Polyester
By Fewthistle

For my dear Step-Child, wizened_cynic

The first time Joan didn't recognize Him, it was February and raining. Not a real rain, of course. No drops from the sky. Just moisture everywhere, like when her grandmother misted her African violets. He was sitting on one of the hard cement benches that lined the hard cement park downtown. He had on a brown suit, a red tie, and black shoes. Never say God doesn't have any fashion sense.

She'd seen Him there for days. Weeks maybe. Same bench. Same suit. Well, maybe not the same exact suit. Different tie at least. Eating lunch out of a wrinkled plastic bag from SaveMore. Throwing crumbs to the pigeons. Just sitting. At least she thought that it was Him. Who knows. Most middle aged white guys look about the same. Same paunch, same bald spot.

She was walking. Just walking. Maybe she was headed to Adam's. Maybe to the station to see her father. Maybe not. She didn't really remember. He spoke to her as she walked past him, her head down against the wet, frigid air, scarf pulled over her head, little wisps of curly hair flying out, sticking to her damp skin.

“Nice day,” He said to her.

It wasn't really what He said as how He said it. Like He really meant it. Like it really was a beautiful day, full of possibilities.

Like there was no war, no famine, no disease. Like crazy people weren't flying planes into buildings in His name. Like children weren't taking guns to schools and killing those who professed to believe in Him.

Believe in Him. So many people claimed to believe in Him. That was the part that bothered her. Hell, they'd never even seen Him and they believed. He appeared to her on a friggin' weekly basis and she still had a hard time with the concept of Him. Go figure.

Sometimes she envied those others the surety of their faith. She wondered if it wasn't actually harder to believe in something, or someone that one could actually see. Talk to. Yell at.

She was having a much easier time believing in the Easter Bunny, right now, than God.

Except He was sitting there, beads of rain settling on the dull brown of his suit, like water on a newly waxed car. Polyester, no doubt. Great. God didn't even go in for natural fibers.

“Yeah. Nice day,” she said sarcastically, dropping down on the bench next to Him. “Don't you have anything better to do than sit here, in the rain, in this crummy concrete park? I mean, don't you have a war to stop or some miracle to perform?”

“What makes you think I'm not doing that right now?” He asked, standing and walking across the wet cement, his shoes making a squishing sound as He crossed to the recycling can, dropping in the balled up plastic bag.

“Saving the planet,” He said with a slightly crooked grin. Turning, He sauntered slowly in the direction of the subway station.

She watched Him until she could no longer see the round gleam of the bald spot on the back of His head. She pushed herself up from the bench with a grimace. The back of her jeans were soaked. So was the cotton scarf around her head.

Too bad she couldn't bring herself to wear polyester. No. There were some things even harder to contemplate than the existence of God.