Sherman Threadwaite looked up from his desk to see a disheveled intruder at his office door. Dressed in faded blue jeans and an old LL Bean flannel shirt, the man looked like an aged hippie gone to seed. He had an enormous head of unruly gray hair and a bushy white beard that fell to the middle of his chest. His thick white eyebrows and amber-colored eyes gave his face an odd expression, one of almost manic vitality. In his arms, he cradled a large cardboard box labeled “medical supplies,” which was filled to the brim with paper.
Sherman glanced at the clock on the wall, then down at the galley proof he’d been reviewing. He was under a deadline and had no time for visitors. That’s why he’d cancelled his appointments and told his secretary to hold all calls.
Sherman said, as noncommittally as possible, “Can I help you?”
At this feeble invitation, the caller slipped into the brown leather chair in front of Sherman’s desk. “Hello, Mr. Threadwaite,” the man said in a resonant and unnaturally cheery voice. “My name is Jehovah.”
At that moment, there was a loud crash of thunder, reminding Sherman that it had been pouring outside for nearly two hours. Yet the man sitting across from him was perfectly dry–his clothes were dry, his hair was dry, his box of papers was dry. Sherman marveled at this incongruity for a split second before focusing on what the man had actually said.
“You say your name’s Jehovah?” he echoed, with just a trace of sarcasm.
“Yes, that’s right. Jehovah.”
Sherman rolled his eyes. “Sir, just how did you get in here? Where’s my secretary?”
The stranger grinned. “Oh, Margaret? I spoke to her. A very pleasant lady, very pleasant, though she did seem a bit high strung. When I told her who I was and what I was here for, she said she had to step out for a moment, but would be right back. I waited in her office for quite a while. When she didn’t return, I decided to just stick my head in to see if you were available. Hope you don’t mind.”
Sherman called for Margaret, hoping that she’d resurfaced and could deal with this unwelcome visitor. Getting no response, he frowned and shook his head in irritation.
“Perhaps,” he suggested hopefully, “you could come back next week. Maybe make an appointment? You see, I’ve got a very important deadline to meet today, and I don’t really have time to chat with anyone just now.”
“Oh, but it will only take a minute or two, Mr. Threadwaite. And besides, that manuscript you’ve been reading isn’t really that good. After all, how much demand could there be out there for vampire romance novels?”
Sherman was about to argue the point, but caught himself. Clearing his throat, he said, “And just what is it that you think I can do for you, Mr. Jehovah?”
“Just Jehovah, thank you. I’m looking for a publisher for my book.”
Sherman pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, as if anticipating a migraine. Of course, what else would it be? Another novice author who doesn’t understand the basic rules of the publishing industry.
Sherman said, in a clearly dismissive tone, “Listen, I’m very sorry but Gutenberg Fink Publishing doesn’t accept unsolicited manuscripts. Generally, we only consider submissions that come to us through literary agents. Perhaps you could have your agent contact us. He, or she as the case may be, could send us a brief query letter, along with a short synopsis of your work and the first chapter or two, so that we could assess the quality of your writing. We would then be happy to give the piece all the consideration it deserves.” I’ll toss it into the slush pile by the window with all those other feeble attempts at literary immortality.
As if having read Sherman’s mind, the intruder glanced over at the thigh-high pile of submissions stacked carelessly near a partly open window. A cracked flower pot rested precariously on top of the papers. It contained a decidedly and irrevocably dead plant. Potting soil had spilled onto the yellowing, raindrop-spattered documents. The plant had been a gift from an aspiring, but conspicuously untalented, poet. Since Sherman had never watered it, it had suffered a slow and ignominious death. Now, only a couple of withered leaves remained on its desiccated stem.
Sherman’s visitor got up from his chair, walked over to the window and closed it. Returning to his seat, he said, “Excuse me, but I noticed that some of those manuscripts were getting wet. I’m sure you wouldn’t want that.” He gave Sherman a disconcerting smile and then continued. “Alas, Mr. Threadwaite, I don’t have an agent. I’ve just finished my manuscript and haven’t had the time to look for one. However, I’m sure my work will stand on its own merits.”
That’s what all writers believe, and it’s almost never true, Sherman thought. He cleared his throat again and added, with an air of utter finality, “Nor does Gutenberg Fink accept manuscripts from unpublished authors.”
