God and Abraham, accompanied by several of God’s agents, walk up to the entrance of an upscale bar in Midtown Manhattan. The bouncer suspiciously eyes the tattered, dusty Abraham, but when God gives him a look that could kill, the bouncer steps aside and lets them in.

God says, “I’ve heard about this place. I’ve come down to see whether the reports are as bad as they sound.”

God surveys the room and shakes his head. Tattooed women and men drink and talk over music several decibels too loud—EDM, or some sub-sub-subgenre variant designed to make conversation impossible.

A perfectly coiffed thirty-year-old man in an immaculately tailored suit brushes past Abraham, berating an elderly waiter who is hurrying toward the bar.

“I asked for sparkling,” the man says, holding up his glass. “Does that look like it’s sparkling to you?”

“I’m sorry, sir. I’ll replace it.”

The waiter turns to the man and reaches for the glass. The man pulls it away.

“Do not grab something from me without asking first. Get your manager.”

The waiter notices two young women at the bar watching the scene. “Sir, I—”

One of the women laughs without looking up from her phone. Her friend glances over at the suited man. “Wait. He’s kind of hot.” She lifts her phone and begins recording.

God watches.

“The outcry of the entitled,” he says. “As if they’re the injured ones.”

At the end of the bar, a broad, middle-aged man in work boots and dust-streaked jeans sips his beer, watching the woman filming the scene. He shakes his head.

The suited man sneers at the waiter. “Are you deaf? Get your manager before I have you fired.”

The man at the bar turns around on his stool.

“Hey! Give the guy a break, buddy.”

The suited man sets the water down at the bar. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. He brought you the wrong fucking water. Somehow you’ll survive.” The suited man looks him over and decides the manager is no longer urgently required.

The women laugh. The waiter retrieves the glass and hurries away.

The man turns back to his beer.

The waiter passes him on the way back to the service station.

“Thanks, Jack,” he says quietly.

Jack shrugs. “Forget it.”

Abraham watches him.

God looks at Abraham’s robe.

“Speaking of presentation, would it be asking too much for you to clean up a bit in the presence of the ruler of the universe?”

“Sorry, my—”

God laughs. “It’s fine, Abraham.” He turns to his retinue of agents. “Head out into the city. All five boroughs. See what’s up. Report back tonight.”

The agents nod and head out.

“You’re not really doing this, are you? Destroying the decent with the wicked?” Abraham looks toward Jack at the bar. “Look at that guy. Maybe there are fifty like him in the city. You’d kill Jack, too?”

God looks at Jack. “One man.”

Abraham continues pleading, “This really isn’t your style, is it? Treating Jack exactly like that guy?” He points at the suited man.

God looks from Jack to the suited man. “Isn’t it?”

“And it will be the same for the righteous and the wicked. Will the Judge of all the earth not do justice?”

God takes a deep breath. “If I find fifty decent people in the city, I’ll spare the whole place for their sake.”

Abraham looks perplexed. “To be clear, do you mean ‘the city’ the way they speak of it here, meaning only Manhattan?”

“No, Abraham. My agents will search all five boroughs.”

Abraham shrinks. “Sorry, master. Look at me, talking like I’m somebody, when I’m nothing but dust and ashes.”

“Eventually, yes.”

“But suppose the fifty are short by five.” He looks around the bar doubtfully. “Will you destroy the whole city because five are missing?”

God sighs. “Fine, I won’t destroy it if I find forty-five.”

Abraham walks over to Jack, leans toward him, and whispers something. Jack whispers back.

God says, “You know I can hear everything. No need to whisper.”

Jack looks toward God, raises his glass in acknowledgment, and shakes Abraham’s hand.

Abraham walks back to God. “I know, my Lord. I wasn’t whispering to try to hide from you. I was whispering to hide from _them_.” He gestures toward the others at the bar, including the suited man, who is now speaking magnanimously to the two women. “I didn’t want to embarrass Jack.”

“Of course I knew that as well.”

“Then you know about his wife. His kids. His parents in that place out in Queens. He’s working construction around the corner and stops here on Tuesdays for happy hour because the beer is two-for-one. Let the man have one thing.”

“Maybe he should go easy on the beer.”

“Yeah. Talk to Noah. Talk to my nephew, Lot.”

“Noah had issues. Don’t get me started on Lot.”

“Anyway, maybe forty isn’t impossible. Jack, his wife, three kids, and his parents—that’s seven already!”

“OK, Abraham. I’ll spare it for forty.”

“Thanks, Lord. Don’t be angry, but what if only thirty are found?”

“Abraham, this is becoming tedious. Why don’t you recite your entire genealogy while you’re at it? For thirty, I’ll spare it.”

“…Twenty?”

God stares at Abraham.

“Dayenu. I won’t destroy it for twenty.” God starts toward the exit.

“Right, my Lord. Don’t be angry. Just one more time around: maybe we’ll only find ten. Jack, his family, maybe his sister and two cousins.”

God steps out onto the sidewalk, then turns back. “For ten, Abraham. I will spare it for ten. Now go home.”

God leaves.

At the bar, Jack is laughing into his phone.

Abraham looks at him, then at the people around him.

He counts silently.

Then he leaves.

This is the 8th weekly Tanakh Improvisation. I’m going to take a week or two off so I can a) relaunch my “creative” memoir, Blues, Prelude & Feuds (with new chapters coming every Tuesday) and do some promotional work for this series. Speaking of which, please help out by sharing these posts and subscribing.

THE TANAKH IMPROVISATIONS

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