The God of Wetherspoons

God’s sitting in Wetherspoons, it’s Thursday lunch-time.
‘You’re dead,’ He says.
‘I guess,’ I say.
‘Tough break,’ He says.
‘Thanks,’ I say. I look around the pub as God devours his burger and dribbles guest ale down His made-up white whiskers. He wipes the smear of ketchup from His lip with the back of His hand.
‘So,’ He says, ‘what was it like?’
‘What was what like?’
‘Your life.’
‘Oh,’ I say and I look at all the people on the tables and they all look like people that maybe I once knew. Or maybe I didn’t. It’s hard to tell because when you're dead everyone looks the same.
‘Bad,’ I say. ‘Really fucking bad.’
God hands me the menu and I look down the list. ‘The beer and a burger is cheap,’ says God.
‘Thanks,’ I say.
'Have you been here before?' He asks.
I shrug. It's hard to tell because when you're dead all Wetherspoons look the same. 'Maybe,' I say.
'It's not bad,' He says. 'It's clean. It's quick. It's easy.'
'Yeah,' I say. 'That's what I heard.'
I get up and I walk to the bar. 'Beer and a burger please.'
'Table number?' says the barmaid. She looks like my first girlfriend, but then so does everyone.
'I...' I hesitate.
'What?'
'I don't know the table number.'
She rolls her eyes like I'm the biggest disappointment of the afterlife. I can't be. I may be one of many, but I'm sure I can't be the biggest. 'It's that one,' I say, pointing toward my table.
'The one with Father Christmas?'
'That's not Father Christmas,' I say. 'It's God.'
'Well, He looks like Father Christmas.'
She hands me the beer and it slops over my hand.
'Do you have a boyfriend?' I ask.
'I'm dead,' she says.
'That's not an answer,' I say.
She looks at me strangely. 'You're creeping me out,' she says.
'I can't help it,' I say.
'I know,' she says and she sighs like I'm now the most common kind of disappointment; the kind of everyday disappointment that is just a part of death.
'You'll find the condiments in the corner,' she says. She turns to talk to someone else but I think she likes me. Or she hates me – with bar staff it's hard to tell.
'What did you order?' asks God as I return to the table.
'The beer and a burger.'
'Good choice,' He says
'Thanks,' I say.
'How are you finding it?'
'It's clean. It's quick. It's easy. And it's bland.'
'I don't mean Wetherspoons,' He says. 'I mean death. How are you finding death?'
I blow out my cheeks and look around the pub for the twentieth time and spot the collection of baskets brimming with salad cream, mayonnaise, ketchup, vinegar, horseradish sauce, brown sauce and salt.
I take a sip of my beer. 'Can I tell you the truth?'
He nods and carefully watches me place my glass back on the beer-mat. 'How's the beer?' He asks.
'Good,' I say.
He points at the liquid. 'I see you prefer the darker ones.'
'Only in death,' I say.
'I prefer the lighter ones,' He says. 'Light but strong.' He taps His glass .'This one is four point eight percent.'
I raise my eyebrows in surprise.
'Four point eight,' I say. 'That's strong,'
'It's the strongest ale they've got.' He looks over His shoulder toward the bar. 'I think there's one called Mugglestone that's four point seven. There's a couple of four point twos and a three point eight. What strength is yours?'
'I don't know.'
'It's probably four point two,' He says.
I shrug.
God eats a chip and stares at me. 'Sorry,' He says, 'you were saying something before I interrupted you.'
'I don't remember...'
'Sure you do.'
I shake my head.
God takes the last bite of His burger. He stares at me intently as He chews and I can't bear it. I look at my fingernails and think about my life and try and remember what it felt like and what it was I thought I was doing before I ended up in Wetherspoons with the Almighty.
'Death!' exclaims God and He smites the table with His fist. A couple of faceless people look over in disapproval.
'What about it?' I say.
'That's what you were talking about.'
'Oh,' I sigh. I look around the pub for the twenty-first time. 'There's not much I can say about it.'
He says nothing and with His silence I know I have offended Him. ' It's not that it's unpleasant,' I hasten to add, 'it's just...'
'What?'
I let out a big sigh. 'It just feels a lot like life.'
At first I don't know what's happening.
I see my glass beginning to tremble. I see the walls vibrate and the dead chairs and the dead tables and the dead beer and the dead drunks and the dead paintings on the wall and the dead world is shaking from side to side and I panic
or I stay calm. When you're dead everything feels the same.
But eventually the shaking takes the form of a sound bursting through the world and rattling me to my core.
I realise that it is the sound of God laughing.
A roaring, uncontrollable laugh
and I also realise that God has every possible sense of humour
And sometimes that humour is very black.
'Burger?' says a passing waitress.
I shake my head clear and look around the pub for the twenty-second time.
'That's me,' I say.
She lays the plate in front of me and I try and remember what it was I was thinking about
What I was just thinking about
But I can't.
'Enjoy your meal,' she says.
'Thanks,' I say,
Sitting in Wetherspoons, eternally.