Category: What if

“At the end of the twenty-second century, scientists resurrected the predator species. I’m referring to the Jurassic Period ancestors of the various land, air, and sea predators we live with today. Humans, especially in the area formerly known as America, had not developed survival strategies to cope with new threats. Look at these examples.” Professor GHY690 pointed at the light screen in front of the classroom, scanning the faces of the students to make sure all eyes were uniformly focused.

TIG457 raised its hand. “I read humans actually tried to make themselves stand out from the pack. Can you believe it?”

“Death wish!” snorted JKZ764, who looked exactly like TIG457 except for the large label attached to the front of its robe.

The Professor nodded. “Some cultures were used to thinking collectively, for example, some cultures from the former Southeast Asian countries. That cultural characteristic made them more adaptable when the predators emerged. Early Americans, in contrast, were used to thinking of themselves as the top of the food chain. When the predators came, they didn’t fare so well.”

“Did you read that part about branking?” JKZ764 said.

“I think you mean branding,” TIG457 laughed. “Professor, what is branding? I didn’t understand it. It’s almost like they wanted to stand out! That can’t be true, can it?”

“Branding was a cultural phenomenon applied to people and organizations at the time. Yes, it is hard to understand now, but people actually intentionally cultivated a ‘personal brand’ as a way of differentiating themselves from their competition.”

“What happened to them?”

“The predators seem to prefer the prey on the fringes of the herd. When all members of the species look the same, individual members can evade detection. Over the generations, the humans who stood out were picked off by the predators. You recall the Theory of Evolution from our previous lesson. We are the ones who survived, and we continue to survive by conforming.”

“I read they used to wear all different things and wear their hair different from each other!” said KLL520 from the back row. “And they had more than one . . . you know what.”

“Gender?” the Professor said. The students flinched in their seats. “Yes, you are correct. Prior to gene editing, there was wide variation in human DNA. In fact, that variation used to be a competitive advantage, until the predators were resurrected in the Grand Mistake. Fortunately those same scientists who brought back the predators were able to revise human DNA so that all members now look exactly the same.”

“Hardly makes up for their error,” muttered VCK635.

The students sitting nearby pounded the tables.

“What?” VCK635 said. “Life must have been fun back then. They had sex.”

VCK635’s classmates rose up with a collective roar and took turns punching VCK635 in an orderly fashion until it lay curled up on the floor under the desk, bleeding from the nose and ears.

“Self-expression,” the Professor said. “Still the surest way to die.”

“Remember when we thought the earth couldn’t hold more than ten billion people?” Marge chuckled, looking around the conference room table. “Never underestimate the power of human ingenuity!”

Dale slurped coffee and pretended to read his tablet. Everyone knew he was playing the new video game, Dinkeytown, the goal of which was to cram as many humans as possible into a ten by ten by ten foot cube that looked very similar to the office building in which they all worked. Thang and Velma giggled and seemed to be playing footsies under the table. Marge watched her team with a bemused expression.

“Kent, can’t you move over a little?” Ann said in a peeved voice. “You made me run over my new Gucci crossbody messenger bag.”

Everyone looked at Kent, who was sitting crosslegged on the floor with his head bumping the ceiling. His foot had accidentally shoved Ann’s leather chair and now the strap of her bag was wrapped around the plastic wheel.

“Well, sorry,” Kent said. “I can’t help it if the Minimizer didn’t work right today.” He tried to stretch out one cramped leg and almost overturned the table.

“Relax, Team,” Marge said. “Kent, we understand. Sometimes it happens. You can file a complaint with the Population Bureau.”

“Right, like they would care!” Kent said. “What if I have to stay this size forever? I’m stuck between regular and minimized! I can’t fit here at work and I won’t be able to get up my front steps at home. At least if I was stuck small, I could move to Dinkeytown, if Mary would get minimized with me. But if she wants to stay regular size, my life is ruined.”

“Oh, wah,” Ann said. “I knew someone who got turned into a giant.”

Velma and Thang stopped their canoodling and stared at Ann. “You mean, giantized?” Velma gasped. “I thought that was a myth.”

“It’s rare,” Marge said. “Come on, you guys. Let’s get back on track. Kent will get back to regular size on the way home, and life will go on as usual.”

“No, wait,” Dale said. “You mean to tell me, we are wrecking our bodies being put through the Minimizer twice a day, five days a week, just so we can take up less space at work, and then get regularized when we go home, and some dude gets to be a giant and take up twenty times as much space as a regular guy? That’s not fair.”

“Imagine what he could do to Dinkeytown,” Velma smirked. “Like Godzilla!”

“No, like that guy, Liverbutt. Liverpool. What was his name?” Ann laughed.

“You’re thinking of Gulliver,” Marge sighed.

Ann shook her head. “No, it’ll come to me.”

