God’s Getaway
by Gene Stewart
God walked down the avenue in broad daylight and broader splendor. He passed a pair of Talmudic scholars debating the correct pronunciation of a syllable that had not been used in actual speech for centuries; they did not look up.
He passed a pair of fundamentalists having a cutting contest by trading barbed Bible quotations; they looked up but at once looked back down again, flipping mental pages madly.
He passed a pair of atheists, one of which made as if to greet him until the other gave a look of scathing mockery; neither looked past the other’s nose.
He passed a pair of scientists who offered him a new suit of clothes if only he’d step into their shop and let them measure for fit; neither looked beyond the glimpse of avenue framed by their shop’s locked doorway and frosted window.
He passed a pair of unbelievers who looked right through him, then passed a pair of true believers, one of whom threw a net even as the other clapped hands over eyes and fell keening in pained madness.
Dodging the net, God walked down the avenue to the corner, where he found a pair of cops; they chased him, guns drawn, shouting, “Why’d you do it?”
God moved past a pair of children, one of whom said, “Hi,” as the other asked for candy.
Giving them both candy, God hailed a taxi and got the hell out of there.
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