Afraid

This morning, God told me quite clearly I was going to die this afternoon. Being a priest, I suppose in retrospect I should not have been surprised that God would be telling me things quite clearly. But being a priest, I was secretly a bit ambivalent about whether God really existed. But when God spoke, I was surprised enough to yell out and fall down, hitting my head, when I heard the voice of God.

When God speaks to you, it is not pleasant, it comes through so strong. Your whole body becomes stiff as a board, as if you are paralyzed. It reminded me of an epileptic seizure. After God was done telling me I was going to die this afternoon, I got a pack of ice, and applied it to my head. Then I crawled across the floor and I called my brother.

"Joe -- its me!", I said, trying not to sound panicked.

"Oh, hi Bill.", said Joe, sounding sleepy.

"Joe -- I gotta tell you something."

"What?" said Joe, sounding annoyed.

"I just heard from God. Directly from God! It was terrible!"

"Oh?" said Joe, sounding more annoyed. Like he was going to hang up. But I had to go on.

"Joe - he said...God said --", but I couldn't go on because my fucking asshole of a brother had hung up.

That fucking asshole, here I am getting messages directly from God about me dying and my own goddamn brother won't even listen to me before he decides if he believes in me or not. Or believes in God or not. What an asshole. I hate him! I hate him!! Joe, not God, God. Are you really sure I am going to die this afternoon?

I wait, on my knees by the phone, but God doesn't say anything.

I think about my schedule, and wonder how I can avoid dying. What would kill me? Crossing the street to drop in on Sister Margaret's 5th grade class at 11 PM when they are to be discussing catechism? Having lunch with that tiresome group of ladies who are part of the boosting committee? Mass at 3PM for the departed Mr. Chiantilini?
I decide to try and talk to my lousy asshole of a brother one last time, before I could go out and die, according to God.

"Joe!"

"Aw -- what do you want?", says Joe. "I've got a hangover."

"God said I'm going to die this afternoon."

Joe doesn't answer for about 15 seconds. "Well..." he drawls, "...can I have your golf clubs?"

I hang up on him. Insolent bastard. How I hate him. All sorts of memories and instances from our childhood flood back into my head. Like the time I strapped him to a wagon and pushed him down a hill, or the time he poured beads in my ear when I was sleeping, and we had to go to the doctor to get them out. That fucker.

I wash my hands and appreciate the large bruise throbbing on my forehead in the bathroom mirror. To hell with it. If I'm gonna go, I'm gonna go. I was a bit bored with the priest thing. Or guilty too, I walk down the stairs or the rectory, and into the strong sunlight. As I squint, getting used to the brightness of the day, everything is right in the world.

Interestingly, the last thing I think about is not about Jesus, or God, or my asshole brother -- but of Janice, from an affair I had three years ago. How she moved to get away from me. Janice, who now lives in Lower Manhattan, in New York, NY. I imagine she got on just fine.

This is the only great regret in my life. How I ruined her life. I cross the street, smelling her perfume, and that is when Janice runs me over with a Ford Escort, with a screaming baby in the passenger seat.

As I bleed to death in the street, I remember what I said to her when she asked.

"No." I said. Because I was afraid. I was afraid.