Gods of Small Things by Cheyenne Shaffer

Some gods don’t get prayers. Not even a ‘thank-you.’ That’s the world we’re living in today. There’s so much stuff everywhere that humans don’t know what to pay attention to. They obsess over stupid things while the important ones fade into the background. The God of Computers, for instance? She gets prayers all the time. “Please, load.” “No, no, no, don’t crash.” And so on. But for the majority of human existence, they got on just fine without her. The God of Nails, though? No one prays to him to keep their house from falling in. He just does it–a thankless job that’s lasted thousands of years. 

     I may not be as old or as important as The God of Nails, but I still perform a vital service, and nobody ever thinks to thank me. Today, however, is going to be different. I can tell. I may not have the omniscience of a higher-level god, but I can sense important moments disturbing the status quo like rocks thrown into still water. One is coming today, and I’m going to be ready.

      You’re a female human, an artist, and from the moment you draw my attention, I notice you’re just like everyone else: lost inside your mind. You scroll on your phone, looking at nothing for hours before you get any work done. Then, twice while sketching, you forget your pencil behind your own ear. The God of Pencils must be messing with you out of boredom; she doesn’t get much attention, either.

After a while, you walk to the door, pausing to decide between a pair of flip-flops and sturdier sneakers. You choose the sneakers, and I get excited. Finally, we’re going out.

Your apartment is in a small city, so you don’t need a car to get around. You stare straight ahead as you walk, but I soak in every ounce of the day. An athletic-looking woman crosses the road with a Collie, its long, silky fur bouncing slightly as it trots. A man exiting a hunting shop tucks something into the pocket of his camo jacket, which is a riot of color against the grays of the city. Metallic red paint glistens on a Harley Davidson as it roars by, engine purring like heavenly thunder. The world is beautiful.

You stop at a burger joint that doubles as a sports bar. Checkered curtains cover the windows, cutting glare to the televisions. The sun’s brightness is replaced with something more intimate, yellow light raining down from simple chandeliers of colored glass.

A woman with hair the same pale shade as yours waves from a booth. Your sister? You practically dive onto the vinyl across from her, and the two of you dissolve into a fit of giggles so loud it blots out the pulse of pop music filling the room.

Life in the restaurant continues beyond your notice. The bell on the door chimes, and the man I saw earlier wearing the camo jacket enters, Timberland boots clunking with every step. He takes a seat at the bar near another man, though they don’t seem to know each other. His movement doesn’t even catch in the corner of your eye. He doesn’t look your way, either, but something about him feels important.

You and your sister order burgers and mixed drinks and gossip about people I don’t care to know. The men at the bar stick to beers.

A football game plays on mute over several screens. You watch one for a while, but by the way your eyes glaze over, I know it’s just flickering movement to you, an interesting place to rest your vision while your sister tells a story. The men at the bar, however, watch the game intently. The man who’s been here since before you arrived leans toward the one in camo and speaks in a low voice. He points toward the nearest screen with the neck of his bottle.

You and your sister finish up your burgers and pay. You don’t hear them over the din of the music, but the men at the bar are lost in conversation now, the one in camo gesturing erratically with his hands. The other man bounces his knee, his white Nike squeaking against his stool’s footrest. I can’t help but notice his sneakers are Velcro. What a pity.

Your sister gathers up her purse, and you slip your card back into the rubber sleeve on your phone. The voices at the bar are rising now, and I can feel it. My moment is coming.

When you stand to leave, you don’t look at the men. They don’t look at you. A stool pushes back with a metallic squeal. Timberlands hit the floor.

Right as you walk out the door, a hand reaches into the pocket of a camo jacket. Right as you walk out the door, I reach down and give the gentlest tug.

You split ways with your sister on the sidewalk. After one step, you notice what I’ve done. You barely have time to kneel. The window behind you shatters, and a bullet flies overhead while you’re tying your shoe. The only other bullet hit its target. I guess the God of Velcro had other things to do.

 You scurry down the street, staying low, but the shooting’s over. Your sister clutches at you while you explain what happened. When you finish, she tips her head back with a sigh. “I never thought I’d say this, but thank God your shoes were untied!”

You nod in agreement. “Thank God.” The God of Shoelaces, to be exact, but you’re welcome. It’s about time I got some appreciation around here.