Nausea

NAUSEA

IMMEDIATELY after his death, Jean-Paul Sartre was ushered to the Gates of the Kingdom, where he was told that before being given his permanent assignment, he could--if he chose--have an exit interview with God. Jean-Paul accepted the offer.
After some delay, he was guided down the pearly streets, out through the countryside, and finally to a modest brick home at the end of the road. Told by a servant to have a seat on the porch and to wait to be summoned, Jean-Paul began to have misgivings--doubtsB-wondering if perhaps this whole business was just a continuation of the earthly strategy. He was about to leave when the servant returned and told him that God would see him right away: "Come this way, Mr. Sartre, if you please."
Inside, he was led down a hallway to a large, rather spacious bedroom, where God existed. Looking about the place, Jean-Paul was stunned by what he saw: a room in complete disarray: messy and unkept; and God--God was, quite literally, omnipresent: a vast, immense, nearly wall-to-wall mound of sensuous flesh that sprawled outward and over and across the entire bed. His robes, open half-way down his torso, revealed fold after fold of greasy, pale fat. The sheets and blankets were a jumble, as if the bed itself had not been made for weeks. And this: God was eating--stuffing himself, really. Watermelon juice dripped from His chin, which was, surprisingly, clean shaven. And all about Him, spread out across the bed, lay great quantities of food: pies and cakes and mashed potatoes--lots of mashed potatoes, with butter--and spaghetti and bowls of fruit and corn on the cob.
Hearing His guest enter the room, God, His jowls swinging with gravity, looked up and asked, "Are you alone?"
Jean-Paul glanced about the room, noted that the servant had left--that they were, indeed, alone--and nodded: "Of course."
"Good," said God, wiping His chin with His robe. "Now," He continued, "you asked for an interview, is that correct? Does that mean that you have questions for me, or that you want me to interrogate you?"
Jean-Paul returned, "It seems from your remark that you have already decided that."
"Careful," warned God.
"No," Jean-Paul said, looking directly into God's eye, which was a greyish-greenish-brown. God looked back; they stared at each other; they glared at each other. Neither spoke.
Then, Jean-Paul took charge. He began: "Why do you eat so much?"
"But I don't eat so much. I am God and, by definition, perfect; therefore, I eat the perfect amount. God is love; and I love food, so why should I limit myself on the things that I love? You make no sense, Jean-Paul."
"You're wrong, God," he replied. "I make perfect sense. I made no moral judgment on you (though perhaps you did yourself, as suggested by your defensive stance). I simply asked a question, which, it seems, you answered, if not convincingly, at least adequately."
God stared back and breathed, and finally said, "I have answered the question sufficiently."
"But all that food can't be good for you. What about your health? What about your heart? Do you ever get sick?"
"I am God," He repeated. "I do not get sick; I have a good heart; I am immortal. I can do anything. I cannot die; I am free, and I will live forever." A pause. "I am, quite frankly, omnipotent." Another pause, longer. "I have answered the question sufficiently."
Jean-Paul walked about the room, stepping over and around the socks and dirty underwear and toys scattered about the floor. He removed his thick glasses and looked through them up into the dim overhead light. He cleared his throat. "What is your native tongue?"
God stared back, but otherwise did not respond.
"Is the Bible translated correctly?"
Still no response.
"The Koran?"
Nothing.
"The Torah? The Book of the Dead?"
Nothing. Nothing.
"What about Shakespeare?" Pause. Long pause. "My own work? Does Nausea speak the truth?"
God reached down into the pile of food and retrieved a Twinkie.
"Being and Nothingness?"
God opened the Twinkie and slipped it into His mouth.
Jean-Paul was persistent: "Is the meaning of life found in its existence, or in its essence?"
Silence.
"Which came first: the chicken or the egg? How many angels can stand on the head of a pin? Does Adam have a navel? Can you make a stone so heavy that even you can=t lift it?@
God swallowed hard and wiped His mouth. "I have answered sufficiently."
Jean-Paul put his glasses back on his nose and decided to change tactics: Instead of these true-false and multiple choice options, he took a more open-ended, yet still basic, line of approach: "Where did you come from? Where are you going?"
God raised His head, a look of annoyance on His face. "Careful," He said. Then: "I have answered sufficiently."
Jean-Paul shook his head back and forth slowly, apparently in disappointment; he paced the floor, still not used to all the clutter. He noted the film of dirt and grime along the baseboard. "All right, then, all right," he said. His longest pause yet. "You say that you love food. What is food? Where does it come from? Is food love? Is love food? 'God is love'; are you. . ."
"Hold on," God interrupted. "Jesus is love. I am God."
"But you said earlier. . ."
"'Jesus is love,' I'm saying now. I am God." He looked at Jean-Paul severely, and then repeated, "I am God; I am free; I am Freedom; I can do anything: when I say, 'Let there be light,' there will be light."
Jean-Paul waved Him off. "Tell me, if you can, what is this emotion we call love? Why do people fall in love? Why do people fall out of love? What attracts one person to another? What attracts one thing to another? What repulses? What is connection? What is hatred?" Jean-Paul, exasperated, but on a roll now, pressed on: "God," he said, driving toward something, though not quite sure what, "what interests you? What are you interested in? If you were not God, what would you do with Yourself?" And then, finally: "Are you happy?"
But he did not wait for God's response, which was not forthcoming anyway. He just said, "I think I should go now. You've not been much help."
"I have answered sufficiently."
Jean-Paul made his own way out of the house, by himself, and walked back to--well, he wasn't sure where he was walking back to. He simply followed the same road he had come by, this time taking more note of the landscape: the adjoining fields, the stinging nettles in the adjoining fields, the houses and cottages in the adjoining fields; the houses and factories along the street, the dogs on the sidewalk and their droppings and the accompanying flies, the reckless, speeding drivers of the automobiles and trucks and taxis along the street; the unattended children in the front yards, and the occasional child who would carelessly wander out into the road, how the cars would sometimes swerve to avoid striking the child, but sometimes not; sometimes the cars would swerve directly into the child; and when a child would be hit, the body would fly through the air, bounce or roll or maybe carom down the street, perhaps hit a tree trunk or a fire hydrant or just the curb; and then the child, miraculously, would get back up, almost as if nothing had happened at all, and continue playing--either in the street or on the sidewalk or in the fields--and yell and scream in delight. And then sometimes, too, the child would run right back into the street again, this time throwing its little body in front of the automobile, intentionally letting the car strike with a force, and then get back up and laugh all over again.