Paul Tremain: God of Alcohol

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Paul Tremain: God of Alcohol

Paul Tremain had been the scion of early Northwest timber barons. His money bought drugs; the drugs ruined his liver and he ascended at the young age of thirty-eight. In crossing over he was delivered from his earthly life through the abuse of multiple substances, none of them nutritional. His legacy included the use of every mind altering drug available to a man of means.

Paul lived his life as an indolent earthly sloth. In heaven, like others guilty of earthly indolence, he was assigned laborious and tedious work loads; monolithic tasks that the more ambitious and accomplished ascendants were spared.

Paul, surprisingly, became a God. In the heavenly way, all who are given work loads are anointed as a God of something. He became a counselor of sorts, His work required that he return to earth frequently.

Paul became the God of Alcohol.

As always on earth, lives were slipping into the gutter due to the abuse of alcohol, the most easily obtained drug known to man. Paul, in heaven, was free of his addictions; he understood the seductive attraction of all drugs. He needed no training and the Assigner of Tasks, a God himself, simply instructed that he offer guidance to one alcoholic at a time. His mission was to lead those afflicted with the drink, back to success in their occupations, businesses and family lives.

The Assigner of Tasks was a droll sort who enlivened his work by assigning the Earth Descendant Gods physical forms of celebrities and sending them back to earth to complete their assignments as Dennis Rodman, Tony Robbins, Rosie O’Donnell and others whose physical forms were familiar to all of us.

Paul Tremain’s first assignment would be Mark Dawson, a man with choir boy looks, a beautiful and successful wife, and a seventeen year old son who is both an athlete and a musician. Mark Dawson’s family, his ability to make a meaningful living and his career as an Air Force reservist of twenty-two years, were all at risk because of the drink.

Paul was hoping to descend to his first assignment in the physical form of Arnold Schwarznegger, Jon Van Damme or Sylvester Stallone.

But no, the droll Assigner of Tasks made him . . . Woody Allen!

This is the story of Paul Tremain, The God of Alcohol, and Mark Dawson

So, I am a God at last, The God of Alcohol. Low on the divine totem pole but with my history I’m fortunate to be God of anything.

Woody Allen, for God’s sakes! Small-fry comedy writer who made it big in movies. A wispy little man, bespectacled, each lens the size of a small window pane.

Paul asked himself, “Will I sound like Woody Allen?” Allen’s comedy schtick was usually self deprecating humor.

“I wasn’t loved as a child” he began with a hint of a whine in a voice that grew slightly in volume as he ended the sentence. “My mother would send me out to play with a sign taped to my back that said, “Available for adoption!”
“When no one seemed interested in adopting me she bundled me up, opened the door and shoved me into knee high snow, saying “Don’t come back!” “With a mother so loving, who could leave? I stayed until I was thirty-two.” He sounded just like Woody Allen. Same intonation, same inflection. Van Damme? Schwarznegger? Or even, Brad Pitt . . . but Woody Allen? A barely erect frame, topped with a throbbing cerebral witticism machine? Woody Allen, for God’s sakes! So, Paul Tremain reflected, “Woody, I guess it’s you and me; the film guy and the God of Alcohol. The comic and the purveyor of moderation. Let’s go meet this Dawkins guy.” Gods? Earth? Descent? Unfamiliar terms! His earth life had been one of constant highs. But the irony of all those incredible highs were now to be equaled not by lows, but by descents; to give those bereft of hope, new hope. Loftier Gods than he were now exercising an ironical finely tuned justice, the dispensation of substance abuse therapy by Paul Tremain, a former King of drug abuse. Descend he would! Descent was immediate since time and distance are unrelated in all things Divine. He was instantly surrounded by people. They were all going their own way but some, a few, pointed at him, jaws dropped, mouths open. He heard a large middle aged woman exclaim, “Isn’t that Woody Allen?” He walked quickly away but heard her remark, ‘What an uncanny resemblance!” He hated to appear in this form, looking like the son of Einstein or a ten year old schoolboy genius.

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