You’re going to listen and listen good. I am 69 years old. I have cancer of the larynx.* So this is my last shot. By publishing this story, you will redeem my life. You may even print this story in such a small font that it is nearly, but not quite, invisible**. Either way, like it or not, I have deemed you -- Mr. or Ms. Editor of a Literary Publication -- God for a day.

First things first: This is creative nonfiction. I’m trying to make it easy for you here. If I were only Irish, I could make it much, much easier. Unfortunately, I am of German stock. Barking “Achtung!” does not inspire twinkling of the eyes. There are no leprechauns in Berlin.

Embellishments: I admit them. This is not a factual record. I wouldn’t do that to you. But let it be known: This is serious. Not Unabomber serious, but definitely a somber decision. Let's get started.

It was my plan early in life, when novelists were respected not only by Dick Cavett but the general public (i.e., back when writers punched each other, stabbed their wives and engaged in newsworthy acts like orgies, drug abuse and political campaigns for mayoral positions) to become an infamous novelist. Right from the start I showed promise, talent, aptitude, vision, chutzpa, gravitas (requiring a gesture with the thumb, fore and index fingers, as though squeezing testicles), insight and adeptness, not to mention a flair and a knack.

Here's what I expect to happen after publication: This story will receive some type of international award. I will give my acceptance speech by satellite transmission from a hospital bed. The world will immediately understand the tragedy it has afflicted upon itself, having waited too long to reward me with attention and praise. Unfortunately, the only material left besides this piece will be the boxes and boxes of shopping lists and receipts I accumulated in life. What will my biographers make of the rotisserie grill and hair removal kit I recently purchased after watching infomercials?

Oprah will invite me to appear on her program, but I reject her offer, protesting the show as a soapbox for hacks and charlatans. This will display conviction, integrity. Gravitas.

I will meet with foreign dignitaries. I will lunch with the current wife or girlfriend of Mick Jagger. I will contribute lyrics to a song by U-2. Phillip Glass scores the hit opera. Tim Robbins directs and/or produces and/or stars in the film.

A coffee table book appears shortly after my death, featuring black and white photos of me smoking against a black background and the scribbled reminiscences of friends, relatives and acquaintances, including how I finally gave up drinking after that time I....

Coming soon: A Reader's Guide to a Letter to the Editor of this Publication and The Audio Letter to the Editor of this Publication as read by Wilfred Brimley.

Well, these are just a few of the things you can expect. Certainly, there is little reason to hesitate.

Please cut out and return this form.

DEAR WRITER:
THANK YOU FOR YOUR SUBMISSION. WE HAVEN'T READ ANYTHING THIS GOOD IN A LONG TIME PLUS WE'VE FINALLY HAD IT WITH STORIES ABOUT THE EFFECTS OF DIVORCE, STARK COMING OF AGE TALES IN RURAL SETTINGS AND ESPECIALLY DESCRIPTIONS OF KITCHENS IN WHICH THE SUPPOSED EROTIC QUALITIES OF COOKING AND EATING ARE DESCRIBED IN EXCESSIVE DETAIL. CONGRATULATIONS :) YOUR STORY WILL APPEAR IN THE FOLLOWING ISSUE: DECEMBER

SINCERELY,

THE EDITORS.

Now, there will be rewards after death. Of course.

When the gates open, I will enter heaven upon a stallion with toothpick-like legs (since we are travelling across space, the horse obviously does not require a great deal of support to bear my weight; indeed, the legs are merely for effect, so that I appear before God with a certain stature).

I am greeted by Dante, who bows, kissing my ring. He presents me to God. Instantly I realize I am within Him, and so cannot see Him. I absorb His presence as I am absorbed into He who created me, an impossible geometric structure...you'd think.

"Something went awry, amiss," God explains. "You were to be king of Saudi Arabia, but slipped out of my plot. Someone screwed up, and that someone will suffer, believe me. I forget exactly who but it seems like it had something to do with your father marrying the wrong woman or vice versa.

"Anyway, for you I have suspended the Law for a period of 69 years, the length, I'm sure you know, of your miserable life on earth. For those 69 years, nothing will be denied. The wife of any man is yours at the snap of the fingers. Vodka, tequila, bourbon? The best will be delivered, and without ensuing hangovers. This is heaven, after all.

"After 69 years, you will be baptized in the gases of Saturn and take your place beside Me."

By the way, I have one of those voice synthesizers. You may want to keep that in mind while trying to imagine what I sound like. You might even want to go back to the beginning of the story and start over now that you know this.***

NOTES

*God likes a good joke. True, it could have been cancer of the right hand. A little less subtle. I'm sure the cigarettes played a part, too, but still, He just can’t resist. It’s always been that way. When I was born, there was a soundtrack, a single horn, and it honked, "WA-WA-WA-WAAAAAAAAA." So let’s clear that up right now: I’m in on the joke. I know all about it.

**Do not, however, publish my tale in a font invisible to the naked eye, readable only with hyper-magnification. Let's not play games. Let’s not get into philosophy. It’s a little late in the game for that.

***If I could make a suggestion, you might want to cut and paste this paragraph near the start of the story. But you're the boss.