God speaks to Man always in a Voice attuned to the Spirit which He addresses.

It was after he’d reached and pulled in the zapper from the end table to change the channel back to the Giants-Washington game, but before he heard his wife ask him if he wanted another bottle of beer, that Harry heard the voice of God. Coming as it did in the middle of a Budweiser Beer commercial during the time out in the Giants’ game, the voice for an instant seemed to come from the television set. But then Harry quickly concluded that the beefy guy chatting with his buddies would never say as did the Voice:

“I need your help. Do you read me?”

On the other hand, neither was it something he’d ever expected God to say. No, it was the realization that the Voice was not auditory, was not something he heard, but rather felt, that made him realize that the Voice was that of Being not of the normal world.

“You want another Molson?”

That was the voice of his wife; it was repeating her question. Harry was leaning forward in his recliner easy chair seemingly looking at the beer commercial but contemplating how he was supposed to answer an inner non-auditory Voice asking: “I need your help. Do you read me?”

“No, no thanks, Hon,” Harry said quickly to Irene, who was loading the dishwasher in the kitchen behind him. He liked to watch his Sunday NFL games in the rec room separated from the kitchen by a long counter.

“Yes,” he replied to the Voice. “I read you. Who are you?”

“That’s great,” said the Voice. “I read you loud and clear. This is God here. Who are you?”

Harry hesitated. The beer commercial had ended and a smiling, immaculately coiffed blond was asking whether he was fully insured. Without thinking, he hit the zapper and picked up the Jets-New England game and saw that the Jets were in their two-minute offense and had driven down to the Patriot’s thirty-yard-line.

Harry stood up, listening to the excited broadcaster but not quite registering what he was saying.

“This is Harry Zelt,” he replied to the Voice.

“Harry who?” asked the Voice.

“Harry Zelt,” Harry replied, leaning toward the TV set as the Jets broke their huddle and hustled to the line of scrimmage.

“Ah . . . I see,” said the Voice. “Harry Zelt. Yes. Well, as I said, this is God, and . . . frankly I need your help.”

Jesus Christ, Pennington had completed one to his running back who had broken a tackle and was running clear! Harry stared entranced as a defensivie back angled in on the running back and the crowd roared.

“Go!!!” Harry shouted.

“You shouldn’t stand so close to the TV.”

It was his wife, and the running back got knocked out of bounds on the three.

Harry went back and sat down in his recliner. First and goal and God had asked him something.

“Uh, yeah,” Harry finally replied to God. “Exactly what can I do?” He reached forward now and switched quickly to channel 10, hoping to be able to concentrate better on God, but some blond was lying on her back moaning and squirming because someone was doing something to her down below, and not wanting to offend God he quickly went back to the Jets, first and goal, breaking the huddle and the crowd roaring its hopes.

“The world has ceased to pay attention to me.”

This could be his wife but he sensed it was God. His wife had gone out into the livingroom for something.

“The ways of living I have revealed again and again are being ignored or rejected. Do you read me?”

The Jets were running it for Christ’s sake!

“Yeah,” Harry answered hurriedly. Keep talking, he thought to himself. Don’t let God think he doesn’t care.

God seemed to hesitate.

“Once again I need to call upon a Prophet: a man to lash the world’s flaccid soul into Remembrance of the Great I am.”

Stopped cold at the line of scrimmage. Fuckin’ weakass Jets. But this was GOD speaking to him, calling upon him, Harry, to do something.

“Yes, Lord,” Harry replied to God, and irritably he snapped off the television set. Jets would probably fumble anyway.

“I thought the Jets were about to score.”

It seemed a strange thing for the Lord to say and then Harry realized it was his wife. Turning, he saw her with hands on hips looking as if he had been irresponsible in shutting off the TV and thus perhaps endangering the Jets’ scoring opportunity. She was a Jets fans too.

“Yeah,” he said vaguely and, shoving his hands into his pockets he moved towards the back kitchen door. Maybe outdoors. Had to concentrate.

“All men have become smeared with the filth of the trivial, have mired themselves in the muck of materialism.”

Could take a beer with me though. Harry stopped at the refrigerator, opened the door and pulled out a fresh Molson.

“You gonna mow the lawn?”

His wife, he hoped. He opened the bottle.

“You been doing nothing this vacation except watching those games and reading those books. It’s about time you got to work.”

Still his wife. Could be God but he figured God was after bigger things.

He opened the kitchen door and went out onto the porch.

