Chicago Day

We were awesome at blowing off entire days in Chicago. It's really something I just don't do anymore. When I got up this morning, I tried to figure out how best to avoid writing the ending--the actual ending--of my novel project.

Long ago I had told Annie that I would be done by December. She doesn't know whether to believe anything I say anymore. I keep repeating to myself, Truman Capote took three months off before writing the ending to In Cold Blood. Which has proven nothing to me except that Truman Capote wasn't dating my girlfriend.

Today I learned that I could get a grant from the National Endowment for the Arts just by applying for it. So I spent most of my morning filling out application and lovingly gutting scenes from my project. Then they want proof of publication. Most people should say something like, Come on. Who would lie about that? But I definately paused for a few seconds thinking, Okay, even a big magazine like Tin House only has 10,000 subscribers. Maybe they wouldn't check...

The problem is, and I promise to stop talking about this eventually, the only other publication I have to my credit is in an anthology of mine that was sold out of spike. The editor lives in New York, so I checked the bookstores. Nothing. I even went to Manhattan. No Chance. Which is kind of a new low. Most people apply for these no-name anthologies so they can check Yes, I have been published. But now even that's not good enough.

So anyway, having 'worked' all morning, I sat in the back of an internet cafe, pretending to be one of the many designers and filmmakers twidling away on their laptops. Only I was watching The Manchurian Candidate so I could return it on time. Then I started reading Please Kill Me: The Uncensored Oral History of Punk which is the first rock history book I've ever read that wasn't written for morons who can't pay attention to liner notes.

I just want to get this all down on paper so I'll remember what life was like when I start a new job this week.

Labels: Chicago

My Friend Tommy--the fifty year old banker from Tennessee who sends me Christmas cards ever since we met at graceland--died yesterday.

And I can't find his obituary online.

Sometimes it really bothers me that I'm not in a band.

Just in case my months of whining has prevented anyone from wanting to move to New York, I would just like to say that I've gotten many, many jobs this week. Mostly serving positions at nice restaurants.

one.

"So why did you leave your last restaurant."

"It was a dream team of a management staff, but unfortunately the ownership was holding them back and because of a few bungled mistakes of accounting they ended up stealing from the staff and running out the great managers."

"Yes, well it's hard openning a restaurant."

"Of course, of course. I really need something that I can count on right now, something more regular."

"I can certainly understand that. And I was actually offered a management position at that same restaurant."

"Lucky you didn't. The owner's incompetence would ruin your motivation."

"It's not that, for me. I am really good close personal friends with one of the owner and I just didn't want to ruin a friendship over it." He tells me the name over the owner, and all I can think of is the time I quit, screaming into the phone, calling her a thief who would "emfuckingbarass [her] business school professors with [her]infuckingcompetence." I then encouraged her to go fuck herself.

"Oh that's great." I try to remember the rules of poker-face. "Tell her I say hello if you see her...d-do you see her that often?"

two.

Ring Ring

A strange number comes up on my cell phone. When this happens, an automatic bill collector is unsuccessfully calling me. Whenever I do pick up--which they don't expect you to--there is no one to take the call. Everyday I hang up on a number from the 717 area code.

"Hello, I'm looking for Brendan."

"Sorry, wrong number."

"Great, Brendan. This is Mariana calling from [some place I can't remember]. I spoke to you the other day and I'm interested in seeing what you can do. So if you can I would like to have you come in on friday for training."

"Friday?" (Where?)

"Yes. Is friday good for you?"

"Yes. Yes of course. I'm just looking for a pen in case I need to call you." (The plan: get the number, google the number, show up at the right address.) "Can I have that number?"

"Why don't I give you my cell number in case anything happens?"

Faking a smile over the phone: "G-Great. Go ahead and give it to me. I've got a pen...uh huh...okay. Got it...and this is for 6 o'clock on friday...at..."

"La Paret. You applied here yesterday." She gets surly. "And you interviewed with me." I can't even remember applying to a restaurant with that name. Let alone where the hell it is.

"Of course, of course. I'm just writing it down and my pen...out of ink...I just want to make sure I write down the correct address."