His visitor beamed. “Oh, but I am published, Mr. Threadwaite; quite successfully, as a matter of fact.”
Taken aback, Sherman asked, “You’re published, sir? And just what have you written?”
“Why, the Bible, of course.”
Oh, just what I need, Sherman thought, a nut. He growled, “Did Fedderman in Accounting put you up to this? I really don’t have time for his practical jokes.”
“Oh, this is no joke, Mr. Threadwaite,” the old man replied, a touch of indignation in his voice. “I’m for real. Believe me.”
Half rising from his chair, Sherman said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Jehovah, but…”
“Just Jehovah.”
“Yes. Jehovah. I’m sorry, sir, but you’ll have to excuse me. I really do have a lot of work to do. I suggest you make an appointment with my secretary, Margaret.”
“Oh, but Mr. Threadwaite, she’s not there and who knows when she’ll be back. And really, as I said, it will only take a moment to explain my project to you. Then I’ll get out of your hair.”
The visitor remained seated, grinning innocently, seemingly oblivious to Sherman’s efforts to terminate the visit. Sherman couldn’t decide whether he was merely rude or just incredibly dense. After an awkward moment, Sherman slumped back into his chair. It was clear that this man wasn’t going to leave without laying out his proposal. Sherman considered calling security, but Elwood, the security guard, was 72 years old. It would probably take him ten minutes to shuffle up from the lobby, and even then, he would be useless, at least as a bouncer. Besides, there was that unnerving tinge of mania in his visitor’s pale amber eyes.
Sherman sighed. “And just what is it that you would like us to publish?”
“Oh, thank you. It’s all very simple really. I’ve rewritten my Bible.”
Sherman stared back in disbelief. “You’ve rewritten the Bible?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“You’re Jehovah, and you’ve rewritten the Bible?” Sherman repeated.
Jehovah nodded affably.
This was too much, even for a practical joke. Sherman got up, strode purposefully to the door and jerked it open, expecting to find Fedderman and perhaps a few of the other nitwits from Accounting huddled on the other side of the door, trying with great effort to stifle their laughter. To his surprise, no one was there.
Sherman returned unsteadily to his chair, glancing over his shoulder toward the partially open doorway as he did so. “Excuse me,” he said, as he slumped back into his chair. “I thought I heard Margaret return.” Still glowering at the door, he asked, distractedly, “So, Mr. Jehovah, why did you rewrite the Bible?”
“Just Jehovah. Because it’s out of date.”
Sherman leaned forward, closed his eyes and cradled his forehead in the palm of his hands. Finally, having collected his thoughts, he said wearily, “Just because it was written thousands of years ago doesn’t mean the Bible’s out of date. It’s never even gone out of print. And besides, there are dozens of versions of the Bible on the market. Which one do you plan to revise–the New King James, Revised Standard Version, the Living Bible, the Good News Bible?” Sherman’s exasperation was eclipsing what little patience he possessed.
“Oh, those are all okay versions, I guess,” Jehovah replied, “but they’re mostly translations – Hebrew to Greek to Latin to English and whatever. Besides, as I said, they’re all out of date. So, I decided to start over from scratch.”
“From scratch?”
“Oh yes. The original was fine as far as it went, but it was, after all, written for a simpler time. You need to remember that, when I began, literature consisted of hen scratchings on clay tablets. So, I had to take an ‘inspirational’ approach.” Jehovah made air quotes with his fingers when he said ‘inspirational.’ He continued, “Frankly, however, that turned out to be a somewhat imprecise tool, like trying to mold a pot when the clay contains lots of sand. Nothing ever came out the way I wanted. The prophets kept misinterpreting what I was saying to them, and more often than not, they put their own spin on things. And, of course, when I tried to channel my inspirations through women, who are eminently more reliable and precise, no one would listen to them. It was very frustrating at the time.”
“Working with editors usually is,” Sherman muttered, with a distinct air of resignation.
“So, I’ve fixed all that. I wrote it myself this time around, and took the opportunity to make corrections. For example, this time I made the Bible more scientifically accurate. After all, holding the sun in the sky for three days so that Joshua could smite the Amorites obviously would have violated all the laws of astrophysics.”
“More scientifically accurate, sure, why not,” Sherman mumbled to himself.
