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up shop, but it affords Jerry the chance to keep an eye on things while he’s working. And it pretty much freaks everyone out. Who wouldn’t feel a little awed, standing in front of the Big J with the universe expanding in a 360-degree view all around you, wondering if the floor is going to crack?
    I’ve been here countless times before, and Jerry assures me his office is OSHA-certified, but I still take off my shoes and walk tippy-toe across the floor to his desk.
    “So what did you want to see me about?” I ask, sitting down.
    Jerry’s known name, the one given to him in the Old Testament is, of course, Jehovah. No one around here ever calls him God or Yahweh or any of the other names ascribed to him by humans. As long as I’ve known him, he’s always been Jerry.
    “I’ve noticed a bit of sloppiness in your work lately,” says Jerry. “Ever since the start of the Industrial Revolution.”
    That was more than two centuries ago. He must have a back-logged stack of paperwork in his in-box.
    Back when societies were still agriculture based, humans weren’t as easily distracted from their paths. Even as recently as the middle of the eighteenth century, the success rate for humans on the Path of Fate was just under sixty-two percent, which meant that six out of every ten of my humans achieved their optimal fates. Today, with the constant barrage of commercials and celebrities and pitchmen telling people whom they should aspire to be and what they need to make them happy, that number has dropped to less than three in ten.
    “What’s going on?” asks Jerry. “And don’t give me any more of that European-colonialism crap. It was bound to happen sooner or later, so just deal with it.”
    It won’t do any good for me to complain about my workload or the grief I have to deal with on a daily basis, considering whom I’m talking to. But lately, I’ve reached the point where it just doesn’t seem like what I’m doing matters. Regardless of the paths I set them on when they’re born, the majority of my humans end up disappointing me. So I’ve started assigning them random fates, missing my quotas, and overburdening various geographic regions with taxi drivers and street performers.
    Quotas are very important to Jerry.
    Rule #9: Meet your quotas.
    So many lawyers. So many paparazzi. So many strippers. It’s not as easy as it sounds. You get too many baristas, and the next thing you know, the whole cosmic wheel can get thrown out of balance.
    “I don’t know,” I say. “I guess I’m just bored.”
    “Bored?” he says. “You’re bored?”
    I can tell from the tone of his voice that he doesn’t really have time for this. But I might as well give it a shot.
    “Yeah,” I say. “I was kind of hoping I might get reassigned.”
    He lets out a laugh. And when Jerry laughs, it’s not very funny. Especially when he’s Earthside. Mount Vesuvius. Krakatoa. Mount Saint Helens. Good thing he doesn’t have much of a sense of humor.
    I glance down and wonder, not for the first time, about the integrity of the plate-glass floor.
    It’s not as if there’s no precedent for one of us switching jobs or getting reassigned. Faith has been replaced more than once over the millennia, Fidelity was transferred to a desk job in the wake of the free-love debacle, Reason got canned after the Salem Witch Trials, and Ego lost his job after the Beatles broke up.
    Just to name a few.
    So it’s not like I’m asking for something out of the question.
    “We don’t have any openings at the moment,” says Jerry, once he’s stopped laughing.
    “What about Peace?” I say. “That opening hasn’t been filled yet.”
    “You don’t want Peace,” says Jerry. “Trust me. Besides, you’ve been doing your job for so long that I don’t have anyone on staff who could replace you.”
    Great. I’ve made myself indispensable.
    “Just put a little more energy into your work,” says Jerry, stamping a sheet of paper and placing it in