"Same address as the interview."

"Right, of course. Well let me call you back to confirm."

four.

Inbox:

"Your story "Reverse Pony Girl" was not one of the eight selected by our judges. Our search for the sexiest writer in the world is not over. Our plans are to publish our first set of stories early next week and follow with another contest soon, so keep writing?"

What the hell is that question mark about?

three.

At my second interview at the job that I think I want to take:

"My favorite wine? Well, that of course depends on what I'm having and what time of year it is. In summer of 2004 I would say the Sancerre 2001--"

"What kind?"

I make up a name. "The Domaine De Bourge, Sancerre, 2001," he nods his head having no idea what I'm talking about. "But then the 2002s came out and they were just awful. Flat in flavor with a curious almost chemical aroma in the nose--"

Another manager comes rushing over. "Mike, mike, check this out," he turns to me. "I'm sorry to interrupt."

"Oh, it's no problem," I say.

"You guys seen Platoon right? You know that scene the villagers are uncooperative, and Taylor gets that he fires bullets near the foot of a one-legged civilian? And he says, "Dance!" Check this out." He presents to us a server in a bowtie, recites the line just previous to the command, and shouts. "Dance!"

Tch-tch-tch-tch-tch-tch-tch-tch-tch-tch-tch-tch! He makes machine gun sounds like an eight year old boy, complete with spit spray as the server hops on one foot.

They retire and the interview continues on without any further mention. And I start to think that perhaps this is the kind of place where I should work.

The subway wasn't running last night so I ended up sharing a cab with three British girls I met on the closed subway platform. Annie and I rented Da Ali G. Show the day before, so everything they said sounded like it should be hilarious to me. We went to a few bars and I got home at 3:30 thinking that was a fine idea.

At 7:00 when I got up for work, I felt dry and tired. The only way I know that I haven't slept is because Lewis Black becomes my inner monologue. I walk around formulating tirades against the people who step in front of me. The downside is that since I'm tired, they're never really that well put together. (...why do people say 'What?' all impatiently when they answer their phones? If they're so busy why don't they just shut the crap up and wait to find out What? It's not like I'm going to call. "Hello" "What?" "Nothing."...)

I had a job interview at a fancy restaurant. The manager the day before said that I could probably get the job if I toned down my hair for the next interview. I went to the bathroom to check up on it when I got there. And when I sat back down to wait, I realized that in my stupor I had lost my resume and application. In the bathroom.

The manager couldn't see me right away, but I had to walk by him three times just going back to the toilet looking for it. I know I left it on top of the towel dispenser. But I couldn't bring myself to ask the hostess, Excuse me, but did anyone bring a resume out of the bathroom and put it in the lost and found?

No big deal. But then I realized that the folder has sixty copies of my resume, including my full name on the front.

You know what I really want for lunch today? In grade school we had taco day once a month or so. And they would give you an icecream scoop of sticky rice. If you were a teacher you got two scoops and four tacos.

Not sure how much money, if any is involved in this magazine thing. But I've been thinking about this for a while: Is there a point in life where what you are celebrating is worth more than how you celebrate?

If I get a $40 a week raise or I publish a story or I win a contest or I win some money at a slot machine--I usually end up spending the winnings on celebrating the win.

Say I got a new job and could afford a new apartment: wouldn't I still be in the same financial situation as I was before?

I just finished reading a book where I identified completely with the antagonist. He's a mopey, clingy, troublesome, inconvenience to everyone in the story. Realistically, I'm never going to read a story where such a fellow is a hero. But something about see it in print ruined that turning-the-final-page euphoria.

There are few shitty days in my life. Very few. But lately it's been that anytime I find out what my bank balence is--I end up feeling shitty all day. In college I remember several times scrounging up seven dollars, walking into the bar, buying a pitcher for five, tipping two and drinking an entire night. I was a lighter weight drinker then, which was somewhat augmented by being on experimental allergy medication (long story).

Anyway, I would black out at a low level. The joke I made--which really scared my friends--is that I could probably black out and drive, no problem. That's not really an option tonight. For me at least. It would cost me close to forty dollars to feel even dizzy in New York. Let alone to wake up in the morning and forget how I blew the night.

