It’s time to write a hit song, and God is not happy.
Why the loops? Why the endless repetition? he says,
slamming the headphones down on the console.
The producer stares off into space. It’s not science,
he says after a moment, but there are formulas.
God opens the door to the alleyway and releases
a smattering of applause. It is actually the sound
of rain. When he returns, his hair is damp and he
smells of cigarettes. Look, he says, conciliatory,
this isn’t exactly working. Would it be possible
to darken the lights while I just sit at the piano?
The producer nods. Somebody lights a candle.
God slips onto the stool, tugs gently at his beard,
frames a few hesitant minor chords then lifts his
voice into a haunting falsetto that is unbelievably
bad. It sounds like cat-sex, like someone hurting
a child. But God’s so damn happy, no one cares.
#1 Hit Song
