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The Journal of Literary Satire | Hastily Written & Slopilly Edited
Tuesday, November 18, 2003

Daddy Left Me Alone with God

by Robin Slick

God sprawled on the bed at the Plaza Hotel and strummed His guitar while my father sat at a nearby table and chopped up a couple lines of coke.

“Knock it off, You tone-deaf asshole,” said my father.

Of course he didn’t know he was talking to God.

God lifted himself up off the pillow, propped Himself on an elbow, and cocked His head at my dad through half-closed eyes. I could see He was thinking about a wicked comeback line but then made the wise decision that it wasn’t worth the dear price of losing the dope. Besides, God agreed with my dad. He didn’t really believe He was God, either.

As for me, I didn’t want to miss the opportunity of God with His eyes open. I leaned up against the dresser, facing Him, while I ran a hand through my long blonde hair and stuck out my tits.

He smirked and looked me up and down and knew at that moment He’d have me later. I could tell He liked the idea so I did what I thought was a subtle groin-thrust but it was overkill and God frowned, though of course I didn’t realize why at the time. I mean, how could I?

I was seventeen years old.

“Here you go, you slimy, little no-talent schmuck. Try some of this,” said my father, waving his razor at God.

God threw His guitar to the floor and leapt out of bed.

“Look at the way you treat your instrument. You’re a fucking disgrace,” said my father.

“It’s a bloody guitar,” said God. “They’re indestructible.”

“Not if you’re Pete bloody Townshend,” I piped up.

God looked at me and laughed.

“Pete’s insane, isn’t he? He’s a great mate of mine. Brilliant man. If you’re a good little girl and say ‘please, oh please,’ I’ll introduce you sometime. I know he’d love to meet your father.”

“We’ve met. He’s an even bigger asshole than you are,” said my father.

God winked at me and took a 100-dollar bill out of His pocket. He rolled it into a tight little cylinder and bent down over the lines my dad had set out, inhaling them like the expert He was.

“I’d rather meet Keith Moon,” I said.

God gave a loud, hearty laugh. I could see I’d regained some points.

“Hey, this is some good blow,” said God.

My father scowled. “Yeah, well, when I do something, I do it right. Not like morons such as Yourself who pick up piece-of-shit electric guitars and learn to half-ass play Your fucking excuse for music.” He hit his fist on the table as an exclamation, not the best idea when there’s powder about. In an instant he got out his razor and neatened up the lines. It was good that he was preoccupied because I had a feeling we were about to get the lecture again.

“The Beatles killed jazz,” he said.

Oh no. I looked at God, wondering how He’d react to that piece of news. I was hoping He’d say something like “You’re wrong, dickhead, it was people like you who killed jazz,” but no, God didn’t want to mess up His little deal here; that was obvious.

“Yeah, there are people who believe that,” God agreed. “But not me. I admit it — I learned everything I know about my craft from American jazz- and blues men like Charlie Christian and Robert Johnson and Muddy Waters. I owe them my career.”

I looked at God, surprised, but what did I know.

“Your craft? You weasel. How dare You mention Your name and Your so-called career in the same breath as those legends? Ha! You stupid little asswipe. Here’s Your shit. Give me my bread so I can get the fuck out of here.”

God laughed. He got a kick out of men like my father. He secretly wanted to be just like him, I realized.

Now I’d have to sleep with God for sure.

“Can I hang out here with you for a bit longer?” I asked Him.

“I don’t know. Can you?” He looked over at my father with a wide smile.

My father shrugged and looked away. He helped himself to the last line off the small hand mirror on the table and then wiped the remains clean with his finger, swabbing his gums with it. He stood up and put on his jacket.

“I’ll have her back early,” God drawled.

My father ignored Him.

“You have your keys, April? I’ve got some more stops to make and then I don’t know where I’ll be after that,” he said.

“Yeah, I’ve got them, Dad.”

My father turned on his heel and walked out the door, leaving his firstborn daughter all alone in a fancy hotel room with God.

Robin Slick resides in downtown Philadelphia and just returned from East Germany where her young rock-star kiddies performed with ex-members of Frank Zappa's band at a four-day festival devoted to his music. Her kids caught her smoking black hash backstage with Ike Willis, former bandmate to Frank Zappa, and have still not recovered. Her short fiction appears in NFG, Hackwriters, Small Spiral Notebook, Nagoya Writes, In Posse Review, Insolent Rudder, Fiction Warehouse, and Flashquake. Her new novel, Three Days in New York City, is currently in the hands of a big N.Y.C. agent and one in London. She has read at KGB Bar but was too drunk to remember if she was any good.