TRAFFIC

I met God today. God, a middle-aged fat retarded man, angry at his brother for committing suicide because now they can't go fishing. God sits alone at the funeral dinner table, refusing to let go of his blue fishing pole. I want to go fishing! he repeats, louder, louder, rocking his egg body back and forth and shaking tables next to him. White paper plates, white napkins, the white paper tablecloth, fall. His mother, beyond every knowable emotion, grabs her purse and cradles it like an infinite growing seed. Other mourners stare at the warm food cooling upon their plate. I want to go fishing! Then a church elder emerges from the kitchen; she brings him a stack of pancakes and says he can have as many as he wants. Before she leaves she shakes the sparkly bracelet on her wrist a couple times at him, making it jingle. This renders him so happy, he laughs—laughs very, very loud. I am asked to drive him home. We take an interstate highway heavy with traffic. He watches the cars go by. Thousands of automobiles multi-colored and gleaming, flowing like lost worlds sucked into a gravity tunnel. The tip of his blue fishing pole taps against the windshield. I find my foot tapping to the same syncopated rhythm. Southbound we enter the city. He passes gas, a long trumpet-like heralding, and I don't even pretend not to notice; I make an obvious gesture of rolling down the window. He oohs at the skyscrapers and claps his large hands loud! How did we move all this meta? he asks me. Meta? I wonder—then it occurs to me; he says "meta" instead of "metal." He continues: Tons and tons of meta. Tons and tons and tons of meta. Meta skyscrapers. Meta bridges. Meta planes. Meta cars. Meta fences. Meta fire hydrants. Meta fishing pole. Meta spatulas. Meta faucets. Meta watches. Meta whistles. Meta teeth. Meta nails. How did we move all this meta? I think of the early Neanderthals who lifted the first heavy stones and stacked them. I think of the Aztec ruins and the Egyptian Pyramids. I think of Chicago. I agree that it is amazing. A lot of metal has been moved around here. It has taken human beings a long time to move this much metal. I would be very proud, he says. I pause. I recall the time I tried to loosen three stripped nuts from a lawnmower. It took half an afternoon with the best tools I had. Many times my hands slipped, and my flesh scraped against metal, and I bled. Anger brought me nearly to tears. All the time in front of me that slightly spinning-by-inertia-only grass-cutting blade. Even when the task was accomplished I felt defeated. We should be very proud, I tell him. He looks at me and smiles so wide that I want to believe he is the wisest being in the Universe. Then he turns to watch the cars again. Glimpsing in a passing car, perhaps, what is true of all people, he shouts There's my brother! He points at a northbound Explorer with a driver I never get a chance to see. I want to go fishing! He rises in his seat. I tell him no. He slaps at me— silly slaps. He grabs the steering wheel and the car swerves. I push him back—push him hard—too hard— shout no! He crumples in the seat, wails like a baby, clutches his blue fishing pole. He cries so simply, like music. I tell him, even if that was his brother, we could never find him in this traffic. He quiets at that, seeming to understand.

Traffic was the only piece I knew for certain I wanted to read at my thesis defense; it crunched in a way I couldn't quite catch or explain. "God" comes from a true story. A friend told me about a funeral she attended where a middle-aged special-needs man was crying because he wanted to go fishing with the brother who had committed suicide.