They call Carlos God.
Now this isn’t for religious or political reasons, or really any reason at all.  It is definitely not to piss him off.  They just call Carlos God.
Some say his parents were Asian, or Middle Eastern.  Others say they were South African, or Oriental, or just White.  But everyone knows they weren’t Hispanic.  Carlos just smiles and says they liked the name.  He doesn’t talk about his parents.  He works outside, everyday, doing whatever odd-jobs need done.  He’s a deeply tan man year-round.  Carlos never says he is nothin’; everyone else says Carlos is Black.
At six-five and two hundred and eighty pounds, Carlos is a brick.  He’s handsome (for a virgin) and isn’t a fighter.  Carlos is a singer.  He can sing anything for you without so much as a pitch tuner needed, provided the song is deep and slow.  He laughs exactly once a day: a soft, wise chortle that comes always at a moment that makes one wonder whatever it was he is laughing about.
Carlos is called God because he knows everything.  He got his GED at fourteen, but always says he “ain’t got no use for it.”  No, Carlos knows the other things.  He knows how old you are when he meets you for the first time.  He knows how many cavities you’d have before you go to the dentist.  He knows which girls are tainted even though he’s never been with one himself; or he’d know whether you should buy blue or pink paint when your wife’s only been carrying for two months.
Carlos has been in one fight in his life.  His jaw broke the man’s hand.  Carlos never swung once.  He knew he didn’t have to.
Carlos knows everything.
Carlos is God.

- - -

Amy is dead.
When she was alive she was Chiquita-Banana, but the policeman doesn’t know that yet.  He just knows her licence says “Amy.”  And Amy is dead.
So the policeman starts investigating why.  Everyone tells him to ask God.  The policeman doesn’t find this funny.  No one is laughing when they say it.
Chiquita-Banana’s boyfriend is Man-on-the-Moon.  Man-on-the-Moon hasn’t eaten in three days, two hours, and twelve minutes.  He’s pissed once.
God said Man-on-the-Moon didn’t know why Chiquita-Banana was dead.  The policeman said he had to know something.  God said he didn’t have to know anything.  But God said Man-on-the-Moon knew a lot of things.  He was a “dreamer.”  But Man-on-the-Moon didn’t know why Chiquita-Banana was dead.  He wouldn’t dream about it.  It made his stomach hurt.
Man-on-the-Moon hasn’t eaten for three days, two hours, and fifteen minutes.  He’s pissed twice.  He’s cried once.
And Chiquita-Banana is dead.

- - -

The policeman comes to the door.  His badge reads, “Random City State Police 036187300 Watson To Serve and Protect” and Man-on-the-Moon’s head hurts just reading it.  Doctor-Watson asks if he can come in and Man-on-the-Moon tells him he’s hungry.  He shuts the door quietly.
Doctor-Watson returns an hour later with a six pack and a pepperoni pizza.  Man-on-the-Moon reaches forward and opens a beer before letting Doctor-Watson in.  Doctor-Watson wants to know if Man-on-the-Moon will answer a few questions about Chiquita-Banana.  His head still hurts, but he says okay.  Doctor-Watson asks how he’s feeling and Man-on-the-Moon replies with, “mygirlfriendjustdiedyouincompetenttwatho wthefuckdoyouthinkI’mfeelingandthispizzaiscold” but Doctor-Watson doesn’t seem fazed.  He’s been in shootouts and dealt with drug dealers and has been married twice: Doctor-Watson has heard and seen much worse.
Doctor-Watson goes into his “tell-me-what-you-know” spiel and Man-on-the-Moon shakes his head “no.”  He doesn’t know anything and he doesn’t want to know anything.  Chiquita-Banana is dead.  Doctor-Watson is a good cop and a good man.  God was right.  Man-on-the-Moon knew nothing.  Doctor-Watson knows it is time to go “well she’s in a better place now” head to the door after taking another beer for the road.
Man-on-the-Moon yells after him that he knew how she had died.  She had committed suicide by drowning herself at midnight where the river met the dam.  Doctor-Watson nods solemnly and asks Man-on-the-Moon why she would do this.  He doesn’t know.
Doctor-Watson tells Man-on-the-Moon he is right and leaves him for the night.
God told Doctor-Watson that Chiquita-Banana had been shot in the back of her head by her husband for cheating on him.  It would be better for Man-on-the-Moon not to know that.
Doctor-Watson drives the whole way home with his headlights off, just for fun.  He doesn’t pull anyone over.  He tells himself they were just gonna fuck around and shoot each other and leave someone else confused and hungry and bitter and lonely and why the hell do they the misery of a speeding ticket attached to their pain, anyhow?
When Doctor-Watson gets home he strips down and goes to bed without shaving.  He pulls the sheets up just as his pager goes off for the third time.
Car wreck.  Casualties.
Doctor-Watson chortles.  Irony.

