Jake catches my nervous glance and assures me my bar companion is pleasant. The guy arrived soon after opening and plopped two grand in crisp Benjamins on the bar. Jake confirmed that the cash was genuine and proceeded to serve him Scotches and appetizers all evening. The man did nothing other than look at his smartphone, people-watch, and occasionally exchange pleasantries with the barkeep.

I turn toward the now-well-attired man and note, “You clean up well. I didn’t recognize you.”

The man chuckles and replies, “I apologize for my earlier appearance, Eve. I had traveled a great distance and was so eager to meet you that I neglected to change.”

I’m still shocked by his transformation and say, “As I already told you, I prefer to be called Jeannette. And, what happened to your thick, middle-eastern accent? Now, you almost sound like a local.”

“Oh, that. I have an almost-subconscious knack for picking up languages and accents. I blend in fairly well after a few hours surrounded by the buzz of a dozen or so conversations. Again, I apologize for rushing in and scaring you earlier.”

He stares at his drink and swirls the ice around the glass. “I’ve spent most of tonight trying to determine how to deliver my message in such a way that you’ll believe and understand it. And, I’ve been sailing your Internet via this phone. I must say that I am impressed with your society’s technology and apparent fascination with cats.”

His confession makes me laugh. “Well, so much for blending in. The phrase is ‘surfing the Internet,’ and I’m pretty good at understanding things. Why don’t you just tell me what you have to say, and I’ll decide whether I believe you.”

The man takes a deep breath, faces me, and says, “You need to grow up. You’ve spent far too long living like this and need to move into the next phase of your life.”

I stare at him in shock while Jake giggles behind the bar. My anger quickly catches up with my disbelief, though. I tersely reply, “Thank you for your opinion, but I am delighted with my life as it now stands. And, who the hell are you to tell me that I should change?”

“Um, I’m your father.”

Oh, hell no. I am not in the mood for this nonsense. Next week is the anniversary of the death of the man who raised me as a single parent. There is no way that I will permit this stranger to come into my life and proclaim that Dad wasn’t my father. Mom might have been flighty, but I refuse to believe that I’m the product of a fling with another man. Jake has expectantly stepped away from me as I silently glare at this shyster and rap my fingernails on the bar.

I finally respond, “I don’t think so, sir. I am well aware of my parentage, and it does not include you.”

The guy defensively raises his hands and explains, “No, you misunderstand. I am not your biological, human father. I am the father to all life on this planet.”

Oh great. My first impression was right. I'm being stalked by a looney. I stand to leave and instruct Jake not to let this guy follow.

The man hops off his barstool to say, “This is what I meant about believing me. I usually appear in various forms and perform miracles for weeks or months to convince people of my identity. This time, however, I only have a few hours to get you to believe me, and I won't get another chance.”

I sarcastically reply, “Oh, terrific. Now you want me to believe that you’re God himself and that I need to embrace my inner light to be reborn.”

“Yes, you do understand!” he exclaims. “Although, I am not God. I’m just this world’s father.”

I resume my exit and answer, “Thank you for delivering this message, but, as I already said, I’m happy with my life and my beliefs. I do not need one of God’s messengers to tell me that I must be born again.”

The man groans, “Arrgghhh! I knew this would happen. Listen, give me a chance to prove myself. Let me at least perform a few miracles before you walk away.”

I suddenly smile. Seeing this crazy guy try to perform miracles could be entertaining, and, besides, he will probably follow me home anyway. Perhaps I should stay here in the safety of the restaurant, call the cops, and wait for them to cart him off before leaving.

“OK, what do you have in mind?”

“I dunno. Most of the time, people ask for wealth or food or to be healed from some sort of disease.”

Jake blurts out, “Hey man, I have a compressed disk that kills my lower back when I stand for too long. Do you think you could help me out?”

I shake my head and begin to speak, but the man interrupts. “Sure, your back is fixed, and I also cleaned out your liver. You need to improve your diet, Jake. What about you, Eve, I mean, Jeannette?”

I glance at Jake, who stretches and smiles, “I don’t know, Jeannette. I can’t recall my back feeling this good in years!”

I remark, “Well, you’ve certainly conned Jake, which is a less-than-impressive feat. Why don’t you make some food magically appear for me?”

“Certainly. You’re the resident expert on ordering. What should I get us?”