The grass did need mowing. Should of done it yesterday before it rained. Still wet today.

“I need a voice to wake up mankind. Will you be that voice?”

This was getting serious. Having a conversation with God was strange enough but being asked to DO something by God, something big, this was . . . embarrassing.

“You sure you got the right number?” Harry asked God.

“ I have called millions. You alone have answered.”

Jesus. And Harry hadn’t even been paying attention, concentrating on getting his two New York teams down the field to victory. Why had he happened to hear?

“Yes,” said Harry uncertainly.

“You and you alone can be the voice that wakes mankind.”

Harry stared across the lawn at his old shed, paint peeling, two pieces of molding sagging off to one side. Irene mentioned it every weekend.

“I’m not sure I’m the right guy for the job, Lord,” Harry said. “I haven’t done much public speaking and haven’t really kept up on . . . Your Ideas.”

“But you alone have answered my call!” said the Voice of God with just a touch of excitement. Or was it irritation? “You CAN do it.”

Harry walked down the porch steps and onto the lawn. Getting damn shoes wet.

“I don’t know, Lord, where would I begin?”

“At home! With your wife!Your two boys! With yourself! You are all entangled in the trivial and immersed in materialism!”

Materialism, shit. What else was there?

“How can we break free of it, Lord?”

Harry was impressed that he seemed to be holding up his end of the conversation.

“Love thy neighbor as thyself!” the Voice proclaimed.

Love Jack Gibbon?! Jesus, even God must have trouble loving Jack. The bastard hadn’t said anything nice to Harry or Irene or the kids since . . . the twentieth century.

“Love thy neighbor . . . “ Harry echoed.

“And give. Give all to all. Giving is the secret of salvation. He who giveth shall be given to!”

“I’m not exactly a rich man, Lord,” said Harry, then flushed at his small-mindedness. The Lord probably knew everyone’s net worth better than they did themselves. “But I guess I have a lot I can give.”

“Give until there is nothing left to give! Give to your wife until she thinks you’re insane.! Give to your boys until they actually listen to you. Giving will transform the universe.”

Snickers was wagging her tale and sniffing his wet shoes. He leaned down to pet her. When she licked his hand he wondered if she’d eaten any shit today. He straightened and wiped his hand on his blue jeans.

“I think I can try to do that, Lord,” Harry said, waving at Jenny Cooter as she turned to him from hanging laundry in the yard next door. It was incredible what lifting her arms to hang a sheet could do for Jenny’s breasts. He wondered whether he was the only man in the universe who could get off on a scenario involving hanging laundry and being covered by a sheet and Jenny Cooter.

Oops. Giving. We’re talking about giving, and God had something that had been lost in Harry’s consciousness by Jenny’s flapping breasts.

“Lost you that time, Lord,” said Harry apologetically. “Can you turn up the volume?”

“I think you should do more of the chores around the house.”

It certainly seemed a reasonable request if Harry were really to get into this giving business.

“I think I can try to do that,” Harry answered.

“And I think you should be giving more of your time to the kids.”

True. Harry had thought that himself on many occasions.

“I will,” he answered promptly. This doing the work of the Lord might not be as tough as he had feared.

“And you haven’t been to church since Easter. I think you should go.”

Absolutely. Consider it done. Although he was surprised that was big on the Lord’s agenda.

“Yes, Lord, I will,” Harry answered humbly.

“And don’t get sarcastic with me.”

????

What was this? He hadn’t been being sarcastic with the Lord, he’d been being humble.

“I’m sorry, Lord,” he nevertheless said.

“I said cut it!” and this time it was clear that this was not the voice of the Lord but of his wife, who was standing on the porch steps with her hands on her hips.

Harry stared at her for a long moment. When had God fazed out and Irene fazed in?

“Sorry,” Harry said, figuring “sorry” would work for man, beast or God.

“Good,” said Irene. “And you’ll be happy to know that the Jets scored. They’re up by four.” She turned and went back into the house.

In the silence Harry waited to hear again the Voice of God.

It didn’t come.

For the next several days he was aware of some . . . voice or . . . spirit emerging behind the Budweiser commercial or Irene vacuuming or Jenny Cooter mowing the lawn but it never came through clearly.

He went to church one Sunday and gave fifteen percent more than he normally did. He played pitch and catch with Jimmy twice in one week. He painted one of the four walls of the shed.

The Jets lost that Sunday game. His wife kept her hands on her hips. And there was nothing but silence behind the Budweiser commercials.

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