ANYWHERE BUT NOT HERE

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"You can kill God anywhere but not here. His son is watching you, and in revenge for his father’s death he will destroy the town with plagues and natural disasters. Everyone will die, including you, my precious little boy."

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Those were my mother’s sweet words when I told her what I would do. I would find a way, it wouldn’t be impossible.

In Recreo, Christ the Redeemer is his silent observer. In his cement body, with his cement eyes, he watches us. And he knows all the sins of the town. But I won’t kill him. My mother is right.

I’ve tried to break his body but it’s difficult. That’s why Christ won’t be the victim. But…who?

He must be represented. The priest of the church represents God. But so do the evangelical pastors. We are only his sheep. I am a bad sheep. I won’t kill sheep, though I know from reading a little of the Bible that “God is in all of us.”

I’m not a serial killer. I only want God. I want him mutilated, without eyes, with his face destroyed, bleeding and begging for forgiveness. No, I’m not angry. I want explanations, answers, excuses.

I would ask him why my father killed himself after being fired from the Cordiez supermarket the day they caught him stealing meat and vegetables. That day he had promised a asado. I saw his body hanging from the rope.

God knows he doesn’t deserve my respect.

I would tell him it was a terrible choice to pick a planet like ours for his greatness. Humans are very limited beings. And it’s that limitation that would make me ask why I’ve been in a wheelchair since birth. Why there are rare diseases and no one finds a cure. God couldn’t lie to me. He would tell me the truth, the only truth. That he needs inferior humans to worship him. But I don’t want to hear his truth. I want to tear off his arms and eat his heart.

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I have a shotgun in my hands.

I’m on the sidewalk of my house waiting to meet God.

Neighbors walk past me, some grimace in fear, others laugh, and most ignore me.

My mother listens to the radio, tends her plants, and feeds our dogs.

It’s a cloudy day, incredibly humid. It will rain. And then the heat will return. It’s not summer, it’s not winter. But the sun in this shitty town is far too close to the ground. The astronomers are all wrong.

My mother calls from behind the door:

"Nicolás, what do you want for dinner tonight?"

I think…

"Terkos hamburgers." Sounds good.

The neighbor across the street watches me from her window. I make a small gesture of pointing the shotgun at her.

The neighbor says loudly, “Damn monster.” And closes the windows.

Tomorrow she’ll tell my mother I’m still behaving like a maniac. I know everyone in the neighborhood. None would dare insult me or insult my mother. My family is a decent family with decent problems.

My mother retired as a municipal street sweeper. A meager pension.

Politicians are a creation of the devil. God should justify his decision to have an evil double in this pathetic reality. Can he justify it?

My double might walk and be an attractive man with many women around him.

 

Oh…oh…I don’t want to get excited dreaming of what I’m not. But if he existed, he would be like a God. A little Bacchus of thirty-five years, with a successful job at some local company, with a complete family, parents, siblings, children, nephews. An expensive car. He would be recognized by everyone in town. Oh… I can’t make any mistakes. My thoughts fly too fast. And I can see him with his noble smile, his brown eyes, his headband covering his long hair. I can see him greeting my mother with a kiss on the cheek, saying “Good morning, Jacinta.” Damn!

My double is the singer of the folk band Fuerza Argentina. It’s him.

My double is the damned God in flesh and bone!

He has the beauty a God would have, all the beauty I don’t have, nor do most of his sheep.

He sings like the angels.

His songs speak of hope, redemption, and his messages are positive.

He’s famous. He’s successful.

He has money. Well, maybe not enough…

He has a car. Not the best car on the market.

He has a family. Yes, everyone has a family, though he’s divorced and with a new woman who feeds his children. That counts… he has a family.

And they love him!

They love him like a God.

People in town ask him for photos and autographs. It’s what God would want if he lived here.
I must be reasonable. Think coldly…

And I’m sweating.

I’m laughing, and it’s not my mind making jokes.

I’ve discovered his secret.

God is here and lives in Recreo, Catamarca. And I, Nicolás Alberto Ledesma, am going to kill him.

"I’ll be back in an hour," I shouted to my mother.

She doesn’t hear me because of the radio music.

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And I start rolling the wheels of my chair, with the shotgun on my knees.

God lives across the train tracks. Near the church. What a coincidence! God would never stray far from his divine home.

I’m four blocks away. Five if I count the tracks.

Each movement forward is fresh air. God will die.

And beside the veterinary clinic, I remember my only girlfriend, a girl with migraines and a bad temper. She wanted to build an ark with me and flood the town. I liked her imagination. It’s incredible how her fate led her to a psychiatric hospital. She believed I didn’t walk because I was hiding the power to fly. I think I never loved her the way she wanted.

And the distance shortens.

I’m rolling like a killing machine.

I’m close to living in infinite peace.

And I’m out of breath. It’s my overweight or my dwarfism. My mother says I’m a treasure. I like to think that when I rip God’s guts out, I’ll inherit the planet.

I’ll buy my mother a big house in the 60 viviendas neighborhood.

Oh, crossing the tracks is a problem.

The train is parked, its metal structure long, sinister, and rusted. I don’t know when it will move again.

I can’t just go under or jump between the cars. Shit!

I must ask a friend for a hand. Better to ask for legs… but I have no friends and no legs that work.

How long will the train stay stopped?

Where’s the engineer?

I imagine him sleeping with a prostitute or eating ice cream.

I would, if I were him.

Some boys on bicycles…

A woman with her child on a motorcycle.

They stop beside me, in front of the tracks.

They look me up and down.

I point to the train.

The woman frowns. Scratches her nose. The child stares at me wide-eyed.

The boys whisper.

I won’t move until the train moves.

They won’t move either.

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I grip the shotgun with both hands.

 

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