His work has neared perfection before, but it’s got its flaws. God won’t deny that. When we meet for an interview at a deli on West Street, He admits there are things He’d change if He could go back in time. Chuckling, He points out He could go back in time if He wanted. The fame is new to the guy who started it all. It, of course, being all existence as we know it, at least according to His millions of fans across the world (and, He adds, several billions more across the universe). Speaking of fans – a screaming drove of high school girls spot Him, and tumble over like coyotes after fresh meat. He takes it in stride.

When they leave, the waiter brings over our grilled tofu sandwiches. (God admits to eating meat before. It just didn’t fly well with the PETA people. “You’d think the guy that made the stuff could try a bite,” He grumbles.) Last week, the waiter told me he was Buddhist. Today, the guy’s knees are knocking. Trembling, he says, “We all decided it’s on the house,” and scampers off.

“Stuff like that never used to happen,” God says. “People were starting to lose faith in me, I think. At least here on Earth – hell, it’s been 2,000 years since I sent J.C. down here.” He thought things would be fine after that – a real “peace on Earth” scenario. But it wasn’t. “Sometimes you kids worry me.”

When God pulls out a pack of clove cigarettes (something He picked up while on the set of “Dogma,” coaching Alanis Morissette), everyone in the place gawks. “This shack have one of those smoking ordinances, too?” He whispers. Before I can nod, He snaps His fingers. He’s stopped time so no one will extinguish his smoke.

“Relax – it’s a great party trick.”

God’s earliest clear memory is from when He was three or four minutes old. His mother had accidentally locked herself out of the house and could only watch from the window as God conjured and created. “I must have made a real mess – about a thousand new kinds of life.” He takes a long drag before mumbling, “All screw-ups, too.” His knack for creating life soon curved toward the better, though. Eventually He started popping out miniature solar systems and earned the “Creator” nickname.

It was hijinks like this that led God’s mom – Janice – to schedule an audition with a Deity Agent. God admits He was nervous the first time. “So they give you an amoeba, right? I’m in this huge white auditorium, I didn’t know where Mom had gone – and I’ve got this amoeba.

“No one says anything, either. Just waits. So I did it.” Created life as humankind knows it? “Naw – I pissed myself.” It’s that modest and humble attitude nobody lets God get away with any more. “Everyone wants a different kind of God, like I’m a fashion accessory. Used to be everyone wanted vengeance, so I was vengeful.” That’s how things went for his first few gigs, anyway.

“So my agent Louie, he says to me, he says, `Now, God,’ he says – `God, you’s gonna have to – you know, should you land the next Creator of the Universe gig-type deal – you’s is gonna have to start everything all over. Like, from scratch.’

“He was right, too. They made me obliterate the whole universe – Mom, Dad, my girlfriend Liz – all of it, just like that. Big ordeal – bang! – and I have to start with some dust.”

We meet again at the Museum of Natural History a week later – a place God affectionately refers to as his r‚sum‚. He beams at most of the displays, proud as all hell. There are a few he grimaces at, like the dinosaurs. “I dropped the ball with those fellas,” he admits. Just happens the ball weighed a few tons, had burst into flames and nearly ended all life on Earth. It’s not the only time He screwed up, either. “I’m trying to run the universe here, and y’all want me coming down – what is it? – every Sunday now?” God’s unfamiliarity with organized religion is a little muddling at first, but He shrugs it off.

“I just made this place. I never said nothing ’bout you guys having to worship me. Do whatever makes you kids happy. That’s why I took this job. Are you happy?”

When I don’t answer, God’s eye wanders toward a display behind me. “These guys look kind of like your people, don’t they?” He knocks my shoulder, winks, then wanders toward the primates display.

The last time we meet, God says to watch what I print about the “evolution, religion thing.”

“I just don’t want to stir things up any more. You kids are smart enough to run things on your own.” I tell Him I’m not so sure we are, and He pushes me to explain. Recapping the last 100 years, I gloss over the details but highlight the lows – Hitler, hate crimes, war, terrorism, moms trading their babies for Chihuahuas. I tell Him it’s not that we’ve lost faith in some higher being putting order in the world, even if there are a million ways to go about those beliefs. The problem is He’s got too much faith in us. We need directions, omens – the meaning of life.

It’s hard to tell through the smoke coming off his clove cigarettes, but I think God’s shedding tears, like everything I just said was news to Him.

“Who do you write for again?” “The Iowa State Daily.” I’m not surprised when He says He’s not familiar with Iowa.

“Tell you what, kid – you get me a cover story on Rolling Stone or Entertainment Weekly, I’ll spill.” I tell Him it won’t happen this year, not with all the buzz about Shakira and Peter Jackson’s “Lord of the Rings” films. But He just snaps His fingers again.

When God starts time again, it’s just me, His clove cigarette dangling in my mouth. He’s left a note, though. “Don’t hold it against me, kid. I’m just like any other artist/creator-type. It’s all for the craft, yeah, yeah – but some recognition don’t hurt either.” There’s just the smokescreen again, then, and each of us to make what we want to out of God’s haze.

Cavan Reagan is a junior in journalism and mass communication from Bellevue, Neb. He is the news editor of the Daily.