- - -

Today is Chiquita-Banana’s funeral.  Man-on-the-Moon wants a Chicken Philly Cheesesteak with green peppers and onions.  He doesn’t want to go to the funeral.  He had only known Chiquita-Banana for two months.  He didn’t even know her name was Amy.  Everyone would be calling her Amy.  It would be a funeral for a stranger.
He would be a stranger.
Man-on-the-Moon takes his submarine sandwich to the cemetery at 9:00 am.  He finishes eating at 9:16 am.  They bury Chiquita-Banana at 4:08 pm.  Man-on-the-Moon stays in his car until the last person leaves at 4:27 pm.
He watches the man kneel at her grave and bury his hand in his hands then get in his convertible and put the top down and light a cigarette and turn on rap music and peel away and flick the cigarette butt on someone else’s fresh grave as he flies out.  Man-on-the-Moon spits in the car’s general direction as it drives away, but his window is still up and it didn’t have quite the same effect as he’d hoped for as he stared at the car through saliva with rap music pounding in his ears.
Man-on-the-Moon slowly moves his car up to Chiquita-Banana’s plot.  He stops about ten paces away and gets out.  He lights a cigarette before stepping off the path and onto the grass, shuffling over flower bouquets and loose dirt.
Man-on-the-Moon doesn’t really think about anything as he stands there.  He tries to remember Chiquita-Banana’s face but can’t do it before his cigarette burns out.  He throws his butt on the buried casket and heads back to the car.  Man-on-the-Moon puts down all of the windows in the car and puts in his only rap CD, playing it loud as he possibly can.  Man-on-the-Moon leaves the cemetery at 4:31 pm.

- - -

God sits at the bar listening to lousy music.  He orders a Budweiser, a shot of Wild Turkey, and a water.
Doctor-Watson comes in and sits next to him at the bar.  He’s unshaven and red-eyed and smells of old spice and Black and Milds.  Doctor-Watson smells more like a bar than the bar he’s currently in.  He doesn’t notice God.
He orders a domestic draft and a shot of whiskey on the rocks and no he doesn’t give a fuck what kind.  The barkeep raises his eyebrows and comes back with a rocks glass filled with ice.  Doctor-Watson asks what the fuck the deal is and God slides the Budweiser and Wild Turkey over to him with the side of his hand.
Doctor-Watson doesn’t even look at God.  He says, “So that’s how it is?” more to himself then God, but God replies anyhow, with a low “Yessir.”
Doctor-Watson ignores the ice and downs the Wild Turkey.  He looks at the shot glass for a moment before smashing it against the wall.  The barkeep darts a look at God for advice, but God’s face is calm so he doesn’t do anything except wipe some clean space at the bar dirty.
After a minute Doctor-Watson repeats - and this time completely to himself - “So that’s how it is.”
He drinks two sips of beer and gets up to go.  God tells him not to tell Man-on-the-Moon.  Doctor-Watson knows.  God thanks him.  Doctor-Watson removes badge 036187300 and sets it on the bar before he heads for the door.  God tells him fishing is great in Connecticut.  Doctor-Watson pauses before slamming the swinging door behind himself in an incredibly anti-climatic fashion.
God places the badge in his pocket and tells the barkeep the Cubs are winning.  The barkeep grunts and turns on the old TV above the bar.  The score is 7-1.

- - -

Doctor-Watson kills Chiquita-Banana’s husband and keys his convertible on his way out.  He retires to a fishing village in Connecticut where he becomes the mayor and remarries for the third time.

- - -

God sends a letter to Man-on-the-Moon.  It reads:
“Be Happy.
-God”
Man-on-the-Moon smiles.
- - -

Man-on-the-Moon has been happy for three days now.
He sits on his fire escape playing his guitar.  Man-on-the-Moon can “play” the guitar, but he can’t really play it.  He can play a C, or a G, or a D, or a F minor, but he has troubles with a F and he doesn’t know what a Fmsus9 is until he looks it up and even then he doesn’t know why a Fmsus9 is a Fmsus9, but he can strum the note fine on the fourth or fifth try with his fingers placed awkwardly on the strings.  Okay, so Man-on-the-Moon sits on his fire escape, trying to play his guitar.
It is one of those wonderfully sunny days that can only be described by the words “wonderfully sunny” and he’d been practicing for hours with very few people yelling things like “Shut-up” or “You suck” or “Christ, kid, we have to listen to you.”  One girl walking by below begins to sing “Brown-eyed Girl” along with him as he plays, and this throws Man-on-the-Moon off, as he wasn’t playing “Brown-eyed Girl,” but instead some John Denver tune that he’s forgotten the name of.  Man-on-the-Moon stops mid-strum and the girl looks up, waving bashfully; he leans forward to give her a beaming smile.  Looking at her face, Man-on-the-Moon remembers what Chiquita-Banana’s face looked like.
The olive skin comes to him first.  Man-on-the-Moon wonders how he ever forgot.  He remembers now.  Chiquita-Banana was cute, but not pretty.  The right photographer, the right angle, sure, but the everyday girl, not so much.  But that was okay.
Man-on-the-Moon’s mind wanders.  He thinks to when he - for that brief month - wanted a Mustang more than anything.  He used to drive his Saturn around on back roads at night, pretending the ‘92 turned into an ‘02 and the SL1 turned into a Mach1.  Man-on-the-Moon would even go so far as to make low rumbling sounds as he fish-tailed through the turns.  Chiquita-Banana was the same way for him.  At night, with the lights out, she was beautiful and had all the options.  After a few minutes he forgot he owned a Saturn.  He revved his engine and rode her like a Mustang.

...