G! Mr. G, can you hear me?”
Boogie Geller ignored the blackjack dealer— annoyed by her interruption to his concentration—while trying to decide to hit, double down or unnecessarily risk splitting the fives, with the dealer showing a ‘four’ and 10s coming, as the shoe turned strongly positive.
“Mr. G! Mr. G!” louder.
Boogie yelled out to no one in particular, “Just a minute!”
“That’s one possibility,” said the attractive cocktail waitress with the knowing smile, as she efficiently removed a goblet of Merlot from her tray of drinks and placed it on a coaster to his left, deftly accepting the $5 chip from the balding man at the $100 table, while avoiding his smoldering hand-made Helix cigar.
The Pit Boss, pretending to adjust Mr. G’s playing rate and up-date the comps, signed out and took a short, furtive glance at the dark silhouette reflected on the small screen. Adjusting a brightly colored tie, the Boss turned from the monitor, rose, and walked slowly past Ben reminding him, “Mr. G, it’s time!”
“Time for what?” asked Boogie, rising quickly, intending to follow the Boss.
Instead, Boogie stopped unexpectedly and turned around. From behind him, in a sing song, but commanding voice came, “Time for everything. Time for nothing. Time for show. Time for tell. Time for ‘Show and Tell.’ It’s your choice.”
“What’s with the riddles and attempts at bad humor?” Boogie asked snottily of the new voice.
“Because, Benjamin ‘Boogie’ Geller, that’s why you’re here.”
“I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean—and how do you know my name? —But no … I’m here to try and make some money. Or at least get even.”
“How much is some money?”
“I don’t know … ten—, or 15 thousand.”
“And ‘Get even’ for what?”
“The way life has treated me,” Boogie said caustically. “But I’ll settle for just today’s losses.”
“Well, either of those scenarios could be considerably more than you expect.”
“You know—how about tellin’ me where I am and what the HELL is that last remark about ‘scenarios’ mean?” shouted Mr. G in frustration.
“WE DO NOT USE THAT LANGUAGE HERE,” thundered through Ben Geller’s tissues and neurons. Maybe it was the 4 glasses of Merlot on an empty stomach, but he felt like he was going to throw up.
A long moment of utter silence. And realization … Or at least the possibility of where he was and the seriousness of it all. A small and extremely frightened voice that once belonged to a much younger Benji Geller came out with, “Yes Sir.”
“Thank you for your attention and attempt at a change of attitude, but it’s not necessary to call me ‘Sir.’ ”
“Then what should I call you, S—” said Ben somewhat meekly; looking down at his hands and hoping the verbal slip went unnoticed.
“You may call me Amaterasu, Bhagawan, Chaacs, Dumnezeu, El Shaddai, F’sahg, Gospod, Hera, Imana, Jumala, Kwoth, Leza, Mulungu, Ngai, Ormuzd, Perendia, Ra, Shen, Tengri, Ualare, Votan, Waqa, Xwede, YHVH Tzva’ot, or Zikhle Zin … You may have heard of me.”
“What happened to Q?”
“Even James Bond films need a tune up!”
“You have GOT-to-be-kidding!”
≈ Hmmm. Some of The Chosen People have been known to pronounce it GOTT, thought GOD ≈
“You’re getting close, but most Westerners just spell it with a D,” said GOD playfully. “OK. Tell you what! Let’s make it easy! How about calling me Max?”
Looking into the distance, a long silence was followed by a pondering … “ ‘Max’ ?”
“Yes? What is it?”
“No, I wasn’t calling You,” Ben explained delicately and with much respect eventually asked, “I was wondering about the name ‘Max’ … I mean … you know—Max—what kind of name is that for GOD?”
“Good! You have figured it out. So now, let us move on! First let Me answer you—a very good question, by the way—The Name doesn’t matter! It is the belief and the reverence with which it is used. The older angels sometimes call me ‘Max the Mensch.’ ”
“What’s a Mensch?”
“Why don’t you know what a Mensch is? I thought you were Jewish?”
“I am, but I wasn’t Bar Mitzvah’d.”
“Not Bar Mitzvah’d! What’s that got to do with paying attention to life or listening to your family? I know you had a Bubbie [Jewish grandmother] who spoke Yiddish. Are you trying to change the subject? No, don’t bother to answer! Besides, whose fault was it that you weren’t Bar Mitzvah’d?”
“My parents,” answered Ben.
≈ Always, ‘The Parents!’ thought GOD loudly ≈
“Now, how many times have we heard that before?” GOD asked Peter rhetorically.
Peter suddenly got that ‘Oh, Shit! Here-we-go- again’ look on his face; but from long practice he controlled himself, considering where they were and in Whose presence he was. So instead, Peter quickly put on an ‘Oh, Merde!* Here-we-go-again’ look on his face.
~~~~~~~~~~
*Author’s NOTE: Even in heaven, French makes everything better. Inappropriate thoughts sound elegant. Speaking in French also improves looks, digestion and skin tone. And generally makes everything rude appear more acceptable. For example, the distasteful Washington, DC water, with all of its ailments, odors and bad publicity, becomes palpable in the Dupont (French again) Circle area, when served in a bottle that once held a fine Pinot Noir; especially if the water was left to age sufficiently on an appropriately colored—red and white—cloth, covering a small table for two that has been set for a party of four, in the very authentic atmosphere of the very French ‘Bistro Du` Coin.’
~~~~~~~~~~
“Mr. Geller, are you trying to change the subject?” asked GOD.
≈ Again? thought Peter loudly ≈
“No.
