The Duppy by Anthony C. Winkler Page A

wished the Americans did, too, but they were always giving Him a hard time and trying to get Him to change up heaven.
    I advised him not to pay them any mind, for they didn’t have any sense.
    He chuckled and said, That is a refreshing attitude to have. He would remember it the next time he was stoned by a class from Harvard.
    “Just call on me, God! I’ll thump down de brutes for You!”
    He said, Thank you very much, Baps, but He didn’t too much relish fisticuffs or pugilism.
    “Den I’ll bring me machete and chop dem up, for dey is out of order to stone Almighty God.”
    He said that he appreciated my willingness to fight on His behalf but He didn’t really care for cleaving, chopping, decapitating, or any other form of butchery.
    “You a hard man to please, sah!” I said jokingly, then apologized quickly, thinking that I had spoken disrespectfully. But God only laughed, and his laughter sounded so sweet that throughout my friendship with Him I was constantly peppering Him with clean jokes just to hear that joyful sound.
    Of course, being a wretch, I know mainly dirty joke, and it was always a serious strain to keep my humor wholesome.
    We had started down the trail, God flying near my right shoulder, a drop of the loveliest light quivering in a sparkling bubble no bigger than a teardrop. As we trekked I exulted to myself, “Baps, you lucky son of a gun! Imagine, you, a humble, dirty-minded, lowdown shopkeeper, and here God is flying beside your earhole and chatting with you as if the two of you were best friend.”
    My indoor parson, however, grumbled, “Dis peenywally is God? Where de golden throne? Where de cherub? Where de hosts bawling hosanna? Where you see even one angel, one seraph, one principality, even one fool-fool power? Dis peenywally can’t be God!”
    “Hush up your mouth and show respect!” I hissed.
    God asked me if I had said something.
    I said, No, I was talking to my parson.
    What parson? God wondered. Was there a parson lurking in the pathway bush?
    I had never before in my life admitted to anyone that a parson dwelled inside me, but this was God Almighty I was talking to, and thinking that there was no concealing anything from His eyes, I told Him the whole story about how I had come to the longtime habit of self-preaching that had over the years petrified into an indoor parson. I added that the problem with an indoor parson is that you can’t thump him down without also thumping down yourself, as you could an outdoor parson, and He recommended that I try exorcism.
    “Exorcise who?” my parson bellowed angrily. “You don’t exorcise a man o’ de cloth!”
    “Hush up!”
    The bubble of light glittered as merrily as a Christmas sparkler, which meant that the spirit of the Almighty was laughing in the Kingdom of Heaven.
    We trudged the rest of the way to the clearing in silence.
    When we got to the tree I found to my astonishment that the philosopher, looking somewhat bedraggled and bored, still dangled where I had left him.
    Fearing that God would be vexed with me, I hastened to untie the fellow, asking him in a furtive undertone, “Why you didn’t just leave, man?”
    The stubborn wretch looked me up and down and said, “Leave where?”
    “Here, idiot!” I whispered, struggling with my own knots. “You didn’t have to remain tied. You could’ve just walked away!”
    “A man has to be before he can walk.”
    “Shut up ’bout dat same stupid old story! Be thankful you in heaven. And see, here’s God, come to look for you!”
    Swivelling his head and focusing his bleary eyes toward the glittering drop of light hovering next to his shoulder, the philosopher jumped like he had been struck by lightning.
    “It is God!” he yelped.
    “You better tie him up back to de tree,” my parson muttered surlily. “De man is stark raving mad!”
    I really can’t say I was comfortable that first evening I spent in the company of God. Indeed, I sat in the clearing as the evening