by Rod Drake
God thinks His phone number is unlisted, but I know what it is. Whenever something horrible happens to someone innocent or good down here, I call the number late at night, and let it ring and ring until He finally picks it up. After several sleepy Voice-of-God “hellos,” I hang up. I imagine He has an old, black, rotary phone, since Heaven always seemed to me like it would look like a 1950s view of paradise, so there’s no *69 feature on it. But I’m betting that He knows it’s me, being omniscient and all, and why I called – I’ve become pretty regular at making the calls when events require it. I feel like I’m the conscience He obviously lacks; I have no idea how He feels about it, but maybe one day I will.
Rod Drake is a time traveler, who has stopped in 1961 to enjoy a cup of coffee with Lenny Bruce at Greenwich Village’s The Bitter End.