And since I don't have a television, I can't really just sit and forget, like I may want to sometimes. Mostly I just already miss my new niece. She's already my favorite relative.

But then I checked my email:

Dear Brendan,

I would like to run this story (Bomb Day) in the next issue of my famous, unnamed and well-respected humor magazine. It's the War issue, and it fits in perfectly, I think, with that theme.

It's a great piece, and we would love to take a look at anything else you think might be appropriate for the magazine in the future. You've got a great style and sense of humor that I think would go well in our pages.

Sincerely,

The Editor

I'm going to go pick up an issue of the magazine and walk around the streets, smiling.

How much cute can you handle?

It's a serious question. Can you handle a short film of a baby yawning when she is just a few hours old?

Johnny Cash on writing novels

Once again I found joy in writing. I've "finished" Man in White several times since my father died. I'm never satisfied that I didn't leave out somethign important or put in something meaningless. If the publisher hadn't finally said "enough," I'd still be writing.

-From the introduction to Man in White, Johnny Cash's seemingly unghostwritten novel about Paul the Apostle.

, which is hopefully the last time I will have to search for a novel in the "Christian Spiritual Fiction" section of the bookstore.

1) My sister is in labor.

2) I'm leaving for Connecticut.

3) If you are a clean, busy person who never eats, showers, or sleeps at home and are looking for a great apartment to impress your mother with, then check this out because we're looking for a roommate.

My on-going war on house music.

Annie showed up for work tonight to discover that her club had been sold to a bunch of Irish guys who brought in their own work staff. However, one of the bartenders didn't show up, so although they didn't need her they will. She calls me while I'm making dinner to ask if I'll bring her some clothes.

When I get there the new owner shakes my hand and I ask him if he needs a DJ for the night.

"Yeah, definately. Definately. How soon can you get back? No hip-hop, though."

"Great. I'll grab my records and come right over. Gimme forty minutes."

"Great, great," he says. "We need some good house music. You know? Like some real beat-y house music. Real chill. okay?" I know exactly what he wants. Bass-laden elevator bullshit.

"Oh...not uhm...not soul?" I try to think of a more boring word "Or funk?"

"No, just some good house music."

And now I'm back home, reheating dinner.

Since I usually make it a point to hate Valentines Day, I'll try something new this year. Let this load and scan up to the 47 minute mark and listen as Sarah Vowell presents the lovestory of Johnny and June Carter Cash.

She calls it "The Greatest Lovestory of the 20th Century." And I would give it most of the millenium. When you're willing to cry for not loving Johnny Cash that much, watch this video, for which Rick Rubin did the music.

See? This is what I mean about having a job. Arthur Miller just died and I cannot remember reading a single play he's written. One great short story in Esquire a few months ago. But nothing else really.

The word "dunno" as in I "I dunno I kinda gotta go" appears in my project hundreds of times. But today I realized that I forgot how much I hate that word. To me it's spelled wrong, and I first noticed that when reading Calvin and Hobbes. The phonetic pronunciation of "I dunno" makes the character sound about twenty-five percent stupider than I want them too.

But what am I supposed to use instead?

don'know?
donno?
d'know?

Last night I had a dream that I was standing next to Janeane Garofalo. Back when I was a person with a future, I had the esteemed pleasure of interviewing her for a magazine that went under just as the article went to press. Actually, the only published copy of the interview is here on this site.
Other reasons that Janeane Garofalo is, circumstantially, the girl of my dreams:

1- She has a surprisingly crappy tatoo on her bicep. Barbed wire or something. I noticed it in the interview. Lately I've been thinking of expanding my tattoo collection into the more conspicuous regions of my arms. But then I, like her, would have to spend hours have my arm made-up whenever I had to wear a sleeky dress in my big movie star roles.

