The Little-Known Patron Saint of Nothing

Harold hated the fact that in heaven, the pearly gates were actually pearly. He hated that the streets were actually paved with gold. It was all so cliché. The whole thing was like a cheap Vegas hotel décor. Welcome to Heaven, where the rates are great and the alternative is eternal damnation. All you need to pay up-front is a little bit of faith in that everlasting deity, the one, the only, God-with-a-capital-G!

Harold sighed deeply. Heaven had all the subtlety of a New York cabbie during rush hour. Wasn't it so obvious that the whole immaculate conception of God's son was a result of God's Oedipal fixation on His mother? Except God didn't have a mother, so He had to make one, and then be born out of her. God was screwed up in major Freudian way.

Harold grimaced at a pair of self-righteous angels as they fluttered past him. He strengthened his grip on his briefcase. He hated that briefcase more than he hated any other thing in Heaven. It was issued by the Patron Saint Workers Association, and it was gilt with gold. On the side, it said "Patron Saint of..." in puffy cloud letters. Underneath that it said in diamonds "Nothing."

He was fed up with all these things saints were supposed to be patrons of. Just recently he came across a blurb in a "Catholicism Today" magazine about St. Isidore of Seville that listed him as the patron saint of the Internet. How in the world could poor St. Isidore be a patron saint of the Internet when he was born hundreds of years before the Internet was invented? So when God asked Harold what he wanted to be saint of, Harold replied with pride "Nothing!" God sighed and waved a finger, and made Harold the patron saint of Nothing.

Harold was adamant about being the patron saint of Nothing. If people would stop caring about all these things and just embraced Nothing, then they would be so much happier. Harold felt that there was really something to be said for being hollow. "Dead on the inside," people called it. But Harold knew better: to be hollow is to be happy.

He took a deep breath, like he did every morning, and swung open the golden doors with diamonds that spelled out "The Patron Saint Workers' Association." Inside the building, the cubicles were made of clouds, with comfy swiveling chairs and tables made out of clouds, too.

He glanced around at the other saints, all hard at work transcribing prayers and rushing in and out of God's office with requests and proposals.Harold gave St. Anthony a curt nod as he walked past St. Anthony's desk, which was already covered with pages and pages of prayers to fill.

Harold slipped into his cubicle and donned his headset, pressing a diamond button on his golden telephone to listen. As usual: silence. Nobody praying to the little-known patron saint of Nothing. That was fine though. Silence worked for Harold. He settled back in his chair, and began to doze off, lazily describing circles into his notepad.

"St. Harold, St. Harold," Harold woke up with a start. He pulled off his headset and glanced around, but no one seemed to be calling his name. He put the headset back on again. It was probably a mistaken name, he thought dully, and flipped his notepad to a fresh sheet so he could take down the message.

"St. Harold, patron saint of Nothing, please give me guidance. This prayer isn't really about Nothing, but it's about sameness, which is similar to Nothing. Why can't God make people all the same? They could just all be born with the same amount of intelligence, the same sense of humor, the same looks, and they could all be born with a certain amount of money, so that everyone could have all the same opportunities. It'd be like communism, except it would work because it would be divinely enforced, you know? Differences divide people. Why can't we all be the same?"

Harold's pen flew across the page as he copied the prayer. A real prayer for him! Finally! He hadn't had a real prayer since the Nihilist Catholic Society was disbanded. He pressed one of the buttons on his phone, and within a few moments, it printed out a photograph of the person praying. It was a teenage boy, gaunt and skinny, wearing a black sweatshirt and spiky hair, dressed up like he was tougher than he was. Even so, Harold felt a kinship with the poor kid. They were the only two who understood how Nothing really worked.

Harold ripped the page from his notepad and the picture from the phone, and hung up his headset. He made his way directly to the big office, with a little plate on the door that said "God."

The big office's door swung open to admit him.

"God?" he said breathlessly.

"Yes, St. Harold?" God swiveled around in His chair.

At least one thing in this eternal life wasn't cliché, and that was God. People on earth like to think of God as being some white-haired father figure with a crown, and a throne, and maybe with a booming voice and one of those robes with a toga like the Greeks used to wear. But God is somewhat vainer than that. When you get up to heaven, you don't see a big booming Sean-Connery-mixed-with-your-grandfather King on the throne. You see a well-built man, with square shoulders, and a charming grin, perfectly waved hair, and Botox-perfect skin. Or sometimes you see a woman, a really gorgeous woman with long hair and a big white wall of teeth. That day, God was sporting a rugged Brad Pitt haircut and five' o'clock shadow.

"I have a prayer that I really think you should see." Harold thrust his papers at God, who took them.

"Everything the same?" God shook his head. "I don't think so. How about you just use a little divine intervention to make the poor kid stop watching the evening news? He'll be better off in the long run."

"Why can't you make everyone the same?" Harold knew he was pushing it. How could you argue with a being that knew everything?

"Because there would be no point in living. I gave humans free will for a reason, Harold." God gave Harold a stern look.

"And look what happened! Death, destruction, chaos! Wouldn't it be better if they were content? Isn't a little peace worth it?" Harold had to fight to keep from falling to his knees and begging. God drew a deep breath, the patient sigh of a parent dealing with a child throwing a tantrum.

"Think of how bored I would get watching a bunch of my creations if they had no free will. It would be mind-numbing."

"Is that all we are then? Something to entertain you?"

"My dear St. Harold, would you be angry if I said yes?" Harold glowered. "Ah, yes, I was afraid you might see it that way. Just trust me. Have a little faith. That's what got you here in the first place, isn't it? In the meantime, you have my full permission to do what you need to do to make that kid stop worrying. I don't usually allow saints to make people stop worrying, but I know this is a special case for you. You may go."

Harold, deflated, left the office and returned to his cubicle. He made a few calls to some other saints, and helped the kid win a lottery drawing for one million dollars. That way, Harold thought to himself a little sadly, he can donate it to the poor and feel like he's doing something good. Harold resolved to follow the boy's progress.

The next day, when Harold checked, the kid bought himself a new dirt bike and a little red sports car. Harold decided to wait a little before checking again, to let the kid get used to his wealth. A month later, the kid's mother made him put half the money away for college, and the kid steadily worked his way through the other half, mostly buying drugs. He stopped praying to Harold. Harold still watched.

He settled back into his chair, bitterly doodling pictures of Ferraris onto his paper. God wouldn't grant the prayer, and even his one ally abandoned him, because they just didn't understand. Harold was the only one who really understood how Nothing worked.