Dear God Transcript

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DEAR GOD

by Christopher Gronlund

Jimmy Ingersol started calling himself Jimmy Mack when he dropped out of college and decided to live on the streets. It started as an experiment for a sociology class, taking the train from Evanston into Chicago and watching the homeless. He picked up their mannerisms and paid attention to how they dressed. He listened to how they talked and followed them around during the day. When he was ready, he dressed the part and had his story: he told people he moved to Chicago from downstate in the hope of landing a decent job. He told people things didn’t work out as planned and that’s how he ended up on State Street in the South Loop, where rampant gentrification made it one of the better places in the city to be homeless.

Jimmy had his cardboard sign: “NEED MONEY TO GET TO HARRISBURG.”

When people asked, Jimmy explained, “I grew up downstate and didn’t want to work at Wal Mart or drive a coal truck. I figured I could find a better job up here in Chicago, but it didn’t work and now I’m thinking driving a coal truck or working in an auger mine isn’t so bad. At least I’d have a job the rest of my life.”

Jimmy made more money with his cardboard sign than some MBAs coming out of Kellogg School of Management at Northwestern.

* * *

It was a chilly morning when “Jimmy Mack” met the man with the stamp.

Jimmy spent the morning weathering a new cardboard sign with his sob story. His old sign got wet and didn’t make it home to the condo he kept when he started making good money being “homeless.” He learned enough about preying on human sentiments to know that a fresh cardboard sign made the wealthy people taking over the South Loop feel like they were giving their earnings to a scam artist. A well-worn sign and downcast eyes made them feel like they were doing something generous.

Jimmy was about to call it quits when a thin man in a perfectly fitting designer pea coat approached. Jimmy made quick eye contact and then looked down in mock shame. The man stopped and handed a tiny scrap of paper to Jimmy. It looked like a postage stamp.

“Thank you,” Jimmy said. It wasn’t what he was fishing for, and he’d throw it back when the man got out of sight.

“You’re welcome,” the man said. Jimmy looked up. The man had a model’s face; a manicured hand pointed at the stamp. “That’s worth more than anything I have in my wallet.”

“How so?” Jimmy was used to certain kinds of people messing with him, telling him to get a job and stop being a bum. He was used to people handing him wet beer labels, handfuls of pennies, and club flyers—it was one of the main reasons he started working the homeless day shift. But he’d never been given a postage stamp. He wondered if the man had just handed him a valuable stamp.

“Do you ever pray?” the thin man said.

“Yeah, sometimes.” Jimmy hadn’t prayed in years, but he knew the value to acting religious and saying “God bless you,” to people who gave him money.

“And you’re still homeless. Think about that. I’m guessing everybody on the streets prays to get off the streets. And yet, here they all are.”

“Yeah, so?”

“So?” the thin man in the designer-cut pea coat said. “Prayer doesn’t work. I remember watching the news about a bus crash a few years back. Many people died when a bus slammed into the supports beneath an overpass. They interviewed a survivor and asked how they survived. ‘I prayed, and I lived,’ she said. But all those people praying up front died. The person who lived survived because she was in the back of the bus—the part that wasn’t crushed and on fire. Prayer didn’t help the people at the front of the bus anymore than it helped the woman at the back. Prayer is a sham.”

“What’s that have to do with this stamp?”

“That stamp’s real. God doesn’t have time to hear the billions of prayers sent his way. Hell, he barely has time to answer his occasional mail.”

“His mail? You’re telling me God’s got a mailbox?”

“Yes. I know it sounds strange, but it’s true. There are people who would kill for that stamp. You write a letter, put it in an envelope, drop it in a mailbox, and God will actually hear what you’re asking for once. No address needed—the stamp gets the letter to him just like that! He’ll answer three questions. Any three questions you ask.”

Jimmy wasn’t buying it. “I thought that’s what genies did.”

“Nah, that’s where they got the whole three question genie thing. God was there in the beginning, before we started making up stories like the Bible and genies.”

“I’m supposed to believe this?”

“That is totally up to you,” the thin man said, drawing his coat tighter at his neck. “What’s it hurt to try? If I’m messing with you, nothing happens and your life goes on like it is. If I’m right, you get the Big Guy’s attention. All it takes is writing a letter and mailing it. Nothing to lose—everything to gain.”

