Memoirs of the New Age: A Book of Stories, Prayers, and Fables

Guest Spot Can you imagine her excitement when Amy Larson confirmed with his agent that God would appear on her show? The closest her father, Ronny, had gotten was an interview with a two-bit false messiah ten years before. “I’m so tired of being my father’s daughter, of being compared to Ronny Larson, legendary late-night talk show host,” Amy confided to Gail Strick, her executive producer. “This is my chance to surpass the bastard, and I can’t wait.” “Let’s make sure all the TVs in his mansion are tuned in to the show,” Gail jumped in gleefully, “so he can’t miss it.” It was no wonder that Amy was anxious to show up her father. An institution on late-night TV, he had consistently refused to retire until a stroke had leveled him in his mid-sixties. His daughter, Amy, who had co-hosted (hah! it was more like she was the butt of his jokes) for fifteen years, had only then been allowed to step into the prime spot, and that with misgivings by the studio. “How do we know how she’ll go over without her father?” worried the harried studio executives, who had to move swiftly to cope with Ronny’s stroke. In the end they had little choice but to try her, yet they kept their eyes tuned to the viewer ratings, ready at any time to boot her out. I showed them, she gloated. Three years had passed, and she still had her grip on the audience—not, perhaps, as had her father, but more so than the other networks’ competition. “This is going to put me in solid,” Amy continued to Gail. “Nobody will ever be able to belittle me again.” This seemed true enough. God was a difficult guest to book. In fact, except for brief and unexpected drop-ins at churches, synagogues, mosques, and cemeteries, he hadn’t made a public appearance in thousands of years. “What a coup!” Gail shook her head in amazement. “How did you swing it?” Amy paused a moment. She would have loved to exaggerate the story, embroider the truth, but she was too close to Gail, and so in the end she opted for the facts. “Swear not to tell anyone,” she whispered. Gail nodded. “I didn’t. I mean, I did, but I didn’t. They called me.” Gail was even more impressed with the truth than she would have been with a lie. “You mean,” she said, shocked, “you didn’t have to go after him?” Amy shook her head and continued to explain. “One afternoon I got a message on my desk that God’s agent had called. Well, I returned the call immediately, and there it was. He had asked for a half hour on my show.” Gail flapped her sculptured nails over her lips. She had never… “So you didn’t go after him, convince him, send him tapes of your interviews…. God, I’m so impressed. He must love your work!” Amy felt suddenly even more excited with herself. She had thought an elaborate story about her pursuit of God and her incredible booking skills would show her to be at the epitome of her craft, but the truth alone had amazed a seasoned professional. At that moment, she decided to make the true story the public one. If getting God on the show was easy, preparing for the taping was not. Amy was obsessed with perfection, and she held endless meetings with lighting engineers, wardrobe specialists, and makeup people. How should the stage be lit? What kind of makeup would God want? How should she be dressed? God’s agent assured her that no special lighting would be necessary, that if God needed something unusual, he could produce it on the spot. (What a gas!) And as far as her own appearance was concerned, the agent said God didn’t much care. A new anxiety began to plague her. “I’m beginning to wonder,” she said privately to Gail, “if God has actually ever seen my show. His agent doesn’t seem concerned about the details and shows no interest in me.” By this time Amy had started to bite her nails. (Marcel could cover up that kind of indiscretion, she assured herself.) “Nah,” Gail comforted. “Maybe it’s the opposite. Maybe he’s so confident in your abilities, he thinks all these preparations unnecessary.” Amy wasn’t convinced. Long hours were spent with her wardrobe consultant. “I don’t recommend anything too sexy,” Edith had advised. “Let’s go with classic styling, a tailored look with a hint of femininity, a touch of color.” At that moment Edith’s genius seemed to take off. She started fluttering around, touching Amy’s sleeve, tugging at her skirt waist. She was into her vision, and Amy surrendered gratefully. As it always does, the waiting and planning came to an end, and Amy prepared herself for the taping by consuming three cups of coffee and two whole-wheat croissants. (Great, a stomachache!) The afternoon of the taping, God’s agent arranged all the details with Amy. They confirmed all agreements: no commercial breaks (that would impress the competition and the audience!); God’s preference for his left side (important for promotional pictures), and so on. God would not rehearse, the agent insisted, and Amy agreed, against her better instincts. In fact, God wouldn’t appear until the last minute, something Amy found almost intolerable. What could she do, though? This was a guest worth making exceptions for. Lights, cameras—everything was ready—and the moment had arrived. Amy was, by now, very excited. She had never seen God, and neither had most other people. She got the signal to begin. She knew then he was backstage, ready to come on. “My first guest is well known to all of you,” Amy addressed the camera breathlessly. “He’s millions, perhaps billions of years old, has seen every fad come and go, and is responsible for more than anyone else on earth. With no further ado, let me introduce—in his very first television appearance—God.” The audience and crew strained toward the stage. Nobody had actually seen God on the set, and there was an unspoken fear that the whole thing might be a hoax. But all was well. It was not a hoax—though when God actually walked on stage, Amy was both relieved to see him and disappointed by what she saw. What had she expected? A man in a beard with robes? She didn’t know. But a middle-aged guy in a jogging suit felt undistinguished, irreverent. Amy bit her lip and stood up to greet him. “How do you do, God,” she feigned cordiality as she masked her fear that people in the viewing audience would think this wasn’t the real God. “Don’t be disappointed, Amy,” God assured her, as though he had read her mind. “By the end of this evening everyone will know I am God.” Blushing, she tried to laugh off his comments as she showed him to his seat. But, truthfully, she was relieved. If he could read minds, he might make a splash. “Well, I guess I didn’t expect such a good-looking man,” Amy tried to cover up her embarrassment that God had seen through her. “And you are a good-looking man. Am I right?” Amy asked the live audience, who had been handpicked by the public relations department—an audience comprised of important members of the press, plastic surgeons, family members of major sponsors, a rock star or two. The group howled with delight, and the applause broke Amy’s tension. “So, God, what do you have to say for yourself?” was Amy’s opening, her thought being that her “natural” style, her normal irreverence, would be most effective. “Well, actually,” God replied, “quite a lot.” And with that remark, the middle-aged man in the jogging suit literally transformed himself into the spitting image of Amy herself—tailored look and all.