Caricature of a Deity

“Evan, it’s me, Punnett.” There are some phone calls one never expects to get. This happened to be one of them.

“My God!” I exclaimed. “Is that really you, Punnett?” In most cases I would have considered this an unnecessary question, but at this particular moment my disbelief proved to be stronger than my common sense.

“You know I’m not one for games,” he said. “Come by my studio at nine twenty-six. I’ll explain everything when you get here.” And before I could ask any one of the number of burning questions in my mind, he hung up. I was almost certain that the man I had just spoken to on the phone was John Punnett, despite the fact that I had spent the last several months convincing myself that he was dead. The question was what had he been doing all this time?

I tried to call him back, but his phone had been disconnected. Punnett valued his privacy. He unplugged it when he wasn’t using it to call someone. I checked the time to find that I only had thirty-four minutes to get to his studio; the drive alone lasted a half an hour. I had just gotten home from work and barely had time to kick off one shoe when I received the call, now I was putting that shoe back on and heading out the door again.

Throughout the entire drive I did nothing but recall the past months I had spent working with Punnett and the events surrounding his disappearance. I first met Punnett upon stumbling across one of his paintings. It was one of the most magnificent works of art I had ever laid eyes on. I used my influences in the art community to obtain his address and phone number, and then paid him a visit. When I first met him I knew there was definitely something not right with the man. He was an exceptionally intelligent man, of that fact there was no doubt, and his intellectual capacity was only matched by his talents as an artist. The only problem being that his eccentricity was greater than both of these things combined. One could never really tell what he was thinking. This was due to the fact that his mind didn’t contain anything that could be described as a normal human thought process. This also attributed to his peculiar people skills. A perfect example of this would be the first time we met.

“John Punnett, I presume?” I stood at the front door of his studio, hand extended, giving my best salesman smile. Punnett himself stood on the other side of the door, frowning at me.

“Presume nothing,” he stated simply before closing the door in my face. The act left me feeling slightly insulted, but I was determined to befriend the painter. I knocked on his door and waited patiently. In a matter of seconds the door opened, presenting me with a second opportunity to make friends. This time I managed to grab his interest before he decided to close the door on me again. I told him that I had seen his paintings and that I knew the exact steps to take to use them make him a rich man. He contemplated it for a few seconds then said that what I was proposing sounded like “an interesting display of mutualism”. He agreed, he said, out of pure scientific curiosity.

The rest, as they say, is history. The agreement we had reached couldn’t have worked out better. Punnett, with his amazing artistic vision, continued to produce amazing paintings, while I, with my influences in the art community, made sure that his paintings found themselves in the hands of some very rich individuals. Not only did his paintings sell for very high prices, but also Punnett decided to share with me an unheard of forty percent of the profits. He claimed that it was exactly what my services deserved. I had more than enough sense not to disagree.

In the months following our first meeting we found ourselves in the possession of a fairly decent sum of money. Our success train had been running good and I couldn’t have been happier, but as I mentioned before, there was something seriously wrong with John Punnett. This fact was emphasized by the message he left on my answering machine the day he disappeared. I believe it went something like this: “I’ve reached the limit. No more paintings to paint, no more life to live. I expect great things from the after life.”

Afterwards it was as if he had disappeared from the face of the Earth. His phone was constantly disconnected and his studio had been deserted. No one had seen him or heard from him either. I eventually came to the conclusion that he had committed suicide, and began to try to adjust to a life without John Punnett. Three months later I was just beginning to forget about him, when one day out of the blue, he gives me a call.

I arrived at his studio at nine twenty-three. As I made my way up the gravel path that led to his front door I began to rehearse what questions I would ask and the order they would be asked in. I checked my watch as I walked. It was nine twenty-three. I reached the front door and knocked three times. After a short wait the door opened and in it’s frame stood the mad genius himself.

Punnett’s appearance had changed slightly since I last saw him. His skin had lost much of its color and it appeared as if he had lost some weight as well. Other than that he was still pretty much the same as I remembered him. He was tall, about a foot taller than me, but slouched enough to put us at eye level. He had a mess of dark hair on his head that tended to stick out in every possible direction at once. It fell over his face, and almost completely obscured his eyes, giving him a sort of esoteric quality. He stared at me as if he didn’t recognize me, then turned around to look at the clock behind him. He then turned back around to face me and frowned.

“You’re three minutes early,” he stated in such a tone that I had trouble distinguishing whether or not he was serious.

“Nice to see you too,” I replied jovially.

“I don’t like it when people are early,” he continued, ignoring my remark. “It tells me that they have nothing better to do than to please me.” I could tell that he hadn’t spent the last few months improving his people skills.

“Are you saying that I should have showed up late then?”

“No, I’m saying you should have showed up at any time in-between nine twenty-six and nine twenty-seven.” he retorted sharply.

