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The Kitchen Debate by Larry Hodges The
impossible object lay on the kitchen table. My life, my work, my very existence
was dedicated to the fact that it did not, could not, exist. And yet there it
was, in all its implausibility. The
Hand of God. I
wanted to run screaming back to the lab, to sanctuary, to live knowing the
object did not exist, but I could not. I crept up to it, and under the bright
kitchen lights, studied it like any other specimen from the lab. It
lay on its palm, its five thick fingers stretching outward. Old, gray skin
stretched thinly over knuckles that bulged as if arthritic. Thin, white hairs
sprouted between the knuckles. Scarred tissue covered where the wrist had been
severed. It seemed far larger than its actual human-like dimensions. But it was
translucent; I could see right through it. It was not real. "What
do you want from me?" I asked, my own hands trembling. Yet it lay
silently, unmoving. "You have been rebutted, refuted, rejected. No matter
how many people believe in you, there is no scientific evidence for your
reality. You do not exist." The
ghostly hand twitched. I jumped back, almost losing my balance. I studied it
from a distance. It no longer moved, so I took a deep breath, straightened my
lab coat and crept back over to it. "You
are not needed," I explained. It
twitched again. I jumped back, chest heaving, almost falling backward onto the
stove. I stood still for a moment, trying to control my breathing. "You
are not wanted!" I cried, keeping my distance from this menace. The
hand slowly rolled over on its back, its outstretched fingers coming together.
It rotated about until the fingers pointed toward me. Then the fingers curled
back, then forward; over and over it beckoned me to join its multitudes. I
shuddered at the idea. I felt my eyes grow wide as I looked about feverishly
for a weapon to stop its ruthless spread. There, on a cutting board next to the
stove, lay the sharp knife I'd used that afternoon. Bits of carrot and tomato
still lay along its edge. I grabbed the blade, and held it outstretched toward
this inexorable, imaginary force. Unlike the hand, the blade was real, the
blade was truth. "Stay
away from me!" I shrieked. The hand stopped gesturing, and seemed to
consider me from across the room. It extended its index finger toward me,
disarming me as the knife shot out of my grasp. There was no defense. I
fell to the floor, unable to deal with this relentless global force. A shiver
went down my spinal cord, the product of billions of years of evolution. I
curled up, covering my eyes with my hands, and rocked side to side for several
minutes, freezing out unwelcome, despairing thoughts. Finally, I lay still. I
lowered my hands and peered over my fingers. The
hand beckoned me again. I gasped, and choked back a sob. I couldn't fight it
any longer. It
was over. Billions of clamoring voices were too much for me. What is truth when
it is so badly outnumbered? Tears streamed down my face as I stared at the
hand. It seemed to stare back. Did it matter that it was not real? I removed my
lab coat and threw it aside. Useless. "Darwin,
Darwin, why have you forsaken me?" I cried, not expecting or getting an
answer from my overpowered idol. I
watched in awe as the illusory Hand of God rose up above the table and clenched
its triumphant fist. I would no longer be an outcast as I joined the
multitudes, an empty smile across my enlightened face. 2012-03-20 09:33:25 I've read it 3 times now, and I still don't know what to think. It's definately a metaphor for religion's call to each individual, but this hand story is very dis-arm-ing (Ha ha! Couldn't help myself!) Nicely done, very odd in a good way. Michele Dutcher Read more stories by this author     Did you enjoy this story? Show your appreciation by tipping the author!
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