The Reluctant God

By James Lawson

One afternoon in February, Michael Movius, a thirty-six year old neurotic who had suffered a mild nervous breakdown and was recuperating at a small hospital in upstate New York, transported Edward Ortega, an unloved attendant at the hospital, from the physical world to an unused recess of his mind.

Thus begins a strange and unusual book in a genre all its own, the story of an ordinary man who must assume the mantle of a god. To accommodate the people he brings into his mind from the real world, he must create a world within his imagination, make the sun rise and set, make rain nourish the land, create an environment that can feed and house the inhabitants of his mind, even lay down laws of conduct and morality.

But events in the real world constantly impinge on the world within. And the people in Movius mind, a microcosm of a normal community, influence the world without. Movius switches back and forth between man and god, incompetence and omnipotence, pettiness and profundity.

Despite its epic scope and philosophical underpinnings, exploring the farthest reaches of the imagination, "The Reluctant God" is an entertaining and eminently readable story of real people trying to cope with an unreal world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jul 22, 2009
• ISBN: 9781440146220

Book preview

Contents

Chapter 1.

Chapter 2.

Chapter 3.

Chapter 4.

Chapter 5.

Chapter 6.

Chapter 7.

Chapter 8.

Chapter 9.

Chapter 10.

Chapter 11.

Chapter 12.

Chapter 13.

Chapter 14.

Chapter 15.

Chapter 16.

Chapter 17.

Chapter 18.

Chapter 19.

Chapter 20.

Chapter 21.

Chapter 22.

Chapter 23.

Chapter 24.

Chapter 25.

Chapter 26.

Chapter 27.

Chapter 28.

Chapter 29.

Chapter 30.

Chapter 31.

Chapter 32.

Chapter 33.

Chapter 34.

Chapter 35.

Chapter 36.

Chapter 37.

Chapter 38.

Chapter 1.

One afternoon in February, Michael Movius, a thirty-six year old neurotic who had suffered a mild nervous breakdown and was recuperating at a small hospital in upstate New York, transported Edward Ortega, an unloved attendant at the hospital, from the physical world to an unused recess of his mind.

It was so sudden and unexpected that neither Movius nor Ortega had an inkling of what had happened to them for hours afterwards. Movius had been slouching in the dayroom, reading a nonviolent comic in a state of extreme but possibly therapeutic boredom, when Ortega, taking a shortcut to the staff bathroom, crashed through in his usual bumptious manner and tripped over Movius' legs.

Dammit, Movius, why are you always in the way? he said, without stopping.

Movius wondered dully whether he could report Ortega to the doctors for swearing, or whether Ortega could report him for tripping, but said and felt nothing. An instant later, however, before Ortega had passed through the portal of the room, Movius felt a tremendous surge of anger accompanied by a ferocious headache, as if some large, meaty object were literally squeezed through his eyes into his brain. It lasted no more than two seconds, but enough for him to cry out in pain and summon the nurse on duty to his aid.

As Movius was being led back to his room, no one immediately noticed that Ortega had completely vanished!

Chapter 2.

On his bed, in the institutionalized bedroom he shared with a young alcoholic, Movius lay rigidly, afraid to move, terrified of the unforeseen spasm's return. He had no tolerance for pain; his teeth were speckled and cratered from years of avoiding dentists; he could be immobilized by indigestion, not from hypochondria but from an almost irresistible disinclination to chance discomfort. When he closed his eyes, he could see Ortega's whole body, in his attendant whites, wearing an uncharacteristic expression of numbed mystification, floating in limbo. Not wishing to dwell on a source of emotion, he preferred to open his eyes and stare at the blinking red light of the smoke detector in the ceiling directly overhead, although he knew its potential for irritation was greater than its potential for hypnotic repose.

Movius scarcely knew why he was here, at Tappan Hospital. If he could pinpoint it exactly, perhaps he could consider himself recovered, although, God knows, he could never remember a state of normalcy to recover.

Technically, there had been an incident preceding his hospitalization, a mere catalyst, however, of undetermined diagnostic value, actually a juvenile tantrum consisting of throwing plates, ash trays and inexpensive bric-a-brac at his mother for daring to examine his prospects. But the salient fact was that, at the age of thirty-six, he had never been able to get his life into a semblance of order, he had never finished a semester of college, had never held a job for more than three months, (including the month and a half it took him to psycho out of the army,) never held a girlfriend for more than two weeks, never spent more than three days without a cigarette or a drink since the age of fourteen.

And before fourteen? As far back as he could remember, he had been hearing the words, the trouble with Michael is …, and our little 'situation', ad nauseam. True, his orientation towards failure started when Movius' father amicably absconded with a neighbor's wife when he was seven and left him, his older sister and his mother, Alicia, with houses in Bronxville and Easthampton and an irreproachable portfolio. But that was so obvious, so clichéd, it seemed of merely passing interest to the succession of psychiatrists he encountered in the next twenty-nine years.

