"God? Anybody there?"

“God? Anybody there?”

It was one of those days in which all the negative, depressing crap that could be imagined had smashed into his reality. He was again turned down for employment, due to over or under-qualification, or due to the fact that he refused to be a guinea pig for the recently mandated vaccination program.

His job as a grade-one lab researcher for a chemical company had been terminated five months before, due to the recent world-wide plague. The lab’s required shutdown was said to be ‘indefinite’ with any future employment requiring the vaccination.

He was depressed beyond any memory of such mental desolation. With dwindling savings, he had sold his car, just to live, and now he could not even afford the ‘minutes’ for his phone. In his moment of friendlessness in an uncaring world, he remembered the Glock 17 languishing in the bedroom dresser’s bottom drawer. He had bought it to satisfy his bi-polar paranoia concerning whatever ‘imagined negatives’ might be waiting to further ruin his life.

His dark excursion in the direction of suicide was suddenly interrupted by a tiny hummingbird that arrived daily with repeated regularity at the back-porch feeder. He was momentarily distracted by its antics as it hopped from perch to perch searching with relentless preoccupation, awaiting its genetic pheromone reflex to announce it had found the preferred faucet.

Following a lengthy binge in lustful concentration, its assault on the sweet nectar seemed satisfied and it instantly whirred off in an unbelievable hundred-mile-an-hour escape, most likely in further quest to satisfy the tiny body’s need to consume double-its-weight carbohydrates daily.

Watching the tiny illusion disappear, he was reminded that this miniature avian descendant of a hundred sixty million year archaeopteryx ancestor was a vaguely recalled fragment of genetic engineering linking it in primordial kinship with tyrannosaurus rex. In that moment, he was reminded of his own homo sapiens’ unfathomable path from Homo habilis to the short-lived dominance of Neanderthal, again surrendering to the overwhelming dominance of Cro-Magnon. And here he sat, following millennia of remodeling to arrive as an unimpressive, sniveling bi-polar model of Homo Sapiens Sapiens.

As he mused over his depressing reality, he was reminded of his recent struggle to sell the three novels he had written during a three year period of impassioned creativity; hundreds of hours of impassioned work that now languished unnoticed on Amazon. Besides that, his cat Mr. T, had gotten out a week earlier when a garden gate had been left ajar, and though he and friends had scoured the neighborhood– even posted flyers– he had at last surrendered to the loss of his ‘best friend’.

He put his head in his hands and for a moment felt like crying. Suddenly he said, “Damnit, God! Are you even there? Is anybody there?”

Feeling completely out of control now and not caring, he continued his outburst, “Good God… God! Isn’t it enough you had to get me fired, then make it impossible to make a living? Then you had to take my best pal, as well. And since I don’t even have a phone, I can’t even call the two or three friends, I yet have.”

After a few seconds, allowing his bi-polar anger to subside, he said, “Well hell! If you are real, and I have never given much credence to such a possibility… let’s say you, or something is there… in some nebulous, ineffable somewhere… why have you done this to me? And why can’t you do something about it?”

Of course, hearing no response to his desperate outburst, he said, “Look…God. I’ve always tried to be a good person. Maybe I swear too much, and I don’t have a pronounced degree of patience– but I’m not a bad person. I don’t think I’ve ever really hurt anyone. Oh… maybe I did disappoint my mom and dad not continuing with my studies at the U. But I really got tired of trying to get in all the classes that would have moved me toward a degree, and I just wanted to work for a while. And though my job involved unimpressive research on rat embryos, I really liked it. And I was good at it. And now, you’ve even taken that from me.”

He sat, breathlessly still, momentarily considering the insane possibility he might receive some response to his psychotic outburst.

Finally, he had to laugh, wondering how he could have collapsed into this obvious psychotic episode, considering he might even have a ‘conversation with God’. In that moment he remembered that it was after reading Donald Walsh’s big money-maker, “Conversations with God” that he remembered his youthful writing hobby. Then, following five years of agonizing labor, voraciously grabbing every moment he could find, he had three Sci-Fi novels on Amazon. Yet following endless attempts at finding an agent, along with no return on his attempts to gain some degree of interest in his books, he was jobless and broke.

Suddenly, his previous ‘wallow’ of self-pity reminded him that the Glock 17 still languished in his bedroom chest of drawers… whispering a dreary promise of a ‘way out’. And since he had just wasted time thinking he could actually get the attention of some historical anarchical entity– long called God– he stood and headed for the bedroom.

Halfway there, he heard the front doorbell chime. For a brief moment, he thought maybe he would answer, then his rational mind said, “What the hell for? It won’t change anything. Just get this the hell over with.

It chimed again. Then a third time– sounding now even more grotesquely insistent.

“Oh, what the hell?” he thought, pivoting, and moving to the door.