“I’m serious,” Dale said. “Look at what happened to Kent, stuck halfway between minimized and regular. That could happen to any of us. If the Minimizer stops working, there won’t be enough room on the planet for all of us.”

Velma’s eyes got big. “You mean, they’d have to bring back the . . . ?”

Dale nodded. “Yep. The Purge.”

Everyone was silent, contemplating the worst period of human history, which fortunately happened decades before any of them had been born.

“Myth,” scoffed Thang, patting Velma’s hand. “Ancient history, like that Holocart thing from the seventeenth century BC.”

Marge rolled her eyes. “Your lack of knowledge doesn’t inspire a lot of confidence in our education system. Come on, we need a new slogan for the next generation of Minimizers, coming out next year. The health insurance companies are balking, according to the higher-ups. We need something that will convince them minimization of the future of the human species.”

Dale picked up his tablet and resumed his game. “Like we have a choice.”

“Tell us what’s at stake, Velma!” the host yelled into the microphone.

Velma, dressed in a shiny silver gown, pointed with a well-manicured hand at the huge wheel on the wall. “Well, Vince, the accused basically faces two outcomes, guilty or not guilty. Just like in real life, the Wheel will determine their fate.”

“Lifted up by the Wheel or crushed under it,” Vince joked, tugging at his sparkly blue bowtie. The studio audience laughed and applauded. “Better them than me, is all I can say! Let’s bring out our first contestant.”

A middle-aged woman with grayish skin and bleached hair trudged onto the stage and faced Vince and Velma. Tepid applause faded. The camera operator swung around to capture the contestant’s resigned expression.

“Let’s see, here,” Vince said, reading from a notecard. “You are Mabel Finster, is that correct, of 555 N Redland Lane, Carson City, NV? And you’ve been accused of . . . stealing a bottle of Clairol Easy Does It Highlight Enhancer from a Walmart store!”

Mabel stared at the floor as the audience hooted and whistled.

“Well, step on up to the Wheel, Mabel, and let’s see what Fate has in store for you!”

Mabel shuffled over to the wall and looked up at the Wheel of Fate looming overhead. Alternating segments of red and green blinking lights created a hideous roulette wheel. Red or green. Stop or go. The two possible outcomes were clear.

“Go ahead, Mabel, give it a spin!”

“I have bursitis in my shoulders,” Mabel muttered. “Can’t lift my arms.”

Vince turned to look at the audience. “Bursitis, she says!” he laughed, giving her a sidelong look. “More like reluctance to learn her Fate! What shall we do, Audience?”

“Spin it, spin it!” shouted the audience.

“You can press the Autospin Button, Mabel,” Vince said, waving a hand at a big red button on the wall. “We had that installed specifically for cases like yours. Reluctance to learn your Fate will not halt Fate. She will have her way! Go ahead, punch that button, Mabel. We are all dying to find out what Fate has in store for you.”

Mabel gave the red button a tentative push and stood back. The Wheel of Fate started spinning with a clamor of bells and flashing lights, slowly at first, and then faster. The howling of the audience was lost in the din. Mabel stood, shoulders sagging, and waited while the Wheel gradually lost momentum.

“Red, green, red, green,” shouted the audience as the Wheel slowed. “Red!”

“Mabel, the Wheel of Fate has determined you are guilty of petty theft!” Vince chortled. “How do you feel about that?”

Mabel shrugged.

“Velma, tell us what happens next!”

Velma posed by the Wheel. “Well, Vince, now the Wheel of Fate will determine how long Mabel’s sentence will be.” She pulled a gold lever protruding from the wall with an elegant well-practiced gesture. “The segments of the Wheel will now offer a range of possible sentence outcomes, from one day to one thousand years.”

Vince turned to the audience. “What do you think Mabel’s sentence will be, Audience? What punishment does Mabel deserve for stealing a bottle of hair color? One day? Ten days? Ten years?”

“Five years!” shouted a fat man in the front row.

“Ten years!” screamed the woman with bleached hair sitting next to him.

“Five thousand years!” yelled a man in a Walmart manager uniform.

Vince held up a hand. “The Wheel of Fate only goes to one thousand years, have a heart!” The audience laughed. “Okay, Mabel, it’s your turn to find out how long you are going to be in jail. Step on up there, no button on this round, so you’ll have to give it a spin.”

Mabel winced as she lifted her arm to give the edge of the Wheel a feeble nudge. The Wheel began turning, accompanied by loud sirens and clanging bells. Neon lights flashed as it hit peak speed and then slowed.

“Five, four, three, two . . . five hundred years!” Vince said into the mic. “Mabel, sorry, the Wheel of Fate has determined your sentence will be five hundred years for misdemeanor shoplifting.”

The audience was mostly silent, except for a few snickers and one “serves her right” from the Walmart manager.