2- In a few short months I will start looking for a literary agent, which I understand is about six times harder and more painful than writing a novel. I'm going to go ahead and hope that the Janeane Garofalo of my dreams is the literary agent she played in Permanent Midnight rather that the recovering alcoholic in a baggy Le Tigre band-shirt, whom I tape recorded at a rally. In the movie she walks right up to the writer-protagonist and offers to represent him. In my dream, Janeane Garofalo is standing next to me. And--because I feel like I know her--I can't talk to her.

3- It may also be that I spent alot of my on-the-clock time yesterday reading the celebrity gossip section of bitterwaitress.com which is full of freaky stories about Jonathan Franzen and one heart-warming tale of John Mayer eating at the Olive Garden, as told by the sixteen year old waitress whom he and his entourage walked safely home. My feeble brain may have simply been responding to what is probably my only celebrity experience.

There's two blond women in my office and I have a hard time telling them apart. One of them never speaks to me and the other always has work for me to be doing. Sometimes the one I work with wears glasses and so does the other, so I can't work with that. I'm terrified of calling someone by the wrong name, so I just avoid Mystery Blond Woman #2 and try and remember the other one's name instead. That way when I run into one of them in the hall she'll smile if I know her (Hey! There's the guy who files for me!) or look down and sulk (Oh, hey. There's the asshole new guy who runs away when I try and introduce myself.)

1) There's all these chapters towards the end of the last draught that have nothing to do with the storyline anymore. But I'm making myself edit them and put them in the new draught so that I can cut them out later. But it's demoralizing. I feel like I'm in high school, sitting in a meeting with an English teacher as he, hoping that my stupidity is obvious to my ears if not my eyes, reads aloud an awkward or meaningless sentence.

Remaining steps.
a- Finish complete draught.
b- Rewrite the beginning paragraphs.
c- Fun day! using the edit-find function I'll get statistics about how many times people use the word "Dude" or how many adverbs I didn't mean to use, etc. I'll also want to remove 1/3 of the instances wherein the narator uses the adjective "fucken" in a non-gerund form.
d- Get it copyeditted.
e- read the entire thing aloud to myself with a big, bitchy red pen. Cut all time-passing dialogue.
f- print it and start throwing it in other people's trashcans.

3) Question: My narrator, being undereducated, is given to describing things as happening "every goddam time" and he frequently eschews the subjunctive mood as in "If I wasn't stuck here with you every fucken day I might..." when his author knows damn right it should be "If I weren't stuck here..." He ends sentences with prepositions. He doubles his negatives. And that's fine. But are we really supposed to believe that he has perfect punctuation? Sometimes he slips into the ladies' room if the men's is full. But do you buy that? I think you have to. I think if writers didn't do this, then they would get hundred of emails from grammar nerds all the time say, "Uhm, excuse me, but "Jesus' fucken cross" because, you see, it's the cross of Jesus."

2) It's rare to hear a good, new, funny joke that isn't just a repeat of an old one with new characters. This one is from my mother:

An Irishman's daughter had not been home for over 5 years.

Upon her return, her father berated her "Where have you been all
this time, you ingrate! Why didn't you write us, not even a line to
let us know how you were doing? Why didn't you call? You little
tramp! Don't you know what you put your Mum through??!"

The girl, crying, replied, "Sniff, sniff... Dad... I became a
prostitute..."

"WHAT!!? Out of here, you shameless harlot! Sinner! You're a
disgrace to this family - I don't ever want to see you again!"

"OK, Dad - as you wish. I just came back to give Mom this luxury fur
coat, title deeds to a ten bedroom mansion, plus a savings account
certificate for £5 million. For my little brother, this gold Rolex
and for you, Daddy, the brand new Mercedes limited edition
convertible that's parked outside plus a lifetime membership to the
Country Club...(takes a breath)...an invitation for you all to spend
New Years' Eve on board my new yacht in the Riviera, and...."

"Now what was it you said you had become?"

The girl, crying again said, "a prostitute, Dad!"

"Oh! Sweet lord! You scared me half to death, girl! I thought you
said 'a Protestant.' Come here and give your old man a hug."

San Francisco was great. Still is, probably

I really hate when things are organized with roman numerals. It's like the table of contents is say, Hey, can I help you find anything? Great, I'll tell you exactly where it is, you just have to decode it with this simple algebra formula."

