Mural

On the table sat a Mason jar half filled with water and ice cubes, a yellow lighter with a Jamaican flag on it, a plastic bag full of dried salted soy beans, and a paperback book, bought at SeaTac airport several months before, titled A History of God. Under the title, three pictures were framed in beige boxes: a six-pointed star, a cross, and a crescent moon. The ruffled ends of several pieces of notebook paper stuck out from a place halfway through the book.

He reached forward and took the book into his hands, then opened it at the place where the pages were marked, page 193. The reader had left off in the chapter entitled "The God of the Philosophers." On the upturned piece of paper he saw numerous scribbles: about justice and reason and righteousness and equality. Below these random thoughts, Tim had written out a small paragraph. He read it aloud: "God and all creation have, and probably will, exist eternally; until time, space, and everything else is swallowed out of existence, into a realm we can't possibly imagine; but at this point the infinite negation here under consideration will probably create something entirely new-and in which some similar being will sit and ponder similar philosophic nonsense."

He chuckled at Tim's sense of humor. As he was closing the book, the door to the studio apartment swung open. Wind blew in through the doorway, lifting the pages of a lunar calendar that hung over an empty coat rack. "Hey Mitch," Tim said, carrying in several plastic bags full of groceries. "You found the key all right, I see." "Oh yeah." Mitch replied, still sitting on the couch. "You need a hand?"

"No, this is it." He set the bags on the counter and began putting their contents away.

"I was looking at this book you're reading. Looks interesting."

"Which," Tim said, looking over at the table as he lifted out a gallon of milk, "Oh that one, yeah it's really interesting. The author, she, umm," he stopped for a second, holding a head of lettuce in front of the open refrigerator door as if wondering where to put it, "she writes really concisely about the different interpretations people have had of divinity... even within the same religion." He put ajar of salsa in the refrigerator door. "You want an apple or something?"

"What kind?"

"Fuji."

"Sure," Mitch replied, and then a moment later caught the green and red orb that tumbled through the air at him.

A half-hour later, Tim's red Honda pulled into the parking lot of Eagle Park. There were several cars already there, typical of a weekday afternoon. From where they parked, they could see four people down by the edge of the lake, sitting on a black and green scotch plaid blanket, the long wisping arms of a Willow tree hanging over their heads. An old man stood on the shore fly casting, the line rolling out and silently falling on the windless water. They began down the gravel path and soon lost the overcast sky to an arching canopy of tree branches and fat tear-shaped leaves.

"So how many hours did you end up putting into this?" Mitch asked.

"Hours...probably about seventy or so. Took me two weeks, just working on it after work and on weekends."

"Damn!" Mitch exclaimed, shaking his head, "Takes a while, doesn't it."

"Yeah, it does. But it's a joy, you know? To get so connected to something like this and see it turn out."

"Any problems with people?"

"No, in fact the city bought the paint," Tim responded.

"No, I mean stuff with people just walking around in the park. Any shithead troublemakers? I always wonder about that when people are doing work in a public place like this."

Ahead of them, the path continued straight for about a hundred yards before dipping down a small hill and leaving the tree covered walkway. At the bottom of the hill the path curved to the right, following the bending shoreline. After another short stretch, the path emptied out into a large grassy area that ran all the way out to the lake before ending abruptly in a concrete bulkhead, the bottom half of which was crumbling and concave from the repeated force of waves. On one side of the area there were several large maple trees that, in the fall, turned the ground under them into a shifting collage of oranges, yellows, and reds; on the other side of the grass, a long concrete wall marked the edge of park property, keeping out the swarming blackberry vines that covered the hill on the other side.

"I only had one small deal," Tim said, "a minor thing with some kids."

"What happened?"

"Well, I was done for the evening and had about two-thirds of it finished, when Paul came by."

"Paul?" Mitch asked, while offering a piece of spearmint gum to Tim, who put the piece into his mouth and shoved the silver wrapper into his back pocket.

"Yeah, you know. You and Lisa met him at your party. Blond hair, about my height." Tim held his hand out flat in front of him to indicate how tall he was.

"Okay, okay. He's the guy you've been seeing for awhile now right?"

"Yeah, that's right. Anyway, he showed up and we were sitting on the park bench; he had his arm around my shoulder and I was explaining my theme to him, when this group of five, maybe six kids, probably fifteen or so, rode up the trail on their bikes. I didn't think too much of it at first because I had seen them down there before, a couple nights earlier. But when they saw us on the bench, they all stopped and started yelling stuff. 'Fags, fuckin' homos,' typical bullshit. They didn't do anything else, just stopped to tell us how feeble-minded and afraid they were."

Shaking his head, Mitch said, "what can ya do, huh?" Tim just shrugged, and a moment later, smiled. They continued walking.

"Oh hey look, there's God!" Tim stopped and pointed out toward the water. Mitch squinted in the glare from the lake. Out in the direction of Tim's pointed finger, Mitch saw a Golden Retriever and what looked like a mangy black stray, locked in coitus.

"What!"

Mitch's voice was vibrant with surprise and laughter, "two dogs fucking is God?"

"Of course! Hey man, we are witnessing the act of creation. That's God at work.

All these folks who have wanted to set the big G-O-D on a throne or have him sending down creeds and stuff, I just don't dig that. I see it only as pure creative instinct." Tim cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, "Amen to you, happy hounds!"

"Another revelation from the cool-cat philosopher." Mitch's voice was full of a funny sarcasm.

"Thanks," Tim replied, "oh, and of course you know that god is dog backwards."

Mitch laughed as they continued down the path. Soon they were standing in front of the wall, staring at the fifteen foot long painting that stretched to the top of the ten foot tall concrete barrier. In the center of the painting, an androgynous figure stood in a haze of purple and blue light, its arms stretching up toward a diamond like star overhead. Around the figure there were a series of smaller images: a primitive man and woman sitting by a fire in a cave; a naked man and woman in an area of lush green foliage, a tree at the center with a snake wound through the branches; a group of men in togas; an Asian looking peasant farmer; a black man sitting at a computer; a soldier in Roman attire; Jesus and his disciples; a European merchant in a shoe shop; a woman standing on top of an Egyptian pyramid; a Native American riding a horse; an Indian man writing in a book; Buddha sitting in meditation; an airplane; an Eskimo woman holding a baby wrapped in furs; a space satellite; a man holding the hand of a child. Across the top the image, just under the star whose rays shot out in all directions, was printed the word REALIZATION in large golden letters; under the central figures feet, also in large golden letters, were the words HUMANITYBECOMING, and across a four foot section in the center of the painting, directly across the face and chest of the central figure, in red spray paint that was nearly still wet, were the words GODHATESFAGGOTS.

After several moments, Mitch turned toward Tim and said, "I just don't understand." Tim simply looked straight ahead, his eyes reflecting the blood red paint.

          KIP SHEPARD