Remembering the day his father left, after a huge, overwhelming circus in Madison Square Garden, in the days of freak shows and no nets — he wondered at the time if the freaks were the result of mishaps on the trapeze — his father and mother tried to whip Michael and his sister into a froth of enthusiasm and he could recall the wondrous, enveloping relief he and his sister shared when it was over, when the last elephant had departed, the last frizzy-haired grotesquerie had stumbled out, when their father had hailed a taxi for them and left their lives forever, except for an occasional cameo appearance for legal or strategic purposes.

This marked the end of his mother's romantic life. Alicia did not accede to a legal divorce — a Spanish upbringing — and neither dated nor flirted ever again, but rehearsed scenes of acrimony in her bed, flaunted her celibacy in public and engaged in innumerable acts of hostile devotion, like the prolonged hugs and kisses Movius had to endure when she delivered him to and picked him up from First and Second Grades until he was forced to bite her in retaliation.

His sister, Adrienne, was five years older and escaped rather quickly. She had been sentenced to boarding school in Virginia at eleven and returned only for vacations and thereafter for brief interludes of recovery from romantic crises. Movius, when his turn came, passed arduously through Choate to Lawrenceville to Peddie to Bronxville High School, floundering all the way. After an unsuccessful stab at a Community College, he embarked on a life of loafing at Alicia's expense, interspersed with spontaneous schemes for entrepreneurial glory which withered in embryo, unwritten books and plays, unexamined correspondence courses, a succession of sales and management trainee positions and long bouts of alcoholic idling, sunning and philosophizing.

The years sped by, but not smoothly. His personality, which had always been of the negligent, easy-going, barstool variety, began to alter in the vacuum of his daily life. He was given to sudden outbursts over nothing, usually directed at Alicia, whose existence revolved around canasta and a seemingly endless round of household chores, although she hired domestics for cleaning and ate in restaurants a good three-quarters of the time. But while Alicia had a solid coterie of canasta partners and a capacity for intense relationships with relieved widows and bitter divorcées, Movius had casual drinking partners and nodding acquaintances, a few embarrassing dates with dental hygienists and manicurists, a distant flirtation with a librarian, a relationship of mutual disinterest with several bartenders, sessions with psychiatrists and an occasional halting reunion with a school friend. Within their utter aimlessness, Movius envied his mother's friendships; their existence grated on him; he felt as if he were losing to her in some way, which at times enraged him or drew him into benumbed depressions, six of which ended up in brief hospitalizations.

The incident which preceded his current term came out of the blue. They had just opened the door of their Bronxville house. I don't see why, said Alicia, continuing a conversation from the restaurant, "the bank wouldn't give you a loan for the franchise — I've been a good customer for thirty years — besides, I told Mr. Porter …"

"You spoke to him?"

Of course, who'd give you a loan on your own?

Salt on the wound, Movius muttered.

Alicia pretended not to hear. Why don't you turn in? You've had a hard day. Actually, she wanted some time alone in front of the TV — Movius' commentaries made the programs unbearable.

I never have a hard day, mother. I haven't had a hard day in twenty years.

Well, whatever.

That was all there was to it. Seconds later, he was throwing dishes at her, and everything else that was remotely portable. He said nothing, he displayed no rage, his expression was mild, if anything slightly amused, his aim was dreadful — he had no real interest in hitting her — it seemed something of a casual lark. When he ran out of things to throw in the living room, he stopped and immediately called the hospital.

Chapter 3.

Ortega was floating in the midst of nothing. It was not entirely dark, but there was no source of light. There were no landmarks, no background, no generalized substance permeating the emptiness. There was no direction; he could not tell if he was up, down or sideways. He could feel nothing beneath his feet or over his head or on any side of him, not even a wind, not even a breath. What he could feel was the clothing on his back, his fingers against his palms, his heart in paroxysms, his parched mouth, his frozen skin and electrified skull.

His intellectual functions remained suspended for perhaps fifteen minutes, perhaps longer. Somehow he seemed to snap out of it. Am I dead? he wondered. He remembered tripping over that idiot, Movius. He must have hit his head.

Or perhaps comatose? Is this the substance of coma? he wondered. Would he awaken twenty years from now, a shrunken homunculus?

He took stock of himself. His body was intact. From all he could tell, his mind was intact. He could twist his neck, lick his lips, move his limbs, circle his arms, kick his legs, scrunch into fishlike positions, he could even make running and walking motions, although he didn't seem to get anywhere — or at least there was no there to get to — to all appearances, he was normal.

Let us assume I'm dead, he said to himself. He prided himself on his rationality, a quality not cultivated by his despised relatives in the Dominican Republic. He hated the thought that the norteamericanos viewed Latinos — all Latinos — as more or less irrational children, although he viewed his own relatives in the same way.