Vince addressed the audience with a serious expression. “This sentence might seem harsh to some of you,” he said. “However, we must remember, Fate is neutral. Fate will always determine what happens. Our show acknowledges that we have no control over Fate. The premise of Wheel of Fate is that letting Fate take its course is the most fair and equitable way to decide outcomes. Our task is to accept what Fate has given us. It is what it is!” He turned to Mabel. “How are you feeling, Mabel? Are you ready to start serving your sentence.”

“Whatever,” Mabel mumbled.

“Don’t worry, Mabel,” Vince called as the bailiff led her away. “The Students for Fairness in Sentencing are already working on your case. Just hang tight. You’ll probably be out in thirty years, maybe less with good behavior.”

Jill inserted her card into the park water dispenser and checked her phone while Bingo lapped out of the stainless steel water bowl. She looked up from her phone as Bingo began to yap. A child-sized creature hunched just beyond the edge of the overhead light.

“Please.”

“Oh, my goodness, is that a, are you a . . . ?”

“We are People of the Sand.”

The Sandie’s tongue hung out like a dog’s. It seemed to be male, maybe three feet tall, clad in a rough thigh-length garment of cloth that looked handwoven of twigs and desert grass. Lanks of dirty twisted hair hung to his shoulders, framing a deeply lined face the color of desert sand. His eyes were focused on the water in the bowl.

“I thought the Sandies were myth!” Jill said. “Legend!” She wondered how many times she had walked Bingo on the gravel trails of this park, feet away from a Sandie, and never known.

“Water.” The Sandie pointed at the bowl.

“Oh, heavens, of course.” Jill stood back from the fountain. The Sandie approached cautiously and slurped from the bowl.

A dozen Sandies slowly emerged into the light, watching Jill and Bingo warily. They sidled to the water. The bigger Sandies helped the little ones drink.

“We thank you,” the largest Sandie said, bowing to Jill. The group edged back toward the desert.

“Wait, don’t you have enough water? Where do you live?”

“We live in the hollows of the saguaros,” the Sandie said. “Once we had houses made of stones on the banks of a wide blue river. The Invaders froze our river and all the rivers for miles around. The earth is restless and hot. Our streams have dwindled to trickles. We are dying of thirst.”

“Invaders? Oh, you mean the State built dams on the river. Yes, there is a water shortage, it’s true. The State’s conservation efforts seem to be working, though, so they say. There’s enough water to build two thousand more homes in this area.” Jill waved her hand to indicate the retirement community in the valley where she lived with Bingo.

“You have been kind to us today,” the Sandie said. “Because of your kindness, I will give you a word of advice. Move to higher ground before sunset tomorrow.”

“Higher . . . what are you talking about? I can’t just move.”

“Move, or lose everything, including your life,” the Sandie said and turned its back.

Jill walked home with Bingo. As she walked by the lush lawns and shrubs of her neighbors’ yards, the episode with the Sandie seemed more and more like a dream. The familiar burbling of fountains emanated from almost every front yard. Sprinklers were running, she noticed, but almost everyone had their systems on timers, so the sprinkling only occurred in the early morning hours. To minimize evaporation, of course. Water ran off the lawns, efficiently caught by concrete gutters and sent toward grated sewer openings. Jill had never thought much about where that water went or how it could have been put to better use than keeping desert lawns green in the summer.

As the day wore on, Jill felt inclined to pack a few things in her car. The next day she packed a few more things. By noon, she and Bingo were headed toward a recreational area in the foothills above the dam. The sun was warm, but trees offered some shade. She and Bingo sat on a picnic blanket under a spreading Ponderosa pine and watched the dam implode.

The three Time Men (there were no women, that was the problem) gathered around their last-ditch experiment. Populations of Time People had dwindled to almost nothing. As far as they knew, they were the only Time Men left in existence. Carrying on the mission had become increasingly fraught in the deteriorating environment. If this effort failed, it would likely be the end.

Rill, Terp, and Dar leaned toward the ceramic cauldron slowly heating over a fire built in a grate in the floor.

“Is anything forming yet?” Dar asked. “It has to be hot enough to form, but not so hot it keeps melting.”

“We aren’t getting enough flame,” Rill said, wiping his brow.

“If only we had a reliable source of raw materials,” Terp mused. “Have we really mined every possible vein, explored every conceivable crack and crevice, no matter how small?”

“My last mission turned up nothing,” Dar said. His plastic uniform was irrepairably ruined from transversing dangerous new terrain, searching for the matter they needed for their experiment. “I thought I had seen a new canyon, but when I went back to look, it was gone. Either it had closed or it had never been there to begin with. My ocular powers are failing.”

Terp nodded. “Yes, it is very difficult not knowing when the sun will rise or how long it will stay if it does appear. The risk of freezing for good is always with us. This life has grown very precarious.”

“I miss the voices of Time Kids,” Rill said. “I wonder if we’ll ever hear them again.”

“I will make another journey.” Dar started gathering up his gear, mostly ropes and small gadgets to help him descend and climb the tall cliffs that invaded their territory without warning.

