they both realized that they had wanted the same toy for a very long time. They would stay up nights talking about it, and imagining the things that they would do once they got it. Soon Ryan wanted it even more than his friend; he talked about it all the time, even to his other friends who didn't play toys with them. He bragged that he would have the toy someday, and told his friend this very often. He wanted it more than anything in the whole world, and would have given anything to get it. Everyone knew that he wanted the toy very badly, and he made sure that everyone who didn't know, found out. He even went to the toy shop where it was kept every day, just so he could look at it and hold it in his hands. Maybe someone would buy it as a present for him someday. This continued for a very long time.

A little bit of jealousy began to grow in Ryan's friend because Ryan talked about it so much and seemed to forget that it was something that they both wanted. He realized that he didn't have enough money, so he wouldn't be able to have it. He was very sad, and even though he still thought about the toy a lot and wanted it very much, he convinced himself that he didn't need it. There were plenty of other toys to be had--he shouldn't worry himself with what he couldn't have.

One day, the two little boys were walking through the toy shop when they both stopped and looked at the toy. It was a rather expensive toy and it was the last one of its kind because all the other ones had been bought up. Ryan reached into his pocket and took out all of his money. He had been saving up for a very long time, and he was going to buy it now! He had even just been telling his friend the day before that he had finally saved up enough money to buy it and how excited he was. Ryan's friend had sat there for the whole day listening to Ryan talk about it; he was even a little bit excited for Ryan.

Ryan ran up to the toy, but he was too short to reach it, so Ryan's friend stood on his tippy toes to grab it off the shelf and hand it to him. As Ryan picked it up, the excitement swelled inside him. His friend peered from behind to see what the toy was like. He was happy for his friend even though he was a little bit sad for himself.

Then, Ryan looked down at the box that held the beautiful toy to see that the corner was crushed. He was very disappointed; this moment wasn't everything that he thought it would be. He tossed it to the side. He didn't want a toy that came from a crushed box. He went across the isle to where there was another, different toy, in a brand new box. Immediately he picked it up exclaiming that he wanted it instead. He seemed to have forgotten all the nights he drempt about the toy, and all the people he had told about it--he just saw something shinier and was immediately enamored by it. Off he went to buy it, and he was happy for a while.

Ryan's friend was extremely confused. He thought that Ryan wanted this toy more than anything in the whole world. Why would he not want it just because the box was a little bit crumpled? The toy was on the inside. The little boy's friend had been saving for a very long time, and he also reached into his pocket and took out all the money that he had so that he could buy the toy. He picked the fallen toy up off the ground and gingerly carried it to the man at the counter. He would love the neglected toy and never take it forgranted. That day, he was happier than Ryan who changed his mind.

The toy wasn't a fancy toy, but it was well constructed, and even though it isn't new or shiny anymore, he still keeps it on his mantle to this day because it turned into a valuable collectors item. Ryan's friend never fully understood how the little boy could have such a change of heart so quickly over something that had been so important to him, but Ryan's friend was happy because he ended up with what he wanted, and he was glad of the choice that Ryan made. He was loyal to it all the way through, and it payed off in the end.

Finishing the Job

Death. Everywhere. There was dark crimson blood spattered all over the white walls. As the two men went to work on the carcass, Sarah watched from the side of the room unable to help. They were laughing and smiling as they cut and sawed and hacked and tore. “I have to get out of here. I have to get home. I still have things I want to do.” were the only things that were going through Sarah’s mind as the walls seemed to constrict around her. Her mind was racing. She was running out of options. She could smell the blood in the air and see it running off of the table where the men were, onto the ground where it pooled and then ran into a small drain in the middle of the tiled floor. She was backing up unaware of her surroundings when she felt a hand grab touch her shoulder from behind. Unable to even squeal she turned around to find a fat man standing there, a huge grin covering his face from ear to ear.

“Where do you think you’re going?” He laughed. She shuddered. “No escaping ‘til I say you can. There is plenty still to be done.” She felt herself walking towards the two men who were still dismembering the carcass. She could feel the presence of the fat man still behind her. Watching her. The two men stopped talking and turned towards her. Each of them held a huge knife in their blood-covered hands.

