Mallory's Camera

Somehow in the midst of the three jobs, the unsummited mountain of bills, the dogs' needs and all the other exciting things that go into being moi, I forgot to mention the most exciting news of all: I'm back on speaking terms with the Supreme Deity!

It happened like this:

The afternoon my computer died, I took the dogs to the beach as usual. We plodded through a marine layer so thick I literally could not see the waterline. As without, so within: I was depressed.

I'm good about doing regular backups; no half-written spews had been lost to future generations of anthropologists or genealogists trying to trace their DNA's journey before it climbed on to that space ship bound for Venus. No photos of adorable kitty cats or poignant children or the face of the Virgin hiding out in a taco shell had vanished.

Still.

Milo had busted the laptop's screen several years before. I'd rigged up a workaround with a spare monitor since I couldn't afford to get a new screen – Mac repairs are expensive! – and the laptop became a homebody. For the last six months, its electrical system had been going out. Frequently it would crash in the middle of something important I was doing. Sometimes it refused to turn on again until several hours later.

"Here's Your big chance, God," I told the fog. "Fix my computer and I will never question Your existence again."

I think I may even have spoken out loud.

No answer.

When I got home, I looked at the computer lying on my desk. I never wanted to have to look at it again. I was going to bundle it up with all its cords and bury it in a box deep in my closet where trust me, no man wants to go.

Wouldn't hurt to try it one more time, chirped an impossibly cheerful voice deep in my amygdyla.

Damn if the little sucker didn't power right up!

And it hasn't crashed since.

Huh and huh.

I don't know that this qualifies as an actual miracle. A miracle is when something absolutely impossible happens. Milo turns pink. Gas drops to a buck ninety-nine per gallon. A scientific study proves that trans-fats cure cardiac disease.

Still. A bargain's a bargain. Henceforth I'm a believer!

Though I'm not really sure what God gets out of it. Did He want to be my imaginary playmate so badly that he robbed some Genius Bar of twelve hundred dollars worth of opportunity costs for the Mac repair not done? He wanted to hang out with me that badly? Why? Being a fair-minded person, I figure I have to throw a few good deeds into the mix to up the value proposition. Hey! I already do good deeds. I always pick up the dogs' poop. Many dog owners, you understand, do not! And for years now I've been picking up trash at the beach. That's my mitzvah.

The phrase "make me the instrument of your will" is stuck in the back of my mind. The concluding words of the prayer Obama recently left on the Wailing Wall, stolen and leaked to the press by some enterprising Yeshiva student. A little Muslim-sounding – those damn Mohammadites are always walking around, telling you, "As Allah wills it," but with overtones of that less-anthropomorphized spirit realm where religion merges with quantum physics: Not me, but the wind that blows through me.

I like it!

I, too, want to be an instrument of God's will.

Except it seems like God always wants me to talk to crazy people.

Case in point – yesterday evening after I closed the store, I was walking to my car when I heard a curious sound. I followed the sound and found this gentleman. The instrument is a hurdy-gurdy. I listened to him for ten minutes or so, he was singing French folksongs. I dropped some money in his tip jar and began to continue my walk when a frantic voice asked, "Can I talk to you?"

Why not? Well… for one thing because the owner of the voice was fucking crazy.

Still, I felt like I had to talk to him, it was God's will. And if he hit me up for spare change, I'd have to give him some – that was God's will too.

He didn't hit me up for spare change.

Instead he began telling me about his midlife crisis.

"I'm an artist, see. And I'm a very good artist. I have real vision. I've studied art in Africa, in Paris, in Santa Cruz –"

Santa Cruz?

"— my teachers agreed with me, I'm good, God damn it –"

We were close to my car so I figured better cut to the chase. "Nobody's entitled to anything," I told him with the sweetest, most compassionate smile I could muster.

"But I'm good," he insisted. He was a fifty-year-old man and he was crying in front of a stranger.

"The phase of life you're entering right now is about consolidating," I told him. "It's not about promise any more. It's about the harvest."

"So, what? You're saying I should give up my art?" he asked in a muffled voice.

"Not necessarily," I said. "But your art can no longer be used as an excuse for giving up other things. I gotta go."

"You gotta go? But, but –"

"God bless you," I said. And slammed the door in his face.

Maybe I should invest in some tarot cards. Damn, I'm good!