“I’m homeless, man. I don’t have a mailbox.”

“That’s the beauty of this. It’s God…man. You don’t need a mailbox. His reply will just appear after he reads your letter.”

“Whatever.” Jimmy looked down at the stamp, at a painted image of fluffy clouds with sunlight breaking through. If God had a postage stamp, it’s what Jimmy imagined it would look like. “You sure you don’t have any cash?”

The thin man pulled out his wallet from an inside pocket hidden away in his pea coat. He reached in, pulled out a hundred dollar bill, and dangled it before Jimmy. “You have a choice: the C-note or the stamp.”

Jimmy looked at the man, the money, and the stamp. Running his fingers over the surface of the stamp, he could almost feel it radiating warmth, like the sun breaking through the clouds was real. He could almost smell the passing storm. He could almost smell hope. Jimmy thought about what three questions he’d ask God.

The God thing and Jimmy didn’t get along. It wasn’t that Jimmy didn’t believe in God, but he definitely thought the guy living upstairs wasn’t all he was cracked up to be by his followers. Jimmy lost his mother to cancer when he was five, and the two women his father went on to marry following the death were witches as far as Jimmy was concerned. His father was only half there for his son. Every time Jimmy got sick while growing up, he wondered if it was cancer. He never really had friends. When he was young, Jimmy spent a lot of time praying to God.

Prayers that were never answered.

He rubbed the stamp between his thumb and forefinger, thinking about the thin man’s words: Nothing to lose—everything to gain.

“I’ll take the stamp.”

The thin man returned the hundred-dollar bill to his wallet, and then slid the wallet to his inside coat pocket.

“Be sure you make that letter count. I have faith in you—you’re quite articulate for a kid from downstate living on the streets.”

When the thin man was out of sight, Jimmy got up and headed home.

* * *

Dear God,

My name’s James Ingersol, but you already know that I bet. I’d say I’m homeless, but you’d know I’m lying. I’ll keep this short.

Some guy gave me a stamp. He told me the stamp would get this letter to you. He said you don’t have time for so many prayers, but said you answer mail to those dedicated enough to send it. So here it goes, my one chance to talk to you.

My three questions:

1. I want to know why you killed my mom when I was a kid.

2. I want to know how I’m going to die.

3. I want to know when I’m going to die.

Sincerely,

James Ingersol

* * *

The next morning, “Jimmy Mack” didn’t go to his job in the streets. Jimmy walked to the post office, dropped the letter in the mailbox, and returned to his condo where he waited.

And waited…

He sat for weeks, waiting for the answers to the three things he wanted to know more than anything. He wondered if his life of lies put him in bad standing with God; he prayed that he’d receive a reply and vowed to go back to college and stop preying on the sympathies of others to make a buck. He vowed to finish his degree and help the homeless. He pounded on his walls one night, cursing the heavens for believing in something as stupid as the stamp. Then he dropped to his knees and apologized for not believing—anything for the letter; anything for the answers to his three questions.

Jimmy Ingersol was napping on his couch when he heard the mail slot creak and something fall to his hardwood floor. He ran to the front door and looked down. The envelope had fallen face down. He picked it up and turned it over.

There was the cloud stamp!

The thin man was right—he’d finally get the answers to the three things that Jimmy wanted to know more than anything else. More importantly, all his doubting was wrong—there really was a God sitting at some writing desk in the clouds, answering letters to those lucky enough to come across the magic stamp. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. When he opened his eyes, Jimmy read the notice from the post office written across the envelope:

“RETURN TO SENDER—NO GOD BY THAT NAME AT THIS ADDRESS.”

* * *

Jimmy flew into a rage, punching a hole in the wall and tearing up the envelope.

On the other side of the door, the thin man and a large friend made their way to the elevator.

“You’re such an asshole, Loki!” the big man said.

“But it cracked your ass up, brother. The kid was taking people’s money. I’m just teaching him a lesson.”

“Suuuuuuuuure you are.”

The elevator doors opened, and Loki said, “Why don’t we go grab a brew and see what other trouble we can get into. I know a place a couple blocks away.”

Thor clapped his brother on his shoulder. “You had me at ‘brew…’”