“You invited me over. Don’t forget that.” My vacation from Punnett’s presence had affected my ability to tolerate his impertinence.

“I invited you to come over at nine twenty-six. Come back when you’re welcome.” he said before shutting the door in my face.

So there I waited, a surprisingly lengthy and awkward minute and a half before knocking on the door once again. In a matter of seconds the door opened and Punnett stood in front of me with a welcome smile on his face.

“Evan! I’m glad you came!” He greeted me as if he hadn’t seen me in months. “Why stand out there when you can come in?” He stepped aside and displayed for me a path with his hands.

“Uh, well, don’t mind if I do.” I said feeling slightly perplexed.

“I’ve got so much to tell you,” he said as I entered the studio. “It’s all very exciting stuff,” he said before closing the door behind me. I took a moment to examine the current state of his studio. It had changed quite a lot since the last time I had been there. The studio itself was nothing but a large room, much like a gymnasium. The last time I had been there the walls were covered with an assortment of different paintings, making it look much like Michelangelo’s Sistine chapel. Now there was nothing on the walls. In fact there was almost nothing in the entire room, except for a mattress in the far northeast corner and an easel holding a blank canvas in the center of the room.

“I notice you’ve remodeled,” I remarked upon entering.

“Yes, yes, unimportant.” He spoke frantically as he paced past me towards the canvas in the middle of the room. “This,” he indicated towards the canvas. “Is what’s important.”

“What’s important about it?” I had trouble finding the significance in a blank piece of paper.

“Maybe I should explain. Yes, I should definitely explain. And I shall begin…” A confused look appeared on his face. “Where should I begin?”

“How about the message you left on my answering machine?” I suggested.

“Yes, the message!” he cried with unexpected enthusiasm. “The whole no more paintings, no more life thing. Yeah, I’ll start there. That was a long time ago. This could be a long story, a story that I am prepared to tell. All I ask is that you remain quiet while I am in the process of telling this story. Can you manage that?” He spit the words at me rapid fire. I was surprised at the amount of energy he was producing. It was not like Punnett to get worked up like this.

“Go ahead.” I said, finding myself a seat on his floor.

“Ok then here goes. It started out when one day I woke up and realized the pointlessness of my own existence. I had done everything that I could have possibly done of any significance in my life, so I got in my car, and drove it into a tree at a speed roughly equaling fifty miles per hour. Afterwards followed a long period of unconsciousness filled with a very odd assortment of dreams, until I finally awoke, in a hospital bed. It turns out that I had been discovered and airlifted to a hospital where I spent some time in a coma. While the doctor informed me of this he also happened to mention the fact that while working to save my life my heart had stopped for two minutes and that I had, in fact, died.” While he spoke I noticed that his tone of voice would rise and fall erratically.

“That’s when I remembered,” he continued. “One of the dreams I had when I was unconscious. It was much different than all the others, much more vivid and realistic. It involved God. I saw it, I saw God. I knew immediately that it wasn’t just a dream; I knew that it happened during those two minutes when I had died. This realization gave me a reason to live. I mean, what better reason is there to continue one’s existence than to make such a monumental contribution to the world?” Punnett’s excitement was beginning to interfere with his ability to clearly communicate what he was trying to say. I was uncertain of what this monumental contribution that he spoke of was. Before I could inquire, he began to speak again.

“You look confused, perhaps I should explain further,” he said as if reading my mind. “I decided to put this experience to the best use possible. I decided that I would paint the face of God for the entire world to see!” He said excitedly. He then looked at me, indicating that it was my turn to speak.

“I have to admit,” I started. “You’re story is really quite interesting, as is your idea for this new painting. My only question is, how do you plan on going about this?”

“Ah, yes, the most important part, I almost left it out.” He began to pace back and forth in front of the empty canvas. “The main problem I’ve had with this painting is figuring out a way to translate something experienced incorporeally, into something that can be experienced visually. In other words, how to translate infinity onto a piece of paper.”

“Right, so why did you bring me here?” I was confused.

“Well, after a long period of deep deliberation I’ve managed to narrow it down to only one possible solution. There is only one way to accomplish a task as daunting as this one.” His eyes took on a glazed quality, and as I looked into them I caught a hint of something slightly mischievous

“What are you going on about, John?” I questioned.

“I’m talking about this!” He cried, pulling a large revolver from the back of his pants where he had kept it concealed the entire time.

“Jesus Christ!” I cried, crawling frantically backwards from my spot on the floor. “Don’t do it!” I yelled, fearing for my life.

He stopped pacing and stood in front of the blank canvas in the middle of the room. His eyes had become wide and psychotic. I was far too afraid for my life, knowing the sort of man Punnett was and the rash decisions he often made, to formulate any sort of objection to his insanity.

“Behold!” He exclaimed, putting the revolver to his forehead. “The face of God!” And I could do nothing but watch in horror as John Punnett painted his final painting, with the contents of his skull.