“I will come with you,” said Rill. “Terp, you stay here and watch the experiment. Try to keep the fire from going out. We’ll be back as soon as we can.”

Terp bowed. “May the gods grant mercy to the Time People.”

Rill and Dar returned the bow, and then they all clasped hands. Words could not express the combination of sadness and desperation they were feeling, here, at the end of the world.

Terp sat by the steaming cauldron, plastic eyes unblinking. From time to time, he foraged in the dark around the camp for combustible material—dirt, dust, twigs, splinters, anything he could find to keep the fire alive. The lump of soft plastic in the bottom of the cauldron wasn’t soft enough to mold into a complete person, perhaps it would remain just a torso with a head. Whatever it turned out to be, they would welcome it as a new member of their tribe. As long as the fire burned, there was hope.

Without regular cycles of light and dark, he could not say for sure how many days and nights passed as he waited for the return of his companions. Darkness was much preferred to light, because they could not function in direct light. Freezing in place was the Time People’s only defense against the enormous predators who roamed the farthest reaches of the land. However, time lost meaning and direction without regular illumination.

A scuffling noise woke him from his despair. Two dusty figures emerged from the darkness into the firelight, dragging something huge between them.

Rill and Dar dropped their catch by the fire.

Rill propped one foot on the motionless mass of sinewy threads and raised a triumphant fist. “Terp, we have returned. See what we bring!”

The Time Men gathered around their find. It was a misshapen creature, larger than the three of them put together, pulverized and dusty from being dragged over and around obstacles. They paused to reflect on the amount of energy and stealth required to accomplish such a feat. Not to mention faith.

“We can’t tell what color it is yet,” Dar said, “and it definitely has an odor.” They all laughed.

“They usually do, these things,” Terp said. “Time Men, you have arrived just in time. The fire was almost out.”

The three Time Men pulled out their blades and cut pieces of the thready creature for the fire. Soon the flames were blazing. The cauldron began to sizzle.

A terrifying rasping sound gave them one second of warning before sudden bright light flooded their territory and froze them in place.

“Ma, I lost my sock,” boomed a loud voice in the blinding light.

“Did you look in your closet?”

The floor of the land shook as a giant weighing millions, maybe billions, of ounces fell to its colossal knees on the floorboards. A monstrous hand rummaged among the mountains and hills, sending the Time Men flying off their feet to fetch up against the far walls of their compound.

“Here it is,” said the voice. Lying frozen in awkward positions, the Time Men could only watch in horror as the hand grasped the creature they had worked so hard to capture and lifted it in the air as if it weighed nothing.

A face as big as the mythical moon bent down. “Listen, dudes, I know you need this sock, but my mother will kill me if I lose another one. I brought you this instead. I hope it will work. She’s got tons of these old dish towels, she’ll never miss one.”

A source of raw material floated to the floor. It was as big as three sock creatures, and smelled of exotic spices, soap, and grease. The huge hand set the Time Men back on their feet, one by one.

“Don’t give up, guys,” the voice came as the light source faded and disappeared. From far away, they heard, “I got some girls coming for you from Amazon.”

The Time Men straightened their bent limbs and high-fived each other. “This will last a long time,” said Rill.

“The gods are good,” Terp said.

They got to work ripping threads off the new energy source for their fire. They settled back into the camp rhythm, feeding the fire and praying to the gods that Time Women were indeed on the way.

---

*Note: Inspired by my younger brother, who used to blame the “Time Men” whenever he lost a sock.

Mik woke up when the furnace came on. The many-limbed metal-sided creature outside his basement bedroom sounded funny. Mik was familiar with every wheezing breath, every gentle whoosh and jarring boom the old thing made. This time, the roaring seemed louder than usual, and what’s more, the small window near the ceiling of Mik’s room indicated it was still dark outside. Those things didn’t match up. His parents always set the furnace on low at the night. So, three options: The house was super cold, his parents had forgotten to change the thermostat before bed, or daylight had failed to arrive. Of those three, Mik much preferred the last one. Daylight meant school, and school meant explaining to Miss Hubbert why he hadn’t written his book report.

The furnace whined and clanged, sounding like a jet engine. The concrete floor vibrated. Last year’s softball trophy fell off a shelf onto the rug, followed by some books and a plastic model of the USS Enterprise. Mik threw off his bedcovers and rushed to the door. He fell back in shock. Somehow, the furnace had taken flight, taking Mik and his bedroom with it.

Mik grabbed onto the doorjamb and gazed over the shiny curve of a furnace duct as his neighborhood receded into the distance. A contrail of wooden slats, shingles, droplets of heating oil, a couple library books (including the one he hadn’t read), and lots of blank notebook paper scattered in their wake. No school today, he exulted. Outer solar system, here I come!

