Bob

Batz

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March 24, 2008

My Maker Sends Duane to Check Up on Me

I was reading the obituary pages in the morning newspaper awhile back when I came across a death notice that began with a man’s name and the words “. . . met his Maker on October 10 at age 84.”

Then, about three weeks later, I was on the computer in my office at home when I suddenly heard a deep, resonant voice that reminded me of one of those radio deejays who host late-night jazz music radio shows, saying “Good morning, Robert.”

When I turned in my chair, nobody was there but I did see a misty apparition near the center of the room. It swirled, actually, like morning fog, or silky, gray wood smoke, and in the midst of the smoke, I saw a clip-board with sheets of paper attached floating in the air.

“What the . . .” I said.

“It’s OK . . . don’t be afraid . . . it’s just me,” the resonant voice replied in a reassuring tone.     

“Who’s just me?” I asked.

“The name’s Duane,” the voice said. “I was sent by Your Maker. Don’t let the fact that I’m invisible bother you. You’re probably wondering why I’m here, right?”

“Well, yes, that thought has crossed my mind once or twice since you showed up at my house,” I said, adding, “Besides, I’m having a little trouble believing what you’re saying because quite frankly I never imagined I’d have contact with my . . . um . . . my Maker while I’m still . . .”

“Alive?” Duane said with a chuckle as he finished the sentence for me. “They all say that, Robert. The truth is under normal conditions you wouldn’t, but doggone it the population of the world is growing so fast the Big Guy – that’s what we call him up at the office – is having trouble keeping up with all of the people, so he hired a few representatives like me to update his records. All I want to do is ask you a few questions, then I’m outta here, OK?”

“Wait,” I said. “Are you telling me you are a . . . um . . . representative of . . .”

“You got it, kiddo,” Duane replied. “Hey, it’s a neat job with plenty of perks. Forty-hour work week . . . three weeks paid vacation . . . home on weekends . . . company car. The Big Guy treats his people right, Robert. Now can I ask you a few questions?”

When I nodded my head, he said “Great, please give me the last four digits of your Social Security number, Robert, so I can verify that you are who the Big Guy thinks you are.”

I gave him the numbers.

“All righty, then,” Duane said. “Now please tell me if this information is correct. Your full name is Robert Alan Batz, you were born in Flint, Michigan, you are right-handed, your favorite color is blue, you once took accordion lessons, your mother’s first name was Mildred and you like 1960s rock songs.”

“That’s correct,” I said.

“Super,” he said. “Well, that about does it. I thank you for your time. I hope I didn’t mess up your day too much. Don’t bother to get up. I’ll let myself out. Nice meeting you. And please say hi to Sally for me, OK?”

At that point, the smoke, or fog, started swirling again.

“Wait!” I shouted, rising from my chair. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Fire away,” Duane replied.

I spoke slowly, struggling to find the right words. “Is there anything in the Big Guy’s records that would be considered . . . well, you know . . . um . . . negative for me on . . . on . . .”

“Judgment Day?” Duane said.

I nodded my head.

“People ask me that all the time, too,” he said. “Let me check my book.”

Then, after shuffling a few pages, he said “I see one notation here that includes the name Paula Chapman and the word pigtails. Ring a bell with you?”

“I can explain,” I quickly replied. “You see, when I was a fifth-grader at Oak Street Elementary School, Paula Chapman was the prettiest girl in school. Every boy, including me, had a crush on her. I wanted to be her boyfriend, but she ignored me.”

Duane laughed and said, “Cute story.” Then he pointed to another notation on the same page. “Oh, wait, there’s something else. It occurred at Dingman’s Store in 1949. Ring a bell?”

“Yes,” I said softly. “The kids at school would stop at Dingman’s every day after school to buy penny candy. But I don’t see why that’s in my . . .”

Do you recall the day you took four pieces of candy from a shelf and stuck them in your pocket without paying for them?” he asked.

My heart fell. I toyed briefly with telling a fib, but decided not to. “Yes,” I said, hanging my head. “I did it. I’m so sorry.”

Duane laughed and said “No problem-o, Robert. Compared to all of the really lousy people in this world, you’re in pretty good shape. Thanks for your time.”

Then, as suddenly as he appeared, Duane was gone.

I was still sitting there staring blankly at my computer screen when I heard a voice say “And, hey, Robert, just between you and me, I dig the Rolling Stones, too.”

© 2008 North Star Writers Group. May not be republished without permission.

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