I ran into God at the laundramat in the strip mall on East Main, there, in the corner next to the balloon store. Taking the form of the exquisitely angelic six year old son of the Spanish speaking couple who manage the place, unbidden, he stood before me as I sat in a chair, waiting for the washers to complete their cycle, trying to decipher the structure of a few measures of Mozart’s Jupiter Symphony.
Looking up, I saw dancing little dark eyes framed by Michaelangelo curls escaping from under a gray baseball cap. Without waiting to be asked, God betrayed himself with confidence, “M’llamo Oliver”.
Since I was listening in English, his Madrid Spanish was at first, undecipherable. “Que dices?”
“’M’llamo Oliver,” he said a little louder as if I didn’t hear, then louder still with the clearly enunciated gutteral ere Madrileño lisp, he said, “Oliver Ruiz”.
“Ah! Sí! Mucho gusto, Oliver, me llamo Michael Winn.”
“Encantado,” he said as he turned and ran away, behind a row of stainless steel washing machines. I returned to my book.
A moment later, God’s voice filtered through the hum shwiss bump of the dryers, saying, “tell Janet not to sweat the small stuff. ”
“Style,” he said, “is my forté! Beethoven, for instance. Marvelous Carte blanche. I’d worship the ground that nurtures such creativity. You know, if Beethoven was the only good thing that came of this universe, you’d have to admit it’s a success, no?”