Nice Day


Today’s weather will be lovely in the mid-fifties, bright and sunny with a chance of picnics! Isn’t that right, Janice? said Roy.

Oh, Roy! said Janice. You are such a delight.

No, Janice, said Roy. It is you who is a delight.

We are both delights, agreed Janice.

Roy and Janice stared at each other for a long, wet moment.

Alright, that wraps up the weather, said Roy, smiling at the camera. Now, for a quick word from God. God?

The camera cut to God. God was a spindly man — maybe 5 foot 9, with pointy elbows. He dressed for the news. He wore a grey suit jacket and matching tie, which his wife said was a dashing combination. The suit didn’t quite fit him, but his she never had the heart to say. He picked it out from Marshall’s himself. She thought he looked handsome, anyway.

Thanks, Roy, said God. He looked at his notes.

  • thank roy
  • tell people to have nice day

God looked back to the camera.

I hope everyone’s having a nice day and all, he said. He paused. It was all he had prepared. There were still 56 seconds left in his segment. Sweating, he looked back to Roy for help. Roy was touching Janice’s breast. God looked back to the camera.

I’m having a nice day, said God. This weather is great. Not too hot, not too cold.

41 seconds.

Are there, uh, any wars? said God. Any wars that people need stopped? You can call in, right? Just… call in. Anyone?

The cameraman shook his head.

Oh, no, nevermind, said God. We don’t have phones right now. Don’t call in.

12 seconds.

Ok, well, said God, slowly. That’s all for today. Thanks for tuning in, everyone.

11 seconds.

God tried to hit the bottom of his notes against the desk, as if he were straightening it. It crumpled instantly.

Fuck, he muttered.

9 seconds. The cameraman pointed at the ON-AIR light.

We’re what? said God. We’re o– oh, fuck! I mean… fuck! No, not that — I’m so sorry everyone.

He buried his face in his hands.

Cut to commercial, said a voice from the booth.

God’s forehead hit the desk.

Fuck, he whispered.

Someone ruffled his hair. He looked up. It was Roy.

Great set, Roy scoffed. He and Janice sauntered off to the break room.

God took out his bagged lunch, which he ate at his desk. He was scared to eat in the break room. Janice always asked him if his mommy packed it. His mommy did not pack it. She did not exist. He was the almighty creator of Every Sentient Being and also Time and also other things like Sand and Anxiety. It was important to remind himself of that, his therapist always said. Don’t forget that you created Janice. Remember? You created Janice 36 years ago, when you were feeling particularly depressed. Janice was a good lesson that you shouldn’t create Life when feeling particularly depressed.

God rode his cloud through rush-hour traffic. It was like a convertible, except it didn’t convert. It was also always wet. He really wanted a convertible, but he lived in Seattle, so it wasn’t really practical. Sometimes he asked himself why he even created convertibles.

Bad day at work again? asked his wife.

Yeah, said God.

That Janice is a bitch, said his wife.

All human beings are beautiful creatures, rehearsed God, glumly.

Oh, hun, said his wife, peeling the dripping coat from his back.

But sometimes, said God. He stopped himself.

What is it? asked his wife.

Nevermind, he said. Do we have hot chocolate?

The kind you like, said his wife, shaking a packet. With the little marshmallows.

I love the little marshmallows, said God.

I know, said his wife. You created them, after all.

I remember that day, said God, smiling to himself. It was a nice day.


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