The custodian

A man named Marty Foster was walking. He wasn't quite sure where to; hadn't been for some time. He had found that it was shockingly easy to lose his way in a world that only spun in one direction. Sooner or later he always wound up lost, staring at his own back; nipping at his own heels. He had discovered very few truths in his time, and he guarded them all jealously. He didn't know why. They weren't exactly the answers to cosmic mysteries; certainly nothing to write a book about. More like guidelines, a kind of virtual redoubt to fall back to when all else failed. One of them was: no matter where you are, you are there. This was comforting, and damning. One might say it was his cross as well as his crutch. Right then, he was in a city, a big one, with a big-sounding name that he either didn't know or had forgotten. Another truth was: anywhere you are, there's a thousand places you aren't. There was a river through the middle of the city, a head-to-toe bisecting stripe of nature. Its form was strikingly fluid against the hard gray of the city's steely flesh. Marty Foster walked along next to it, and his reflection rippled on the water's surface, keeping pace with him. Stepping on his heels. He couldn't outrun his shadow. Yet another truth. Reflected in the water also were the twinkling lights of a thousand billboards, crowning his watery self with a neon halo. The billboards loomed everywhere, bombarding their rapt flock with promises of salvation through discounted brain surgery, buy-one-get-one-free mammograms, instant wealth with such-and-such a program, call now, no obligation. They clamored for attention, a flock of gaudy, idiot children. Where are your parents, thought Marty Foster. You are orphans. He walked on, his tennis-shoed feet marching to the beat of some unheard drum. Now visible were the dirty backsides of the neon messiahs, the grit and grime and steel of their unseen half now seen by Marty Foster. He ignored them. Another truth: if it stinks bad enough, dogs will come to lie in it. He looked out across the river and saw a man treading water in the middle. Charon had fallen out of his boat. Another truth: gravity only works in your favor when you're sleeping. Marty Foster laid no claim to wisdom. Wisdom was for prophets and politicians. If someone were to ask him for advice, he would tell them to take a walk, and walk with their eyes open and their feet on the ground. It worked for him. He wouldn't say he was a pilgrim either. Yes, he was walking, but he had no final destination, no promised land or heavenly kingdom, no long-dead hunk of space rock. Marty Foster had no god. He did not believe this made him evil. It was just a fact. No god had made himself known to Marty Foster, so he saw no reason to make himself known to god. He did not believe himself to be anybody's son but his father's. The most profound form of self aggrandizement, in his mind, was to say you were a child of a god. God had no children. If he had, they would have killed him and taken his power. Yes, he was walking, and yes, he'd stepped on his own heels more than once. But no, he was not searching for something. He was no prodigal son, he was no pilgrim, seeking to lick an unknown father's boots. His only desire was to see. He had seen nothing, so he kept walking. He had met a woman once, with a tattoo on the back of her hand. It was a golden cog wreathed in ivy. It was beautiful. She was not. They had talked about god. She had said: 'You know what I think?' No, Marty had said, I don't. She was wearing a loose black tank top, and he had his hand up it. 'I think that if god were to just show up one day, on the street, in your church, anywhere, no one would recognize him. He'd be just another face, you know?' Yeah, Marty had said. I know. 'The only reason people like god so much is because they don't know what he looks like. See, religion's kinda like sex. Not everyone has it, but everyone talks about it, you know? No one's ever seen god, but everyone talks about him. Some people even talk to him, if you can believe that.' Nope, Marty