Roger Beck thought I was God, literally. Though I was only 10 years old, the feeling of omnipotence was obscene.

Roger was one of 6 children raised by working-class parents. In today’s world, he might be described as developmentally disabled. Back then, the term was less kind. He was sweet, tender and gullible. 

It was Nov. 22, the day John F. Kennedy was killed. Our teacher was called out of the classroom and returned crying. Though miles and money separated JFK from the rest of us in the Boston area, we considered him ours.  

He was our hero and fueled our faith. I included him in my nightly prayers.

Our entire school was sent home, to mourn, reflect and bother our parents. My two best friends, Jed Casey and Joey Correa, and I decided to grieve the loss of our president by hiding in the “Big Tree,” smoking Kool menthol cigarettes stolen from my mother’s purse.

The “Big Tree” was a huge pine located in a vacant lot. It was the largest tree in our neighborhood. The top had been blown off in an ancient storm, leaving a relatively flat platform. My friends and I erected a simple structure among the thick boughs with free lumber from a local construction site. In retrospect, perhaps the wood wasn’t meant to be free, but when we went there at night there was no one there to ask.

Our tree fort was posh. It had a floor, a bucket of rocks (for defense), milk crates to hold our stash of cigarettes and some ‘girlie’ magazines. In Summit County, it would be called “affordable housing.”

Our sanctum was impossible to see from the ground, and the exclusive property of Jed, Joey and me. “Death to trespassas” — this was before spell-check — was written on the sign we nailed to the entrance. Those attempting to climb the tree could expect a stone shower.

It was a beautiful fall day, one of the last of its kind of the year. We squatted on milk crates, smoked, spit and talked tough. We speculated whether “commies” had killed our president. We loaded our BB guns, sharpened our jack-knives and vowed revenge. I didn’t allow myself to cry until after my friends left. 

Once alone, I had no reason to act tough. It was only a second  after I let out a loud,  plaintive sob that I heard a voice from below say, “Why are you crying, God?”

Unlike Joey, Jed and me, Roger, though our age, did not attend school. He was mostly looked after by his siblings but often was free to roam. He was passing under the big tree when he heard me crying. 

Since my sobbing appeared to come from the beyond, he assumed they were of divine origin. I played along. I sucked back my sobs, composed myself, and said in a deep voice, “Well, Roger, I’m crying because John F. Kennedy was killed.” Roger thought about that for a while and said, “He was good, wasn’t he God?”

When I answered that JFK was indeed good, Roger added, “Then don’t cry. He’ll be in heaven with you soon.”

Obviously, since this occurred a half-century ago, my memory is blurred. I’ve told the story so many times, what occurred and what makes a good story tend to merge. But one thing that is independent of any specific fact or fiction is that Roger talked to God, and God talked back. What a rush.

To this day, I’m not sure if my behavior was cruel or a gift. Granted, it was wrong to impersonate a divine entity, but on the other hand, it was all the same to Roger. Divinity was taken out of some book and replaced with an audible manifestation. I wish I could be so lucky.

Because, when I’m not masquerading as our Lord, I talk to her. I also talk to my departed mother, friends, relatives and Bobby-Big-Dump, our dearly departed dog. Every time someone I love passes away, I hope for contact. When I’m alone and in a beautiful place in nature, I’ll ask for a sign: trumpets, voices, a burning bush, a sniffed crotch (Big-Dump loved to do that).  

Some would argue that the beauty of nature is a godly sign. Sorry, not good enough — I want trumpets.

My mother used to describe folks like Roger as “God’s chosen.” Simplicity lends itself to trust, and in that respect Roger was lucky.  He spoke to his God and received a response. If the voice and speech impediment sounded familiar to him, he made no mention of it. Maybe one sign that there is recompense to those less mentally gifted is that for the gentle and uncomplicated, faith comes easily.