The nicest part about being an alcoholic would probably be not going out on friday nights.

This hasn't been editted at all. In fact, before I even re-typed it, I knew I was going to cut it from the final draft. There's probably alot of characters that come out of no where and probably go no where. And in about six weeks I'm going to have to start editting again--maybe I'll even get a big red marker--and I'll hack out all the parts like this. But they're fun. They entertain me when I get bored of writing or when I think I should quit.

I wrote this in Chicago and probably threw away a week of my life working on it. If I weren't writing this, I would have been asleep, dreaming of a job with actual customers.

The First Church of the Little Wave, San Diego meets at Rutherford B. Hayes Junior High School every Sunday at one o’clock. It looks like Noah brought surfers on the Ark, two by two. Everyone sits around in shorts and surfing company shirts. Even the pastor. Everyone files in, some with their waists girded in the damp towels of righteousness. A brick walk led up to the part where the busses must pull in. Some of Ellen’s friends waved, some surfing types stood in little circles. A couple of first timers tried to lose themselves in the crowd and pretend to be too busy searching through their purses to talk to anyone. Weird. Just like junior high. Some one important walk over to a picnic bench and stands up. “I still don’t get it,” I whisper to Hampshire. “What does post-modern mean?”

“Shh…no one knows, and I think that’s the point.” The pastor starts talking. He’s got a few years on Ellen, but he acts just as laid-back as everyone. Something about him, though. He seems tanner, his hair more sun bleached, his face more muscular.

“Good morning.”
“Goo..m..nring…” we echo.
“I said, GOOOOD MORNING!”
“GOOD MORNING!” we reply.

“Man, it was hard to get outta bed this morning. Am I right?” Chuckles and soft high-fives travel through the crowd. “Plenty of new faces here at the Church of the Little Wave. Recognize some of y’all from the beach this morning. Some of y’all from the bar last night. I’m glad that this guy’s decided to pray to more than just the porceline god this weekend,” some guy in the front row melts into a red-faced giggle. “In case we haven’t met, I’m Pastor P. And I’m glad y’all came out this morning. Before the house band starts, I invite you to grab a cup of coffee in the lobby, maybe get yourself a bagel and come right back.”

Everyone herds into the lobby. Again I feel like Junior High. I wonder if anyone would notice if I pack a few bagels into my pockets. I think that my stomach shrank, though. Ellen keeps taking us out to get these big meals and I always have to take half of them home. After my second glass of grape juice, I go back for another and almost break the goddam plastic knife tryna put cream cheese on my second bagel. “Oh, man,” I hold my cup and rub my belly. “I love San Diego.”

“See, what I tell ya?”

“Oh fuck off—” Jesus’ pained eyes glare at me from the cross. He’s hanging on a poster that says, And you think your parents expect a lot of you. “I mean, forget it.”

“Forget what?”

“All right everybody!” Pastor P. takes the stage. The band goes into a tune up/drum roll. “Now let’s get ready to hummmmbllllle ourselves to the Lord! All God’s people get on your feet and give a big Little Wave welcome to Jacob and The Sheperd’s Herd!” The band starts up with some Kareoke version of a song my parents prolly danced to when they met.

“Thank you, thank you for that warm welcome. I’m Jacob and you know, I went to this here junior high school fifteen years ago and they could never get this many people in the auditorium.” Everyone cheers. “Maybe it’s the bagels. But here at the Church of the Little Wave, we know how to surf. Yesterday Pastor P. caught one of the biggest waves I’ve ever seen. Eight, ten-footer. It was totally outta this world. But you know something” That wave started out as just a ripple in the pacific, but what starts as just a little wave, becomes something totally awesome by the time it hits California.”

“WOO!”

“Come on everybody, sing with me now.” The lyrics come up on the screen. It keeps everyone’s eyes out of hymnals, I guess. They sing up to each other. Pastor P. hops up on the bongos for a drum solo. Everyone started to get so loud that you couldn’t hear who couldn’t sing or who you wouldn’t want to. Like gospel for white people.