“It’s your turn.” One of them said. He chuckled. “We wouldn’t want you to get away without doing your fair share.” The other laughed hysterically.

There was a knife on the counter. This was her chance. She grabbed the knife before any of them could react and stepped to the counter where the carcass was. She took the knife and cut the wings off of the chicken, just like she had learned in culinary school, and set them side by side. The fat man smiled.

“Looks like you know what you are doing. I guess you can go home now. See you tomorrow! We’ve got a banquet for 100 we have to prepare for, so come ready to do lots of cooking!”

She smiled and headed out the door. What a relief they let her off work early. At least she could get home and finish her homework now.

Sneaking in the house

It was one of those nights. Everyone has had them. You know, the kind of night where you were supposed to be home by 9pm and it’s already 12am, but you got caught up in the moment with your friends—perhaps doing something that you weren’t supposed to—and lost track of time? You pull up to your house and all the lights are off so you tiptoe up to the front door. Whether or not it is locked makes no difference because when you start to open that door, it makes the loudest, most obnoxious noise that any door could make; it sounds like a howler monkey with a sore throat has been taking singing lessons. You think to yourself “If I open it more slowly, there will be less noise”, so you sit there at the front door inching it forward over the next 5 minutes. Excruciatingly painful.

At this point, some parents would suddenly flip the lights on, wretch open the door, and stare you down, but not my mother. I would make it past the howler monkey door, across the squeaky floor, and to the loudest stairs on the west coast before I would hear a little cough. It wasn’t loud or intrusive; it was just enough to make me freeze in my tracks, my hair stand on end, and send a chill through my body. It was always on the third step too. Always. Now I’m pretty sure that my mom was never a government agent, but she had to have been getting her supply of night-vision goggles from somewhere because she always caught me right there without fail.

Well, that cough would sound and I would knew I was in deep trouble, so I would put on my best puppy dog face and pretend like the most innocent child in the world, even if I had just been out covering people’s houses in toilet paper. I would turn slowly around and a verbal reprimand would follow which would make Satan feel guilty for his sins.

This night was like those nights, but it was different. Why? I am a grown man, with kids, sneaking into my own house at 12am, hoping that my dear wife is sleeping. I haven’t been out doing anything that I shouldn’t have; the date just slipped my mind until about 5 minutes ago. Yea, it’s our anniversary and I completely forgot about it. I coast down the last half block of the street, so there is no sound of a car pulling into the driveway. I tiptoe up the walkway to the front of the house and open up the howler monkey door. Every house has one of these things, I swear.

They say that a man marries a woman who is most like his mother. I never really tried to compare my wife and my mother, but after tonight, I know that this is the truth. I make it across the tile floor to the stairs, and thought I was home free. Obviously, I wasn’t. I knew she was mad when, on the third step, I heard the subtle cough. Uhoh, I guess I’d start putting on my puppy dog face.

The Blood

He said it was a bit of raspberry jam clinging to his white shirt when he came home that night. Nothing had seemed out of place at the time, and she dismissed it with only the curiosity of why it didn’t come out after the customary trip through the washing machine. She had gotten him that shirt as a birthday present, and he had used to wear it all the time. Now, however, he seldom did wear it, and blamed the little speck of red that blemished the whole thing.

They weren’t wealthy, and they had financial issues just like anyone, perhaps more so. He was definitely a hard worker, as was she, but sometimes hard was wasn’t enough. Her wealthy father often criticized his only daughter for marrying a man who couldn’t support both of them, but she had always said that their love was enough, and so far this had been the case. Her father had been long divorced and knew nothing of love. That which he did know was long tainted by the years of fighting that had quickly parted him from his wife. He spent his days, as a retiree, living alone in his mansion, barely leaving and barely having company. Apparently his wealth was more to him than was love.

Suddenly, and without warning, he had decided that his life was no longer worth living. The neighbor’s dog had relentlessly kept barking at the house where his dead body lay for nearly a week before the unanswered knocks on the door brought the police car, and then the ambulance, and then the detectives. Apparently, the detectives though that people who are going to slit their wrists don’t hit themselves over the head with a golf club first.

