Read Online The God Equation and Other Stories by Michael A.R. Co - Free Book Online
Authors: Michael A.R. Co
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memory?”
“What?”
“Your memory,” he said. “Think backwards. Was there a time you believed in me?”
I thought about whipped cream. I thought about snow. “I was six.”
“Indeed you were. Do you remember what you asked for?” The twinkle in his eyes had returned, and the air was thick with the smell of cinnamon.
“A bicycle,” I said.
“That ’ s right,” he said, “a silver-colored bicycle. Exquisite craftsmanship, I recall.”
“It was you.”
“Did you think your parents bought it for you?”
I did. I assumed they read my letter and bought me the bike. My mother never sent it but kept it in a scrapbook which she showed me when I was a bit older. “They didn ’ t buy it?” I said.
“My people contacted them a week after you wrote the letter. They told them that their names had been selected at a raffle and the prize was a brand new bicycle. Kiddie-sized. Your parents took full credit, did they?”
They didn ’ t. They never talked about it. I had just assumed. “Please don ’ t drag my folks into this,” I pleaded. “They ’ re innocent.”
“Indeed they are,” he said. “It ’ s you I want.”
“Why me?”
“You wrote the letter.”
He pulled out a pair of glasses and put them on; then he reached into his jacket and brought out a folded, yellowed piece of pad paper. He unfolded it, scanned the letter, and read aloud. “ I promise to be good always. Your own words, boy. Your own hand.”
“I was six years old!”
“The letter was a contract. You made a request, we delivered the goods, you accepted it. You promised to be good.”
“You expect every kid to be good forever?”
“Not every kid,” he said. “Only those who wrote me letters, only those who once believed in me, only those who accepted my gift, and only those who broke their promises, who didn ’ t meet their end of the bargain. Kids like you.” He refolded the letter and tucked it into his jacket.
“I just turned twenty-one…”
“Oh, yes, that. As kids grow older, yes, they become nasty. That ’ s part of life, isn ’ t it? But I expect them to lead relatively righteous lives at least until they reach adulthood.” He puffed his cigar, licked his lips. “Rape, by my definition, isn ’ t particularly righteous. If you had stolen a cookie from the cookie jar, I ’ d have turned a blind eye. But this…”
“I told you, I had already turned twenty-one by the time I screwed her!”
He delivered a right cross, broke my jaw. I fell to the floor, nearly passed out, hands still tied behind my back. He waited for my jaw to heal. Then he kicked me, cutting my lip. He waited for that to heal, too.
“There are twenty-four hours in a day, boy. You might have been twenty-one in your city, but in my time zone, you were still twenty.”
I lay on the floor, stared at his shoes. A cigar dropped near my nose, and he extinguished it with a twist of his toe. Then he snapped his fingers, and my hands were suddenly free as if there had never been any rope in the first place. I was too exhausted to stand.
Then two figures came in: Mr. Black and a girl. “Take him to the factory,” Santa told them. “We could use him in our pogo stick division.”
Mr. Black still wore that weird ponytail. The girl still had the face of an angel and the body of a whore. She smelled like cinnamon. They all did, come to think of it.
They each held one of my arms and pulled me up. My feet dragged as they carried me out the door.
“Where are they taking me?” I cry out to Santa.
“To Antarctica,” he replied.
“B-but … I thought you lived in the North Pole?”
“Greenland, boy. But our toy factory is down south. I run a complex global operation and need to keep costs down.”
His voice faded as they dragged me into the darkness. “Who knows, if you perform well enough and live long enough, I ’ ll transfer you to o ur bicycle division in Guangzhou . Ho! Ho!”
“The Off Season” copyright © 2007
“What?”
“Your memory,” he said. “Think backwards. Was there a time you believed in me?”
I thought about whipped cream. I thought about snow. “I was six.”
“Indeed you were. Do you remember what you asked for?” The twinkle in his eyes had returned, and the air was thick with the smell of cinnamon.
“A bicycle,” I said.
“That ’ s right,” he said, “a silver-colored bicycle. Exquisite craftsmanship, I recall.”
“It was you.”
“Did you think your parents bought it for you?”
I did. I assumed they read my letter and bought me the bike. My mother never sent it but kept it in a scrapbook which she showed me when I was a bit older. “They didn ’ t buy it?” I said.
“My people contacted them a week after you wrote the letter. They told them that their names had been selected at a raffle and the prize was a brand new bicycle. Kiddie-sized. Your parents took full credit, did they?”
They didn ’ t. They never talked about it. I had just assumed. “Please don ’ t drag my folks into this,” I pleaded. “They ’ re innocent.”
“Indeed they are,” he said. “It ’ s you I want.”
“Why me?”
“You wrote the letter.”
He pulled out a pair of glasses and put them on; then he reached into his jacket and brought out a folded, yellowed piece of pad paper. He unfolded it, scanned the letter, and read aloud. “ I promise to be good always. Your own words, boy. Your own hand.”
“I was six years old!”
“The letter was a contract. You made a request, we delivered the goods, you accepted it. You promised to be good.”
“You expect every kid to be good forever?”
“Not every kid,” he said. “Only those who wrote me letters, only those who once believed in me, only those who accepted my gift, and only those who broke their promises, who didn ’ t meet their end of the bargain. Kids like you.” He refolded the letter and tucked it into his jacket.
“I just turned twenty-one…”
“Oh, yes, that. As kids grow older, yes, they become nasty. That ’ s part of life, isn ’ t it? But I expect them to lead relatively righteous lives at least until they reach adulthood.” He puffed his cigar, licked his lips. “Rape, by my definition, isn ’ t particularly righteous. If you had stolen a cookie from the cookie jar, I ’ d have turned a blind eye. But this…”
“I told you, I had already turned twenty-one by the time I screwed her!”
He delivered a right cross, broke my jaw. I fell to the floor, nearly passed out, hands still tied behind my back. He waited for my jaw to heal. Then he kicked me, cutting my lip. He waited for that to heal, too.
“There are twenty-four hours in a day, boy. You might have been twenty-one in your city, but in my time zone, you were still twenty.”
I lay on the floor, stared at his shoes. A cigar dropped near my nose, and he extinguished it with a twist of his toe. Then he snapped his fingers, and my hands were suddenly free as if there had never been any rope in the first place. I was too exhausted to stand.
Then two figures came in: Mr. Black and a girl. “Take him to the factory,” Santa told them. “We could use him in our pogo stick division.”
Mr. Black still wore that weird ponytail. The girl still had the face of an angel and the body of a whore. She smelled like cinnamon. They all did, come to think of it.
They each held one of my arms and pulled me up. My feet dragged as they carried me out the door.
“Where are they taking me?” I cry out to Santa.
“To Antarctica,” he replied.
“B-but … I thought you lived in the North Pole?”
“Greenland, boy. But our toy factory is down south. I run a complex global operation and need to keep costs down.”
His voice faded as they dragged me into the darkness. “Who knows, if you perform well enough and live long enough, I ’ ll transfer you to o ur bicycle division in Guangzhou . Ho! Ho!”
“The Off Season” copyright © 2007
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