The curve of the earth was outlined by clouds and night sky as the furnace labored to rise. The sky lightened toward the east. Up, Mik urged. Away! The furnace lumbered upward, waving its ducts as if they were wings, but then began to lose momentum, as furnaces inevitably do when they get old and start leaking heating oil. Long before they reached the edge of earth’s atmosphere, the furnace had run out of fuel. The descent began.

Mik screamed as his bedroom disintegrated, leaving him sitting astride a hot metal duct as if it were a bucking horse. Down they came, pulled by gravity. The land below unblurred into buildings, trees, the river, the park, the school, and finally his own yard, where he could see a gaping hole where his house used to be. He covered his head with his arms and prepared to die.

“Mik, wake up. Time for school.”

His mother’s footsteps faded up the stairs. She must have flicked the thermostat, because in the next moment, the furnace rumbled to life.

Deb stopped the two hikers coming up the trail toward her. “What’s going on down there? Was there an accident?”

The taller hiker planted his poles in the ground, while the woman took a swig from a flask she pulled out of a backpack. They looked down the hill at the crowd of people milling around at the foot of the trail, blocking the road into the park. A car horn honked.

“There’s a unicorn in the reservoir,” the man said, wiping his forehead.

“A unicorn!” Deb pushed past and hurried down the trail to see for herself. If only, she thought. Maybe there is some magic left in this world.

She navigated past the empty tennis court and emerged from under the wide branches of a hundred-year-old pine tree to see dozens of people ranged around the vintage wrought iron fence erected to keep viewers from falling into the reservoir. She found a spot next to a sign proclaiming “This is your drinking water!” and stared into the blue-green depths. Something white floated near the concrete pumphouse. The slanting rays of the late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the water, making it hard to see clearly.

“What is everyone looking at?” she asked the woman standing next to her.

“Something got trapped in the water,” the woman said. She held a cellphone camera. “It can’t get up the sides. I’m trying to zoom in but it’s pretty blurry.”

“It’s a unicorn,” the man with her said. “Look, it’s got a horn and everything.”

“It is not,” the woman said. “That’s wishful thinking.”

The man blew cigarette smoke and said, “What’s wrong with wishful thinking?”

Deb moved upwind and stood next to a mother with two kids. The children pressed their faces against the bars of the iron fence, gazing raptly at the thing in the water.

“It’s singing,” said the shortest child, a girl of maybe six.

“No, it’s not!” scoffed her older brother. “It’s just garbage somebody threw in the water.”

“They’re going to drain the reservoir,” announced a big man in a yellow velour track suit. “I just heard it on the radio.”

A helicopter approached from the west and began circling the park at a low altitude.

“Why do they have to drain the reservoir?” Deb shouted at the man.

“Contamination,” he shouted back. “This is our drinking water.”

The white thing in the water floated in the shadow of the pumphouse, not moving much, and certainly not singing, not that Deb could hear, anyway. After an hour of enduring the noise of the circling helicopter, the crowd wandered away. The sun had set. The streetlights in the park began to glow. Onlookers hurried to their cars and bicycles to get out of the park before the gates closed.

Deb walked home and tuned into the evening news. “City officials are draining the main reservoir at Mt. Tabor Park to remove an unknown contaminant,” the newscaster said. The channel showed a fuzzy image of something white in the water, captured from the air.

The next morning, Deb woke early to sirens in the neighborhood, followed by the whomping of a circling helicopter. Voices shouted outside her apartment. Pulling back a curtain, she saw a parade of people streaming up the street, heading for the park. She pulled on a sweater and hurried to join the throng.

The narrow trails were choked with hikers, some of whom probably had never visited this park before, let alone hiked. Deb saw more than a few people lose their footing and tumble into the ravine. Their companions slid down the slope to help them to their feet. Nobody appeared to be seriously injured. Everyone was intent on reaching the reservoir.

Police cars with flashing lights had blocked the roads into the park. Pedestrians and bicyclists surged on every available path. Overhead, the helicopter roared. At one viewpoint on the trail, Deb could see the reservoir had drained overnight and was now empty of water. The lovely reflective blue water had been replaced by a huge empty pit lined in crumbling concrete and patched with asphalt.

Deb moved with the assembly, trying not to get stepped on or shoved off the path, and finally emerged from under the trees. She joined the massive crowd clinging to the iron fence, and strained to get a look at the thing in the reservoir.

The receding water had left a sludge on the bottom of the pit. Something that resembled a dirty gray horse huddled next to the pumphouse, staring up at the milling mass of humans ranged around the edge of the reservoir. When it turned its head, Deb could see what looked like a horn. Yes, there was a horn, growing from its forehead.

“Fake,” someone suggested during a lull in the noise.

“Duct tape,” someone else agreed without conviction.

The morning sun crested the hill. As soon as the first ray illuminated the pumphouse shadow, the thing, whatever it was, stood up, shook off the mud, and trotted out into the center of the pit into full sunlight. It turned in a circle several times, bowing and nodding, as if to show off its amazing horn. Sunlight rippled around the creature, and then in a dazzling flash, enveloped it completely. When Deb got her eyesight back, she saw only the concrete pit, devoid of water and now devoid of magic.

