Good to Be God by Tibor Fischer Read Free Book Online

golf any more, and you can’t say it’s because I’m bad at it, because I was always bad at it, but I used to enjoy it. Your body can cause you a lot of embarrassment, yet it gives you some reliable joys: a good shit, the drawing-out of a constellation of snot from the depths of your nostrils. Ignoble, yet frustratingly pleasurable. I wish strenuous exercise or absorbing some masterpiece of art could gratify me as much, but they don’t.
    Downtown on Flagler, I take out as much cash as I’m per-mitted from an ATM, then, catching my new suited self in reflections whenever I can, I make for a dingy stamp shop and purchase their most expensive stamp, one with Benjamin Franklin. Nelson’s card is now litter. I stroll across the street to another dingy stamp shop and sell it for cash that I stuff into my wallet.
    The address Dishonest Dave gave me is in Coconut Grove, away from the water, and the house is impressive in scale and style, although major reconstruction is under way.
    Sixto, the proprietor, shakes my hand in a formal way. He’s short, dressed in a long-sleeve shirt with tie, which in this heat is fairly radical; he has a faint moustache, presumably grown to add gravitas to his face, but failed in its mission. He resembles a fourteen-year-old dragged to a family photo shoot.
    The room on offer is huge, but bereft of any furniture; the swimming pool’s not bad, the rent is moderate. Cash only. I can’t move in for two weeks.
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    TIBOR FISCHER
    “I’m having some alterations done,” says Sixto. “Are you around during the day? You might find it disturbing.”
    Am I around during the day?
    “What is it you do?” Sixto asks as I hear Dishonest Dave’s voice saying no deposit, no questions. What is it that I do?
    “I… I’m in the illumination business.” I say hoping to be convincing. Sixto doesn’t laugh or enquire further. I realize he’s being polite. He doesn’t challenge me on my ludicrous statement. I turn it back.
    “And you?”
    “Project manager.” I’m not tempted to ask more, as I don’t really care, and it’s always good to save some small talk for emergencies later.
    “I’d like to move in now if that’s okay.”
    “I can’t get the bed out of storage today.”
    “No, it’s okay. I can sleep on the floor.” It takes Sixto a while to grasp I’m serious, and he gives me that look you give people whom you thought were all right but then show signs of worrying weirdness.
    We dodge past some workmen to get into the kitchen, where I meet another lodger.
    “Hi, I’m Napalm. My girlfriend is a dominatrix,” he says.
    Let’s consider the evidence. First of all Napalm is too old to be calling himself Napalm. He’s well into his thirties.
    Furthermore, I’d wager he’s not a musician, tattooist or hired killer, professions where a preposterous name is a plus.
    I’ll never be the focus of an ad campaign, but Napalm…
    Napalm is especially unfortunate. I would describe Napalm as a twelve-year-old lesbian. With a beard stolen from a burly fish-erman. Not a good start, and Napalm tops it off with a basin haircut, binocular-thick glasses and one of those large-mesh 38

    GOOD TO BE GOD
    vests popular with very muscular black men that makes his depressingly white skin more depressing. In my entire life, I’ve only met one other person so far from the accepted standards of allure, and when I described him no one believed me.
    Immediately, I want to help. It’s so unfair. I want to give Napalm some money for contact lenses or a haircut, some fashion tips, grooming suggestions, but I can already see he’s disqualified.
    You don’t want to tournamentize, but Napalm’s disqualified.
    It’s impossible he has a girlfriend. Women can get very desperate, and can be very compassionate too, but this is not on. Even paying for it, Napalm will struggle. He’s not even sinisterly or intriguingly ugly. Merely no-use ugly.
    “Can I make you a coffee?” Napalm asks. All his top teeth are