Peering through the peep-hole in the door’s center, he saw a tall and very attractive woman staring back with a curious smile on her pretty face.

For a moment, he was puzzled, while at the same time finding himself oddly fascinated and intrigued. Should he?

After a very long pause, the attractive creature at whom he stared in his all-too brief moment of insecure wonderment, shrugged, turned, and started to walk away.

Having no idea why, he flipped the dead-bolt and opened the door, saying, “Uh… sorry. You… you wanted something?” amazed at his stupid query.

She turned, smiling a warm, friendly smile, saying, “Ah… are you Mr. Andrew Marcum?”

He stood feeling momentarily tongue tied, staring at the most singularly beautiful woman he had ever seen.

Again, stepping closer, she said, “I’m looking for an Andrew Marcum. Would that be you?”

He swallowed, awkwardly, “Yes. What, uh… what can I do for you?”

Smiling again in a way that made his knees suddenly feel rubbery, “Are you missing a kitty?”

Oh, my God, the thought exploded in his head… Mr. T?

Since he seemed momentarily shocked, she said, “I’m visiting my sister for a few days, and a big, beautiful kitty somehow got in her back yard with her three kitties. He seemed so friendly that she took him to her vet, and they found an ID chip with your name and address. We tried the number with no response, so having the address, and we’re not far away, I thought I’d just stop by. Hope you don’t mind.”

“Oh?” he said, again feeling a sudden, indescribable relief.

“Would he be your kitty?”

“Oh… I’m sorry. I’m just having a strange day, n’ yes. He’s mine… or was. He got out a few days ago and, well, I just guessed he was gone.”

“Well, if you would like to go get him, the vet is only a few blocks away. My car is right in front.”

“I can’t believe it. I thought I’d never see him again. And yes… if you don’t mind… I’d love to go get him. But they’ll probably want money; just let me get my wallet.”

“No problem. My sis already took care of that. She thought if the kitty, Mr. T, was not claimed, she’d take him home. We both fell in love with him.”

“Wow. That’s… that’s awesome.”

As he got in her car, he said, “I’m really glad you can take me. I had to sell my car,” again feeling totally stupid.

She said, “That’s too bad, but it’s no imposition. We both fell in love with Mr. T, and I’d love to see him again.”

Trying hard not to stare at the incredibly gorgeous profile, he mumbled, “He really is an amazing cat, n’ he’s remarkably bright.”

She glanced casually asking, “Why did you sell your car? Getting a new one?”

Uncomfortable and trying to find some degree of accommodation, he managed, “Well… I lost my job– the epidemic shutdowns– and, well things are a little tight.”

“So, what was your job? That’s none of my business, of course… just curious, I guess.”

“Well… I’ve worked in a bio-chemical research lab for a few years, but I’m also... well... a writer.” Having no idea how that slipped out, he said, “At least I like to think I can write,” suddenly certain his bi-polar psychosis was in charge now and he was about to have a run-at-the-mouth. “Guess I really always wanted to write, but my mom and dad thought I had an aptitude for science. So… since my dad was a biologist… I was in college for a few years.”

“How interesting. And you say you write?”

“I guess. A few years ago, I read a book that somehow perked my interest in an old hobby n’ I have three books– just silly sci-fi– on Amazon.

“Really? Isn’t that interesting? That’s my métier. I’m… well, I tried novel writing, but I found I didn’t really have the drive… and probably not the talent. Now I work for a company in LA.”

“Been to LA couple of times. Thought I might go to SC, but I just couldn’t deal with the traffic. So… what do you do? I mean… in LA?”

“Actually, I’m a literary agent.”

The words exploded in his head. For the briefest of seconds, his early tirade at God somehow nagged at him… now in a rather strange fashion.

She said sweetly, “You say you have written novels. Do you have representation?”

“You mean… like an agent?”

“Yes.”

He tried to swallow the strange block in throat and mind, mumbling, “Well… after years of query letters and nothing but mostly kind rejections, I finally settled for Kindle and a few copies of paperbacks with Amazon; knowing without the where-with-all to really push– or even understand how to publicize– I haven’t been able to sell anything.”

She was quiet for a moment, then she nodded, saying, “There’s the vet’s office. Tell you what, when we’ve picked up Mr. T, I’ll take you both home. Then… you say you have paperback copies of your work?”

“I’ve got a couple. The third one, I gave away.”

She smiled, obviously thinking, “I’ll be here for a couple of weeks, and I’d love something to read while I’m here. My sis has just about shown me everything so… why don’t you let me look at your work?”

“I guess,” he mumbled, turning to look out the window at the late afternoon heavy traffic in front of them, again remembering his odd moment of railing at God earlier.

As they parked in front of the vets office, he said, “I really haven’t had the money to have a real professional edit done on anything, and though I think I’m fairly bright, and English was my second favorite subject, I’m still not very astute as far as commas are concerned.”