“Oh yes. And then, of course, I included evolutionary theory in the new text.”
“Evolution? Excuse me, but won’t that upset a lot of people?”
“Well, I suppose so, but I’ve never understood why people take things so literally. Don’t they understand basic literary concepts like symbolism and allegory? I mean, it should have been obvious with Noah’s Ark and the Flood that every word wasn’t to be taken literally. I mean, how huge would the Ark have had to be in order to hold two of every kind of animal on Earth and all of their food? And did Noah go to Australia to get the kangaroos, or did they just hop across the ocean and all the way to the Ark, carrying a couple of koala bears and a year’s supply of eucalyptus leaves in their pouches? And what about all the plant life? A year under water would certainly have done a job on the landscape. It should have been apparent from the start that the story was simply an allegory about faith and salvation.”
Sherman asked, somewhat peevishly, “So, if accuracy’s so important, why didn’t you just include evolution in the Bible in the first place?”
“Oh, yeah, like that would have worked. The purpose of the Bible was to provide guidance and a sense of purpose to humanity, not to scare everyone to death or totally confuse them. People at the time understood ‘creating the world in seven days’, but that was about as conceptually challenging as they could handle. Do you really think I should have tried to teach them evolution and cosmology as well?”
“Be that as it may,” Sherman sighed, “isn’t the Bible sort of set now? I mean, people have considered it the sacrosanct word of God for thousands of years. You can’t change it now.”
“Why not? I’m the author, aren’t I? Don’t I have the right to correct errors and smooth out the inconsistencies in my own book? And there are more of them than I care to admit. In Genesis, for example, it says that light was separated from darkness on the first day, but the Sun wasn’t created until the fourth. And plants are created on the third day, before the sun, which would have made photosynthesis somewhat tricky. Then there’s the perpetual question of where Cain’s wife came from.”
Threadwaite nodded somewhat uncertainly.
“And in this version, I thought I’d cut back a bit on the sex and violence; make the Bible a tad more family friendly. I also changed the bit about ‘be fruitful and multiply’. It was one thing in the old days when only a couple of hundred thousand people walked the Earth, but procreation has gotten way out of hand. You’re approaching eight billion! The planet can’t take it anymore. So, I’m changing it to ‘be sexually responsible and remember to recycle’. And I’ve added a couple of new commandments: ‘Thou Shalt Not Pollute’ and ‘Thou Shalt Not Blow Up The Planet’. I can’t believe I have to spell out that last one. I’ve also decreed that televangelists are an abomination. That decree wasn’t necessary the first time around, but it certainly is now that there’s cable 24 hours a day.”
Sherman shook his head in numb disbelief. “And that’s it in the box?” he finally asked.
“Yes,” Jehovah replied, patting the box on Sherman’s desk. “That’s my manuscript, the whole thing.” He gave Sherman a big proud smile. “I’m sure, once you start reading it, you’ll see how important this is. We need to get it published as quickly as possible, before the world ends.”
“Before the world…? And just when will that be?” Sherman asked, incredulously.
“Well, if you people don’t start taking climate change more seriously, it’ll be sooner than you think. And there won’t be anything rapturous about it!”
Finally losing all patience, Sherman said, “Mister… Jehovah, I’m sorry, but I’m sure you’ll understand when I say that this is all too unbelievable. If you’re God, why do you need me? Why do you need a publisher at all?”
“I understand your skepticism, Mr. Threadwaite, but frankly, I’ve always preferred to work through established norms and processes. That should be obvious from the way the world works. At the moment of creation, some 13.7 billion years ago, by the way, all I did was establish a set of natural laws to govern the functioning of the universe. All the underlying processes of life–the physics, the chemistry, the biology, the economics–they all follow these natural laws. Everything derives from them. So, if I don’t obey my own rules and procedures, what kind of message am I sending? It’s the same with publishing. There are ways of doing things; procedures to follow that have evolved over generations to ensure that only the most-worthy books get published. Who am I to object?”
Sherman grunted. It was clear that this man was a crackpot, but Sherman wasn’t making any progress in trying to get rid of him. He suddenly had an idea. Sitting back in his chair, he crossed his arms smugly and declared, “O.K., you say you’re God. Prove it! I’m not going to believe you until I see you work a miracle.”
Jehovah gave Sherman a sad, world-weary look.