The helicopter faded south. People looked at each other in embarrassment and began to disperse.

Deb walked home with a song in her heart.

Magic exists.

“I need a nap,” God said to his archangels. “Find me a guest host for a week, would you?

Michael said, “Sure thing, Boss. Should we talk to the girls?”

God shook his mighty head. “No, last time they started World War Three.”

“And Four, Five, and Six!” laughed Raphael.

“Right. I had to do a complete restore on the entire earth system. Daughters are unpredictable. My advice, avoid having any if you can. Not that you guys will have to worry about it. Anyhoo, I’ll leave it to you three to find the right host. Wake me up if things go sideways.”

Gabriel saluted. “We’ll run simulations before we choose, Boss. You can count on us. Sweet dreams.”

Michael accessed his wrist computer. “Well, this shouldn’t take long. It’s a no-brainer, as far as I can tell.”

“Right on, Mikey. You thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Yeah, let’s get the Vatican on the horn. And if we can’t get His Holiness, we can try for one of the American bishops, if we can find one that hasn’t, you know, got a reputation.”

“Gabe, plug in the parameters. Let’s run this thing. Bing, bang, boom.”

Run simulation 1.

Michael looked a little chagrined. “Well, that didn’t work. It seemed like a great idea, we all agreed, right? Was that like the planetary version of the Spanish Inquisition? His Holiness turned out to be a real fanatic. If there’s one thing we ought to have learned by now is that religion is a fighting word. Can you believe civilization ended in six days? Six days! God won’t be too happy if this is all we got.”

Gabriel nodded. “I think we need someone a little more objective, maybe someone with superior organizational skills and less passion. You know, a corporate CEO type.” 

Raphael smiled. “Are you thinking that bald guy?”

“Yeah, the one who runs that giant megacorporation, owns most of the market share of all the developed nations on earth. He’s not driven by ideology. He’ll keep the planes flying on time.” 

“Gabe, excellent choice! Truly inspired.”

Michael entered the data into the computer. “Let’s run it.”

Run simulation 2.

Gabriel scratched his head. “That was unexpected. Consumerism really is as bad as the fearmongers have been saying. I hate those activists, especially since it turns out they are right. All the planet’s resources depleted in just five days. I thought for sure it would work.”

Raphael sighed. “It started going gunnysack when the global average temperature hit that tipping point the scientists have been yammering about. Once the oceans went acidic, you could tell it was all over.” 

Michael slumped on his ergonomic throne. “Yeah. Not good. Well, it seems to me that the main problem with that scenario was consumer independence.” 

“Yeah, they were allowed to do whatever they wanted.” 

Raphael snapped his fingers. “That means, the best choice for guest host might be a strong man. I don’t mean Hercules, although that would be fun. I mean an authoritarian type, you know someone who isn’t afraid to tell it like it is and put people in jail if they don’t agree.”

Gabriel grinned. “You’re thinking of that orange dude, aren’t you?

“Yeah, why not? A lot of people seem to like him.”

Michael curled his lip. “I don’t see why, personally, but I never did enjoy kool-aid, ha ha. Well, just because he’s head of a cult doesn’t mean he’s a bad guy. Let’s run the simulation.”

Run simulation 3. 

“Jesus on a Stick!”

“Careful, Raphie!”

“Whoops. Sorry, I just can hardly believe my eyes. He destroyed the earth in four days.” 

Michael shrugged. “Technically, it was destroyed the moment he got ahold of the nuclear football. He just couldn’t resist pressing that button. Once nuclear warheads start flying around, you can pretty much kiss life goodbye. Most humans sort of know that instinctively. Not that dude, apparently.” 

“I’m surprised he managed to keep his finger off the trigger for four days,” Gabriel said. “Up all night twinking or whatever it’s called these days . . . revenge, retribution . . . That’s our schtick! The idiot wrecked the entire planet. Nothing will grow there for a billion years.”

Raphael put his head in his hands. “I didn’t think this would be so difficult.”

Michael straightened up. “Maybe we need to review our history books.”

“What do you mean?” 

“Well, humans have a tendency to vote for leaders who are exceptionally attractive, right? It’s a proven fact that you have a better chance of getting a job if you are in the top percentile of attractiveness.” 

“What are you saying?” asked Raphael.

“Who do you know that is super handsome?”

“Do I have to choose a man? I find that young woman with the long blonde hair very appealing, you know the one who lives in a pink house?” 

Gabriel wagged a finger. “The earth is definitely not ready for a female god. Goddess.” 

Michael laughed. “She’s hot, but I was thinking of the Sexiest Man Alive.” 

“Hm,” Rapahel said, nodding slowly. “You might be on to something. Voters seem to like actors.” 

