for Karla Braig
God: a being or object believed to have more than natural attributes and powers and to require human worship; specifically: one controlling a particular aspect or part of reality. . . .
—Merriam-Webster online
I know what you’re thinking: This is some crackpot headline
from a Hawkeye TV news channel to get attention or ratings or both.
But he showed up, I swear. Had his left arm caught to the elbow
under the hood of a Cadillac, an older model he said he was buying.
This was in the driveway next door to my house. It was cold. Freezing.
I had gone out by a different door. Had seen him there. Just standing.
I’d opened the door. Heard him say, Maybe you’d help me out here.
He had been struggling but now stopped twisting his twig of a forearm.
Explained: because his arm was so thin, the thick hood had been able
to close, or nearly, and he’d been pinned but the arm hadn’t broken.
He was calm. Later, he told me he’d simply decided to stay that way.
This was an Abe Lincoln of a guy in khakis, a sweatshirt and sweater.
No coat. Arms bare. Like he hadn’t intended to wind up found out—
outside, which in winter in Iowa means you need more than one coat—
and found out to be the Almighty. Why God? A couple of reasons.
First: no crowd gathered. (It was him and me.) A kid he had gotten the
attention of—an hour earlier, when it first happened—had wandered off.
Second: he hummed to himself while I jiggled the huge Cadillac hood.
When it popped opened—the big hood—there wasn’t a spot on the arm.
By definition, that in itself should be enough. Right? There’s a word—
that word is godding—for elevating the everyday to the status of divine.
And maybe that’s what I’m doing. But then I was doing something else,
something other than falling short of the fact that we lack good sense.
That day, I went out the wrong door at the right time, and saved a life.