Well, their financial problems certainly seemed to be over. Her husband made the untimely comment that her father would be happy knowing that she now lived in a family with money, seeing as she was the only recipient in her father’s will. Now, she knew that it wasn’t strawberry jam, but she never said anything. She still loved him, but she trusted the blood, not her lover.

The Necessity of Life

The aroma of fresh coffee beans drifts from over the counter to where I am sitting. It is morning, very early for me to be up, and a rare occurrence to be in public at this time of the day. My disheveled hair falls down over my face, still not low enough to cover the bags under my eyes. It is dark. Last night was a sleepless one of tossing and turning, induced by an onset of loneliness. The words “It is not good for man to be alone” keep resonating through my head as I sit in the bustling coffee shop. The same words that echoed all night and into the black hours of the morning; the cold, lonely hours of the morning.

My thoughts wander to the first man, and realize how he had to give a part of himself to finally have someone to love him. Just as the hand of God touched him, so I needed a touch. Every day might as well have been just as dark and dismal and lonely as that morning though, for I had nobody to shine my love on, and nobody willing to spare me a few rays.

I gave blood for the first time yesterday. Perhaps this is one of the reasons that my night was so miserable. I felt like my essence was draining from me. It was a good cause though, saving someone’s life. Blood is what gives us life, so in a sense, when I gave my blood away, I gave a little bit of my life away to save someone else’s. A model of love is the willingness to sacrifice one’s own life for the life of someone else. I have plenty of love yet receive none. I am Type O, and any blood type can receive blood from me, but if I were to get into an accident and need blood, I could only receive blood from another Type O person. Ironic how the love cannot be returned once it is given.

The door slowly opens. I blink my dreary eyes at the blinding light coming from the rising sun which silhouettes the shape entering the shop. Her slender form stops in the middle of the shop as she peers meekly around, looking for a table. She spots me and I conspicuously turn away, pretending not to notice. Her angelic figure glides past my otherwise empty table, and me. My heart sinks. Her arms hold her laptop across her chest like a young schoolgirl with pigtails holds a binder at grade school. No young girl is this though; she is a beautifully handcrafted woman.

She sets her bag down on a table near to me. She seems to know the girl seated there, and they exchange quick formalities before she goes to the counter to make her order.

“The usual” I hear her say through the clatter.

The cashier yells over his shoulder, “Black coffee.”

My melancholy overwhelms me again and all hope seems to be lost. A cloud drifts over the rising sun as if to reaffirm my circumstance.

My full attention is focused on the individual grinds at the bottom of my cup. Oh, how lonely they must be. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a large, round man in a neatly pressed black suit stumble on the corner of a chair leg and send a cup of scalding coffee all over the table where the girl’s friend and her bag sit. A deep curse and a shrill shriek interrupt the serene shop. Chaos ensues. Out of chaos there is no order, unless the hand of God is involved.

The girl is searching again, her coffee in one hand, her wet and now stained computer case in the other. I make it obvious that I am clearing a place for her at my table, but she shyly avoids all eye contact with me until she is sure that there are no empty spaces. Picked last, just like always. She stands in front of me; she practically shines. The cloud passes.

“Can I sit here?”

“Uh…yea, go for it.” I stammer. Nonchalant as can be. My heart is pounding.
There is nothing to say, nowhere to begin. I become interested in the coffee grinds again.

Soon, she is gone. Not even a name.

Twenty minutes pass. They pass like my whole life has, quickly and without event. I wearily drag myself out of the seat and into the quickly warming day. Down the street I solemnly walk. An ambulance blares by.

There she is, sprawled out on the ground. Paramedics scurry around her. A car sits, partway off the road; a soccer mom stands with tears streaming down her face, hands cupped over her mouth, and kids peering from around her. A skid mark is blackened into the road as a reminder.

A week later, I find myself at the hospital, looking for this unknown girl. Walking down the endless halls, searching for a girl whose name I don’t know. A doctor rushes by me, his hand pushing me out of the way and into a doorway that I would have passed by. I nearly spill the cups of coffee I am carrying. A doctor and a nurse come out talking in hushed voices.

“She is a lucky girl, the transfusion right after the accident saved her life.”
I stick my head in the room. There she is, propped up on a group of pillows. I walk in and she looks up.

“Hi, I am Adam. Do you like your coffee black?”