Gabriel held up both hands. “That orange dude was an actor and look how that turned out.”

“That was reality TV. What we need is someone very handsome and also trustworthy, like a doctor.” 

Gabriel snorted. “After a global pandemic? Not sure that will fly.”

“Okay, don’t get your feathers in a clump. Maybe a lawyer. A tall, dark-haired handsome lawyer.” 

“Perry Mason, maybe?”

“Raphie, Perry Mason was a TV character played by Raymond Burr, currently deceased.”

Raphael looked embarrassed. 

Gabriel laughed. “Raymond Burr is enjoying his heavenly reward over in Sector 5, last I heard. Anyway, lawyers don’t have a lot of respect these days, no matter how handsome they are. But Mikey is onto something. Someone from law enforcement might be perfect. A District DA or maybe a Chief Inspector from one of those smarmy British telly shows.” 

Raphael clapped his hands. “I know, I know. Let’s get that guy from Gunsmoke!”

“Raphie, really? Check the records.”

“Dead?”

“Yes. And the time of lawmen fighting outlaws and Indians is long gone. Indigenous peoples, I mean.” 

“Darn it.”

Michael waved his hands to get their attention. “Why not go with a Sexiest Man Alive? We probably can’t get the last two or three guys, but how about the guy from 2020?”

Gabriel consulted his computer screen. “Uh, according to the records, he was black.”

“Oops. No, the world is not ready for a God with dark skin.”  Michael sighed. “Let’s just run it with this year’s Sexiest Man Alive and see what happens.”

Run simulation 4.

The three archangels looked at each other. Michael stroked his chin. “Hm. That was actually better than I expected.”

“Yeah, not so bad.” 

“More of what we have right now. Meaning, more of everything for the haves, less and less for the havenots.”

“Status quo,” agreed Raphael. 

Gabriel looked skeptical. “Do you think that is good enough to guest host for God?” 

“I don’t know. You can see how it is going to play out. It might take a while, but sooner or later, the havenots are going to realize they’ve been played. They will rise up and and try to form unions. When the corporations smack them down, there will be rioting in the streets. It won’t be quite as dramatic as nuclear annihilation, but I don’t think God will be pleased.”

Raphael sighed. “We need to do some pondering. Let’s say we reset.”

“What, you mean pray for inspiration?”

“Well, I was thinking more along the lines of a Budweiser, but to each his own.”

Michael stood up with excitement. “Eureka, I think I have it. I think the problem is we’ve lost the quality of innocence.”

“What do you mean, Mikey?”

“I’m thinking, how about someone who is so fresh and new they haven’t had time to be ruined by hatred, greed, lust, and selfishness. A tabula raisin or whatever they call it.” 

Gabriel nodded. “Yeah, I get it. The blank slate. No corruption.” 

“Let’s try it with a three-month-old, see what happens.”

“Three months? Do you think they are still innocent at three months? By then they have learned that parents are unreliable and unpredictable. At best!” 

Michael sat down. “Hm. Okay, how about three hours? What corruption can happen in the three hours after birth?”

Gabriel sighed. “We would probably be surprised. It’s the human condition. From birth, it’s all downhill. But let’s try it. It might be our best chance. Out of the mouths of babes.”

Run simulation 5.

Raphael began to giggle. “Wow. That didn’t take long, did it? Who knew a three-hour old child could be so demanding and so vindictive when it doesn’t get fed on time. She drained all the mothers dry and then went to town on the fathers. Who does that?”

“Was that a girl baby?” asked Gabriel. “I couldn’t tell, they all look alike to me. Stinky little farts. Maybe that was our mistake, maybe we should have specified a boy baby.”

Michael waved his hands again. “No, you guys. I think God is trying to teach us something here.” 

Raphael rolled his eyes. “Not another G-damn learning opportunity. Oops, sorry.”

Long moments of dejected silence followed as the archangels slumped around the table.

Gabriel sat up. “This might be really dumb, but what if we let fate decide?”

Michael looked surprised. “What do you mean? Like, leave it up to chance?”

“Yes. Or if you like, let ‘God’ decide.” Gabriel used air quotes. 

“That’s so radical it might actually work,” Michael laughed.

Raphael nudged his shoulder. “And you said you didn’t like kool-aid.”

“Ha ha, very funny.” 

“Well, that’s my idea,” Gabriel said. “Shall we try it?”

“So mote it be.”

---

The Trimline phone sitting on Cheryl’s breakfast bar rang, startling her from her crossword puzzle. She put down her pencil and picked up the receiver.

A warm voice asked, “Is this Cheryl Turnbeau?”

“Who wants to know?” Cheryl said, trying to uncoil the snarled phone cord. 

“Ms. Turnbeau, my name is Bill Michael, from Raphael Gabriel Michael. We’re a law firm, based out of New York and other places.”

“Good morning, Mr. Michael,” Cheryl said politely. “Is this something to do with my son?”

