God of Strangers

My first week at summer ski camp, I felt outplaced by my more athletic, social teammates. I spent free time on an upper bunk bed, writing epic letters to my girlfriend. One day a group of campers wandered in, a hairy, organized crew from the east coast. They were Jewish ski racers who'd established a rigid social totem pole based on facial hair. Those with less facial hair were mocked and pranked on camera, and those with more enjoyed greater favor with their fully-bearded chief. A kid with long side burns, desperate for attention, used some device to create a flash of light in the corner of the room. "What was that?" "Some crazy flash of light." "Maybe it was God." "It was probably that guy up there." "That guy's probably God." "He has to be. Up there, totally chill." "Are you God?" They were talking about me. From then on they called me God. It was easily established and just as easily accepted. When I was least connected to my peers, I was also easily formed into a God figure by total strangers. I didn't consider the blasphemy because I enjoyed the situation's audacity. I was the God of people who didn't even share my religious beliefs. That week, I'd rather play God for strangers than mix with my peers.