And God said, “Let me give you a little tip, Mister. If you want folks to listen to you, don’t whine so much. And while we’re talking here, how about some praise for the Almighty? Better yet, how about a little charity? Think about somebody other than yourself for Christ’s sake! . . . and I say that reverently.”

The prayer rail was harder than the man had remembered. He shifted his whole weight to his left knee. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been ten years since my last confession. I . . .”

And God interrupted, “Spare me. Don’t you think I’d like to hear a new story, too? This is just the same old same old. Everybody wants to make a deal. But what you got here is half a deal. What’s in it for the Kingdom of the Lord (if you’ll excuse the old-fashioned, feudal, patriarchal metaphor)?”

So the man imagined himself making God rich for sweet charity’s sake at 10% of all royalties, movie studio option, screenplay advance, consultant fee, plus three percent of box office gross, royalties and residuals from after market video and dvd sales as well as product spin offs—T-shirts, coffee mugs, video games, happy-meal plastic toys. In this way he invented his first story, a fantastic tale with himself as the protagonist and God Almighty as his patron, his chief investor, his angel. And although the man didn’t know what he was doing, as he emerged from his reverie at the end of the service, he saw the priest’s right hand waving above the congregation like it was writing invisible words in the air. The man thought this was a good sign.

That evening just after dark, the man sat at his desk doodling. He found himself making more circles than squares. Then on a whim he added a cross to the top of one circle. When he looked up from his notebook and out the window of his apartment, he saw a brilliant white flash on his fire escape and heard the sound of wings like a thousand chickens had come home to roost. An angel folded her wings, hiked up silken robes around her thighs and ducked in through his open window. She stood beside his desk and smiled down at him the way Mia Farrow had looked at Robert Redford in The Great Gatsby. “Jesus Christ!” he said. “This prayer shit really works!”

The angel spread her wings and steepled her fingers. “Behold the Angel of the Lord. Blessed art thou among men, for thou shall conceive and bring forth a book, and it shall be called IT’S A MIRACLE. And thou shalt be famous.”

And the man said, “Reeeeally? Tell me how!”

And the angel replied, “a beautiful muse shall appear to thee and lie with thee and make thy mind fruitful, and thou shall write for nine months without ceasing and then thou shalt bring forth the great story. Of course, there is some pain and travail in there owing to the labor involved.”

Suddenly the man realized his buttocks had fallen asleep. He squirmed, “Nine months. That’s a long time. How about weekends off?”

The angel smiled shrewdly. “That’s not part of the deal. So stop whining. I’ve got the contract right here. Sign it, Mister, or go fish.”

He signed.