“No, we are operating as a talent agency, Ms. Turnbeau, for a very special Client. I’m calling to let you know you have been selected to participate on a game show we are developing for the American television cable market. Do you like game shows?”

“Sure, when my TV isn’t on the fritz.”

“We’ll make sure your television is replaced as part of your compensation for participating.”

“Okay. What is the show about? Would I have to come down to your studio? My car isn’t too reliable.”

“We can do it all on the computer,” the caller said in a warm soothing voice. “Isn’t modern technology marvelous? You won’t have to leave the comfort of your home.”

Cheryl looked around at the shabby kitchen walls of her single-wide. “I don’t have a computer.”

“Don’t you worry. We’ll have one delivered to your door.”

Cheryl’s guard went up. The voice on the phone sounded a bit like calls she’d received over the years from guys asking her to do things over the phone, usually involving nylon pantyhose. “Sounds too good to be true. Is this some sort of scam?”

“No, we assure you, this is a legitimate guest host, I mean, opportunity to be a guest on a new game show. Your help would be greatly appreciated.”

“Well . . .”

“Ms. Turnbeau, your new computer is on your front porch, if you’d care to go see?”

Cheryl put the phone down, got up, and went to her front door. She returned to the phone. “Well, I’ll be gosh darned. There’s a box on my porch.”

“We’ll help you set it up over the phone. We’ll even run the cable to connect you to the internet.”

A half hour later, the laptop was booted up and glowing on Cheryl’s breakfast bar.

“This game show is about making decisions,” said the man on the phone. “Let’s do a test run.”

“I see a question on the screen. Say, I recognize this. It’s the Trolley Problem, isn’t it?”

“Very good, Ms. Turnbeau! May I call you Cheryl? When you make your choice, press the submit button at the bottom of the screen.”

“I don’t like these choices,” Cheryl said and proposed another choice in which no one suffered or died. 

There was a long silence over the phone. 

“Was that okay? I hope I didn’t break it,” Cheryl said.

“No, no, that was, well, that was pure genius. How did you come up with that option? We didn’t even know it existed!”

“Well, you know. I just said a little prayer and there it was.”

Over the course of the week, Cheryl answered lots of questions, most involving social and ethical dilemmas that required all her concentration. When she found herself confused, she prayed silently and was gratified that grace seemed to lead her each time to the option that caused the least amount of suffering. She couldn’t change all outcomes—after all, no one could live forever—but she made sure all creatures experienced divine grace before they departed the physical plane. 

“This must be what it feels like to be God,” she thought to herself. Then she laughed. Let’s not get above ourselves, Cheryl Turnbeau. 

Suddenly, it occurred to Cheryl that she could be proactive. “As long as I’m playing this game, I’ll do my best to fix what else that’s wrong.” 

The world was like a giant puzzle, she discovered, with trillions of pieces interconnected, constantly changing. A little nudge here had big consequences way over there. “There’s got to be a way to make things better,” she mused. Cheryl got busy. 

First, she inspired corporations to stop damaging the environment and to compensate for the damage they’d already done. Miraculous technologies appeared. Microplastics were rounded up and put to good use. Next, she awakened humans to the realization they were part of the problem and that they could be the solution. School children and teachers met after class in hordes to pick up trash. With a little encouragement, housing developers suddenly realized the right thing to do was to build lots of affordable housing. Tent cities became a thing of the past, as the unhoused received adequate shelter. Pedestrians returned to the sidewalks to stroll their revitalized downtowns. Flowers bloomed in borders around vegetable gardens grown in backyards and vacant lots. Solar panels, windmills, and water wheels displaced fossil fuels. Coal plants shut down. Electric vehicles crossed the country from coast to coast. The human life span began to expand again as pesticides were retired, fresh produce entered the inner cities, and blood pressure rates fell to healthy ranges. Trains were back in vogue, and planes got more fuel efficient until finally they were flying long distances on mere sips of fuel.

All too soon, the week was over. 

Cheryl’s phone rang.

“We’d like to thank you for participating in our game show experiment, Cheryl. You were an amazing guest. We still can’t believe how you figured out the affordable housing problem.”

“Yes, that was a challenge, all right. Once I realized I could influence people by putting more love in their water, everything just fell into place.”

“What a concept. Cheryl, we are authorized to offer you a special gift. What would you like? You can of course keep the laptop, although it won’t run this particular program anymore. Is there anything else you’d like, Cheryl? New car, perhaps? New roof? Get your son out of jail? How about a new wardrobe and an all-expenses paid trip to New Orleans?”

“Thank you for your kind offer, but there’s really nothing I need.”

“Nothing at all? The . . . Producer would really like to thank you for your work.”

“Well, if you could put in a word for me, I’d appreciate it,” Cheryl said. “I mean, I do my best to believe, but if you could get Him to drop by from time to time, I’d surely be grateful.”

After a long silence, the caller said, “We will let Him know.”