“Not to worry. I do this for a living, but and when reading for fun, I never notice commas or punctuation ‘gaffs’. I read for the plot and segue. And it would be fun to know a local author.”

Two weeks had passed since the delightful few hours with the beautiful lady, and the Glock had continued to sleep peacefully in its long-time hiding place, though he had often thought of what an idiot he had sounded like at their one day meeting.

The lady had adored Mr. T, and they had spent quite a nice afternoon with him after bringing him home. Yet, there had been little talk of the books, though she had taken two copies with her, promising to get back to him in a few days.

However, three days after their meeting, she had emailed a brief note saying she had been called back to LA; something urgent had come up, but she would take the books with her– if he didn’t mind– and promised to be in touch.

As he sat with Mr. T sprawled comfortably on his lap, he could not help noticing his tiny hummingbird friend who continued its persistent dance from perch to perch, to finally choose a familiar feeding station. After fulfilling its lustful satiation, it again vanished in a sudden whirr of light-speed magic.

Something about the moment recalled the brief and mystifying attempt to gain the attention of an archetypal God-concept days before; an idea that had seldom, if ever, been entertained in his intellectual and certainly not, spiritual reality; at least, not in memory.

Suddenly, his cell phone droned annoyingly. Though a friend had insisted he take a loan and get his phone active again, he had not changed the awful ring tone.

Wondering what ‘telemarketer’ he would have to hang up on now, he said annoyingly, “Yeah?”

“Mr. Marcum? Andrew Marcum?” the sweet voice queried with professional courtesy.

Who the devil, he thought, about to cut off the call, certain it would be another offer for free something.

The pause was obviously too long, and the voice again insisted, “I’m calling for Miss Andrea Marelli of the Marelli, Sertise and Carson literary group… do I have Mr. Andrew Marcum?”

The word literary exploded in his mind, and for a brief second, he had an image of the gorgeous lady at the front door. “Uh… yeah… yes. That would be me,” he mumbled in abject stupidity.

“Please hold, sir.”

He couldn’t believe he had almost cancelled the call when the beautiful voice said, “Andy? It’s Andrea. Hope you remember me.”

“Oh, wow. Of course. How… well… how are you?”

“How’s Mr. T?” she asked sweetly.

“Right here on my lap, as always,” he answered awkwardly.

“Give him a gigantic hug from me, ok?”

“Done,” he mumbled.

She said, “Hope you won’t mind my interrupting, but I may have some news for you.”

“Uh… news?”

“Actually, when I got back here, I had read your first book on the plane and thought it so promising that I showed it to my editor, Holly. She was so impressed she pushed it up to Mr. Wilford, our boss.”

There was a long pause, and he was sure he heard her speaking with someone else.

After a moment, “Sorry ‘bout that. It was my colleague, Holly Carson. She just got the call we have been waiting for. I should have waited but was anxious to give you the news.”

“Oh,” was all he could get out.

“Ok,” she said, “are you sitting down?”

“Uh… yeah, I guess you could say so. I’m kinda sprawled on the outdoor lounge.”

“Good. Take a deep breath… cause Twentieth wants to do a full length feature of your “Orion Encounter” book.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, “Who… wants what?”

“Twentieth Century Fox media group. They want your book. And sounds like they also want the other one as well.

“Oh… my…God!” he mumbled, feeling like he had just been hit in chest. He couldn’t catch his breath.

“I would say you no longer need to worry about going back to the lab,” she chuckled, kindly. “You can now call yourself a full-time writer. My boss says he will want to see everything you’ve done. And I can’t wait for the books that are still in your beautiful unexplored mind. Ok?”

He mumbled, “I… I don’t know what to say.”

“Just catch your breath. It’s 12:26 here in LA. I’ve got another meeting in a few minutes, but I’ll call you at, let’s say, around two… ok?”

“Oh, my God, yeah. Ok.”

“Again, congratulations. We’ll have a lot to talk about. And since you’ll be coming to LA, I spoke with sis, and she said she will be delighted to ‘board’ Mr. T as long as necessary.”

“I just don’t know what to say,” he again mumbled awkwardly, now feeling the months of numbing depression being compassionately lifted from his being.

“So, I’ll talk to you at two. Bye.”

Mumbling a half-articulated, ‘bye,’ the phone simply fell from his grip onto Mr. T’s back, eliciting a loud squall of annoyance.

As he sat, still in amazed shock, attempting to catch his breath, something just to his right captured his attention. It was the hummingbird from before. It was again sitting on its perch… and it appeared to be staring directly at him.

As he stared back in rapt fascination, the magnificent red and teal green colors on the tiny bird’s head began to glow brightly as if suddenly lighted from within.

In that moment, it was as if time had ceased.

Out of the center of some other unimaginable reality, Andy thought he heard:

“Remember… all you gotta’ do is ask.”