“Well…? I’m waiting.”
The old man sighed. “Why does everyone always insist on a miracle? From time immemorial, it’s always been the same. Why can’t people just open their eyes and appreciate the wonder of the world around them? Isn’t the fabric of nature miraculous enough to inspire faith?”
“A miracle, Mr. Jehovah. If you can’t perform a miracle, then you’re obviously not who you say you are.”
Jehovah scrunched up his mouth and rubbed his beard. “All right. If you insist.”
A moment passed.
“Well?” Sherman asked.
“Well what?”
“Well, where’s the miracle?”
“I did it already.”
“Did what, already?”
“The miracle.”
“What? I haven’t seen any miracle.”
“Maybe,” Jehovah replied a bit irritably, “you’re just not very observant, Mr. Threadwaite.”
At that instant, three men in white coats stormed into Sherman’s office. His secretary, Margaret, slipped in behind them and stood wide-eyed by the doorway, her hand over her mouth. It took only a moment for the three men to wrestle Jehovah into submission. As two of them hustled the struggling author out of the room, the third turned to Sherman.
“I’m very sorry, Mr. Threadwaite,” he said. “I’m Doctor Beaversham. We’ve been looking for Harold all week. As soon as your secretary called the police, they notified me and we rushed right over. I hope you weren’t too inconvenienced. This has been quite embarrassing for us. Let me assure you, however, that while he’s a bit eccentric, Harold’s not dangerous. He’s simply delusional. He just can’t seem to deal with the real world; thinks it needs to be fixed, somehow.” Dr. Beaversham shrugged, as if to suggest that the mysteries of the mind were impossible to fathom.
“So, he’s from Saint Anselm’s… from the asylum?”
“Oh, yes. Been with us for years. We tried to place him in a halfway house once, but he refused to take all the meds we prescribed. So, they sent him back to the hospital. With us, Harold’s been a perfect patient. Mostly, he’d just sit in his room, working on his book. Typed it on an old Underwood typewriter. Can you imagine that? A real antique. When I suggested he should get a computer, he claimed that that particular typewriter had once belonged to Hemingway, and if it was good enough for Hemingway. . . . Well, the man does have a vivid imagination. Anyway, as long as he worked on his book and kept his head down, that was fine with us. It appeared to be therapeutic for him. Then, last week, Harold announced that he’d finally finished it. Unfortunately, when the hospital wouldn’t let him just up and leave, he became quite agitated. Said he needed to get his book published immediately, as if nothing else in the world was more important. Next thing we knew, he’d flown the coop.”
“And Harold is his real name?”
“No. Not really. We just call him Harold. His real name’s something totally unpronounceable. It hasn’t got any vowels. Foreign, if you ask me. So, we call him Harold.”
Dr. Beaversham consulted his wristwatch. “Well, Mr. Threadwaite, I guess I should get going. I’m sure they’re waiting for me downstairs. Again, sorry for any inconvenience. We’ll take Harold home now and try to get him back on his meds.” With that, the doctor shook Sherman’s hand and backed out of the room. Margaret slipped out behind him.
Sherman sat stunned, shocked by the sudden turn of events. His eyes went to the box on his desk. Slowly he pulled it closer and looked inside. It contained hundreds of loose, neatly typed pages. On the top page, carefully centered, was the title. It read simply The Bible: Revised and Updated, with a New Introduction by the Author. Sherman started flipping the pages until he reached the first chapter, Genesis, and the first line: In the beginning, God created the Big Bang.
Sherman thumbed through a few more pages, shrugged and tossed them back into the box. He shook his head slowly at the thought of how much time Crazy Harold must have spent on such a long and fruitless endeavor. Then, as he was carrying the heavy box over to the pile of rejected manuscripts by the window, something unexpected caught his attention. The dead plant in the cracked flower pot had inexplicably acquired three new leaves, and a small white blossom now grew from the once desiccated stem. Sherman stared slack-jawed at the incongruous flower. Without thinking, he let go of the box and it fell on his foot with a painful thud.
After hopping around his office cursing, Sherman picked up the box again and tossed it onto the slush pile, almost knocking over the flower pot in the process. Then he limped back to his desk, slumped into his chair, and picked up the vampire romance manuscript he’d been reading. He had a deadline to meet, after all.
The End