So now there's no question about life after death, he considered, without the elation he might have expected upon surviving nothingness.

But why dead? Why not dying? Perhaps these are the last, fading visions before final unconsciousness? Perhaps even now, his brain scan was flattening, the doctors shocking and beating on his heart? Was he naked under a sheet, were there tubes in his arms, up his nose, down his throat, up his penis? Were there machines beeping about him, was his chest open, his rib cage split apart and his heart throbbing in a surgeon's fist?

Surely that was more likely than life after death.

But let us assume I'm dead, he repeated. (For what point was there in assuming otherwise?) Then what? He began to examine the possibilities, reasonably sure he was in a limbo between states of being to come. If this was it, if this limbo was permanent, surely there would be other souls hovering about, like the ancients in Dante, or else Limbo was Hell.

As he was delving into his superstitions, and into the mythologies he had studied and scenarios he had contemplated, he was surprised to find himself in the midst of an emotion. He had somehow assumed emotions would have been left behind with his mortal body, that they were glandular rather than spiritual. But then again, his spiritual body seemed real enough for glands.

It was annoying, sad, ridiculously unfortunate — the end of a life so carefully planned, so on track, so revved up to achieve its goals — his spiritual glands were secreting a compound of tears and disgust. He was to have been the success story of his family, although he would never have returned home to gloat.

He could not claim he was escaping from poverty and illiteracy. His family were shopkeepers; his father held the franchise for a profitable souvenir kiosk at the airport in Santo Domingo, his uncles ran similar shops in the city, sharing the same merchandise. All were literate, if not particularly well educated. All were respectable, relatively honest, considering the expectations of their profession, and not especially loveable. There was a sense of smallness, pettiness, about them, a mentality of grasping, heartfelt materialism. When the whole family sat down to a holiday dinner, the scene was invariably strained, with much boasting and jockeying for preeminence, elongated discussions of possessions and prospects, and a general assumption of mutual distrust, even distaste.

Nobody in Ortega's family liked one another and Ortega, on his part, despised them all. The thought that he might end up being one of them, smiling at tourists, conniving for small advantages from relatives, friends and customers alike, mean spirited, vile, ignoble, tortured him from earliest adolescence. Not to be like them became the dominating force of his life, enough to drive him into excellence in his studies and win a scholarship at the university, although his parents could probably have afforded it but pleaded poverty, as they were saving up for retirement.

When he applied for medical school in the States, he expected to be turned down. His English was imperfect and he had had trouble with the boards, although he knew his marks were more than adequate. To his surprise, he was accepted by schools in Missouri, Arkansas and New York, although, disastrously, none on scholarship.

He pleaded with his parents. I can repay you twice over, three times over.

Perhaps, said his father.

All I ask is a loan.

And suppose you fail?

Have I ever failed?

It's not that, his mother explained, soothingly. To be poor would kill your father.

Ortega turned away in disgust.

At your age, it's hard to understand, she continued. You save all your life to avoid the streets, to escape the animal existence you see everywhere, to live in your old age like humans, without being at the mercy of your relatives. This is not something you jeopardize on a possibility.

It's not a possibility.

And even if you get your medical degree, how long before you begin earning enough to pay us back? What do we do when you're an intern, and then five years learning a specialty? Do we wash dishes and clean floors for your Uncle Fernando in exchange for a room? He'd love that, I can tell you. But if that's what you want …

Ortega banged his fist on the table, to avoid striking his mother. Yes, that's what I want! he cried. I want you to take that kind of a chance on me, to have faith in me, I want to be the first one of us to break out of the endless cycle of fawning shopkeepers, slobbering over the tourists …

That's enough, said his mother.

What sadness, said his father, a son who speaks like this …

You see? his mother gestured, as if Ortega had already impoverished his father.

You have the mentality of slaves, said Ortega, straightening himself up and turning to walk out of the room. I'm leaving as soon as I can.

In fact, within the month, Ortega had left his home forever. On the basis of his acceptances to medical school, he obtained a student visa to the States and then prevailed on the colleges to give him a year's grace while he found the tuition money. His plan was to work night and day until he had saved up enough for a year and then hope for student loans based on his brilliant performance, admittedly a chancy proposition but the only option he could muster on the spur of the moment.

The temptation to make his tuition money from the drug trade that flourished within the Dominican community was great — he could probably pay for four years of medical school in six to eight months — and he had several entrees from school friends in Santo Domingo. But to be caught meant the end of everything, and he was already viewed with the suspicion accorded all Hispanics in the U.S.A. Wistfully, but well aware of the principle of guilt by association, he broke his ties with his drug friends and found a job at Dairy Queen by day and Tappan Hospital by night, except on weekends, when the hours were reversed. He lived in a small room in the town of Tappan, took all his meals at Dairy Queen or the hospital and saved every penny.

