God Had a Bad Day

Two things struck me as I studied the face before me. First, God has bad days. He certainly did when he made this mug. The one eyebrow sagged. The left ear was lower, its lobe looking like it was melting and almost dripping. The nose was askew, and the high cheekbones served only to emphasize the pock marked skin. The towering forehead looked like a rough mountainside, with enough ledges for a beginner mountain climber to scale. The jutting chin pointed, but not straight ahead. There were no lips. No, God was not having a good day when He made that face.

The second thing that struck me was actually two separate things. A: when I go to the bathroom at 3:45 in the morning, I should not turn on the four 100 watt bulbs above the mirror, and B: one should never arrange a bathroom so that you're looking in the mirror while...um...sitting on the commode. Those two things combine to depress a man, especially one with an already shaky self-image.

I wandered back to bed, huddled under the covers, and watched reruns in my head. Okay, the thing at WalMart was not my fault. I'm pretty sure the cashier did not have to see my ID to sell me beer. I’m not that far into my thirties, but the face I just studied in the mirror is engraved with a few extra, shall we say, lifestyle years. I look old enough.

And the 'manager', all zit-faced 135 pounds of him, should not have taken that tone with me. All I did was fake a move at him and he stumbled back and dropped the six pack I was trying to buy. It really was funny when the bottles and all the Red Stripe did a shock and awe move on the shiny tile floor at register 17. Yes, I laughed at him, but calling the security guard really was over-reaction on his part. I had never been thrown out of a WalMart before.

Too annoyed to sleep now, I rolled over, sat up in bed and picked up the bottle next to the TV remote. Studying the soggy label, I remembered the gentleman’s first words to me a few hours earlier.

“It was Red Stripe, wasn’t it?” I was still sitting on the sidewalk where I had landed when I heard his voice. I suppose I was too dazed to answer, because he just sat down next to me and put the six-pack between us. “I don’t think an over-zealous manager should get between a grown man and a good beer, do you?”

Now, that voice sounded familiar, and I turned to look at him. I'm sure my jaw dropped. His big smile was just as bright here with a faded Browns shirt and an old camo hat as when he wore his $1000 suits and $100 ties. Yes indeed, he looked even nicer in person than on TV. I looked around to see if anybody was watching. He was still smiling. “I’d open a couple for us, but I suppose that would be illegal here in public. So here’s what we’ll do. I’ll take one home, and leave you with a five-pack. Tonight we’ll share a drink, just not together. Deal?”

"Um, yeah, sure. Thanks man. I mean, thank you, sir." I took one from the pack and we clinked our bottles to seal the deal. He slapped me on the shoulder and walked off, bottle raised in salute.

Now four and a half hours later, I sat on the edge of my bed, finishing off the last bottle. And two things struck me. One, it's good to know there's a God, even if He did have an off day. And two, if the pastor of the city’s largest snooty church sits on the sidewalk and shares your beer, maybe he has something worthwhile to say.

Despite my best efforts, tiny bits of fact invaded this work of fiction. And no beer was consumed in the writing of this story.