I say, “I’ll have a spinach salad with walnuts, raisins, blue cheese, and a vinaigrette dressing. Jake wants a Giovanni Dupa #11.”

The man asks, “What is a Giovanni Dupa?” to which Jake eagerly replies. “Giovanni Dupa’s is an Italian restaurant in South Beach. Their number 11 pizza has marinara sauce, fresh mozzarella, and fresh basil. Giovanni puts the basil on just before he pulls it out to release the flavors without shriveling up. The aroma and taste are incredible!”

I am grateful for Jake’s answer as I stare at the salad in front of me. I swear that it was not there a moment earlier. A split-second later, I hear a woman’s voice exclaim, “Dear God, what is that wonderous fragrance?”

I look up to see a short, voluptuous, elegantly-dressed woman standing next to the stranger. She has skin as dark as night, piercing eyes, and an air of superiority. She could be any age from thirty to seventy, but I am overcome by the aroma of freshly-baked bread and basil before I can ask her name. I snap my head around to gaze at the large, steaming pizza resting on the countertop.

All I can utter is, “How? Where did? Who?” But Jake is hurriedly sliding slices of the pie onto plates to serve to his guests. Neither the man nor the woman has ever seen a pizza before, and Jake joyfully describes how to eat it.

“No, don’t eat it with a knife and fork,” he insists. “You eat it by the slice. You can fold it in half and eat it like a New Yorker, which is great if you’re walking around midtown and don’t want the cheese to slide off. However, I find that the crust on the outside reduces the toppings’ impact on the palate. I suggest taking a bite or two off the tip because it is too good to wait and then work from the crust toward the middle. But let it cool for a moment, or you’ll burn the roof of your mouth. This baby must be fresh out of the oven!”

I nibble at my salad, which is fabulous, and decide not to ask how the food arrived. The stranger would claim it was a miracle. Instead, I desperately try to make sense of what just occurred before saying anything.

The woman cries through a full mouth, “This food is incredible! How did she know what we wanted to eat? I’ve never even heard of pizza before!”

The man explained, “Her gift is knowing what people what to eat. Isn’t this pizza amazing?”

I interrupt, saying, “No, that isn’t true. I didn’t know what either of you wanted to eat. I can’t sense anything from either of you!” Somehow, I find this fact as inexplicable as the food’s sudden arrival.

The man casually explains, with a mouthful of food, “That’s because you’re connected to the people on Earth and not to us.”

The woman complains, “And she only uses her gift for taking food orders? Honestly, child, you could do so much more. Honey, we’re going to need another one of these.”

A second pizza appears as soon as she utters her observation, and I put down my fork, demanding, “Who are you? What is going on here?”

The man apologizes, “I’m sorry. I’ve been terribly rude, Jeannette. Let me introduce you to your mother.”

I’m done with all this nonsense and turn to the man to complain, “I’m sorry, but I thought that you said you created the world. Now, you say you had help?”

The woman condescendingly replies, “No dear; he's only your father. It takes two to make a baby.” Then, she turns to the man and adds, “Are you sure she'll be able to understand what needs to happen?”

The man answers, “Perhaps she hasn’t mated and is unaware of the process. Either way, though, she is our only chance.”

I shout, a bit louder than intended, “Hey, I’ve mated plenty of times. I just haven’t elected to have a child. I don’t think that motherhood defines completeness in a woman’s life, so you can both just shove your grow-up-and-make-babies attitude and kiss off!”

We eat in awkward silence for a minute or two until the man attempts to restart the conversation with a safe question. “So, Jeannette, why do you not use your first name?”

I sigh while answering, “Because my mom, with her quirky sense of humor, named me Eve Anne Adams.”

The man says, “I don’t understand.”

“Switch the first and last names and say it fast.”

“Oh, right.”

I continue, “So, Dad surreptitiously added a ‘Je’ and a ‘tte’ to my middle name when he saw what she had written on the form and always called me Jeannette. This brings up a related question. What are your names?”

The man answers, “Oh, you can’t say our names.”

I laugh, “Of course not. We, mere mortals, are not allowed to utter the name of God.”

He sighs, “No, it is not that you are not permitted to say our names. You are incapable of pronouncing them. Why don’t you simply call us Mother and Father.”

I laugh, “Now, that just sounds like the lead-in to a bad joke. God and Mother Nature walk into a bar.”

Jake laughs too, but the man grumbles, “I keep telling you that I am not God!”