His hard work and sacrifice did not endear him to his coworkers in either job, as they were tired of responding to his complaints of fatigue and loneliness, with their implications of moral superiority. He was not what they call in corporate parlance a people person. He despised his customers at Dairy Queen as much as his family in Santo Domingo. Of the patients at the hospital, he was more selective, as Tappan was something of a society asylum, but all the same, it was difficult for him to hide his distaste for people in distress. He tried to befriend the doctors but was too obvious about it and was distrusted for his efforts. As for the nurses and his fellow attendants, the day and night staffs, the patients, his fellow minions at Dairy Queen, his landlady, casual acquaintances — his ambition was so palpable that nobody could abide him.

On the day he was transported to Movius' mind, a Sunday, he was even more short-tempered than usual. He had worked an extra shift at Dairy Queen the night before and had been cautioned by the night manager about being curt with customers, a word he had to look up at the hospital library, although the threat in the manager's tone needed no translation. He arrived at the hospital with three hours sleep and got into an argument almost immediately. Connie Jackson, the black, middle-aged Head Nurse of the Ward, who was supporting two children, had the temerity to wish him good morning as they punched their time cards.

Good? said Ortega. Let me tell you, I am so tired I can barely walk.

Hot date last night?

I worked two shifts, almost the whole night. I have no time for dates. When I get out of medical school, I will think about woman.

Gimme a break, willya? said Connie, who had been kept awake most of the night by an asthmatic child.

What does that mean? I'm not supposed to be proud of having been accepted by three medical schools?

You just don't have to talk about it so much.

If one has pride in one's accomplishments, it is no sin to boast about it, said Ortega, willfully not getting the point.

Just don't boast about it around me, said Connie, walking off.

Ortega followed her. I threaten you, don't I?

Just stow it, Eddie.

All morning, he had fantasies of firing Connie when he returned to Tappan as a doctor, and, in a similar mood, he would have discharged half the patients on his ward as simple malingerers from life, as people without pride or spirit who didn't deserve the attention he was paid to give them.

If there was anyone he could single out for undeserving-hood, it was Movius. He has no business being here, he commented to one of the nurses.

He pays his bill, she said.

Yes but what kind of psychiatry is it that keeps a perfectly healthy man in a ward full of sick people. Can you honestly say he's paranoid, schizophrenic, manic-depressive …

There may be things we don't see.

"Laziness, idleness, inertia. Those I can see."

Well, why don't you tell him to shape up, said the nurse, mischievously.

"I have told him so."

I'm sure you have.

He doesn't respond; he shrugs; I've seen his type back in my country, sitting at the docks, waiting for someone to do something for them.

The thought of Movius infuriated him. Why should he, Eduardo Ortega, in a foreign country, with neither friends nor family, be working on a Sunday, coming off of three straight shifts in two jobs, with three hours sleep, keeping up this grueling schedule for months on end, while Movius, sitting there reading a comic …

And then, this. Death. Limbo. Fade-out. Suspension in mid air, his spiritual body behaving terrestrially, despite its unearthly location.

It was not that the shock of the initial transportation had worn off, but that seemed long ago and the present was too intense to worry about the past. Having decided to assume he was dead, the burning questions remained: where was he, why was he here, rather than in some other after-death state, and what could he do about it? Should he just wait? Was there something he should say or think to change his condition? Was he being watched? Were decisions being made about him at that moment? Was this a test?

The latter was perhaps the most important question at the moment. The eeriness of the situation — the all-pervasive nothingness, the lack of an iota of humanity — was beginning to get to him. Much as he loathed to admit it, he could envision the possibility of panic, perhaps worse. Was this his test? If he could beat down the panic, would he pass? Or would it be better to allow the panic to take over, to be done with sanity and allow more basic instincts to take over? Was there a choice? He couldn't spend eternity beating down panic.

It was about the time panic was threatening — minutes or hours, there was no way to mark the time, except by impatience or dread — that he made a discovery that should have been elementary but, in his present state of mind, seemed astonishing: he could speak! More importantly, he could hear his voice. It did not echo throughout space, as he had anticipated, but it was not simply inside his head, either. There was body to it, actual sound waves were involved — it had a life outside his mouth, albeit a short one.

But this was a prelude to the most important discovery of all: he could sing!

Chapter 4.

The police had to be called in, eventually. For several hours, it was assumed that Ortega had simply snapped under the strain of his regimen and spontaneously bolted. But when the staff compared notes, this began to seem more and more unlikely. Something else had happened: an accident, foul play, something with an edge to it, that made the staff uncomfortable in the absence of legal authority. Dr. Sam Levine, the administrator of the hospital, fully aware of the potentialities for scandal, lawsuits, lost funding, anxious patients,