“Can I get a Little Wave?” He points to the left side of the crowd. Everyone raises up their coffee cups and bagel napkins. Splashes of coffee and white hands spurt outta the crowd and then when it hits the right side it goes back and everyone puts up two hands. White cups reach higher. Jacob starts running across the stage to follow it. When it hits the left wall again everyone puts breakfast down and throws their tan hands up higher, higher. The Shepherd’s Herd goes into this big finale and everyone starts cheering and clapping again.

“Thank you, thank you to The Herd. And thank you to all of you who decided to get outta bed this afternoon and come down here. Today we need to talk about something important to all of us. And if it’s not important to you now, well get ready. Because it will be. It’s something we all could learn to work on. And that is:”

“EGAIRRAM,” the screen says.

“I know some of you are probably thinking you are too young to think about…” he keeps the microphone to his face and looks up at the screen. “Sorry, that’s not supposed to be a word puzzle. Jacob? Could you…thank you. Okay. Much better. Where was I? Right, now I know that some of you are probably thinking you are too young to think about marriage. But when you get to be my age, you’ll wish you had thought about it a lot more. And it’s important to God too. That’s why God mad two of the ten commandments about marriage. Don’t commit adultery. Don’t covet your neighbor’s wife. Two out of ten. That’s two out of ten. Now, back when I was just a poor divinity school dropout waiting tables in Big Sur, I thought twenty percent was a good tip.” Yuk, yuk, chuckle McChuckles. “And the way I see it, God is giving us all a good time by telling us how important marriage is. Because marriage prepares you for a relationship with God.” He takes a big swig off water from an expensive bottle. “And I can tell who’s married in the audience because your eyes just bugged out. What? Heaven is harder than marriage?” He doesn’t use the authority voice, or really anything in particular. He sounds like someone who’s tryna impersonate their dog.

“Before I left fifth Methodist of Newport Beach, I wanted my whole congragation to know something, but they weren’t ready to hear it in church. There people go to church so that their neighbors can take attendence. They don’t want to lead a better life. They want everyone to see what they put in the college plate, multiply it by ten, and know how much money they made that week. Now. I do not want to knock our brother’s and sister’s in Christ. But I will tell you one thing. Attendence is always higher on Christmas and Easter, but the only two Sundays that could top them in Newport beach are the ones that follow memorial day and labor day.” He sits there on a stool like my ole history teachers, knowing he has a secret to tell us.

A pocket secret. One we can hold on to. One he’ll give us if we promise to pay attention. “And do you know why they all flock to church right after Christmas, Easter, Memorial Day and Labor Day?”

A big question mark pops up on the screen. Then Jacob adds the holidays.

“Actually, let me see if you can guess. Is it A) Because they don’t want to go to hell?” A picture of a building burning hops up on the screen. “B) Because they still get to sleep in one more day that week?” The flames come off and there’s a cartoon of someone snoring in an armchair with the newspaper on this stomach. “C) Because they love our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ extra on those weeks?” The man gets replaced by that Jesus poster they had up in the lobby.

“BEEEEEE!”
“SEEEEEEEEE!”
“AY!”
“Beeee!” Hampshire yells.

“Now please hold on a second. Let me finish. Let me finish. You have four choices. A) B) C) or…” Jesus goes away and Jacob puts up a picture of a woman in four panels, each in a different season, each in a different dress. “D) To show off their new outfits.”

“If you said C)” one corner of the crowd cheers. “You’re just trying to suck up. No! Just kidding! I had you there for a second, though…” Pastor P. looks down at Jacob and he puts up a faded Xerox of a newspaper article. “This chart comes from the fall Fashion preview of USA Tomorrow. As you can see in the first part, most of the high end designers already have two seasons of designs ready. They just crank them out at the proper time. But according to this graph,” he tries to point to it with his shadow. Little stacks of shopping bags represent some big number of dollars spent on clothes. “The four biggest shopping weeks are right before we have the most people hearing the Lord’s word.”

Shock and outrage team up and bounce through the crowd.

“And I don’t know if that blows you away like it blows me away. But that says something about the people who follow our Lord and Savior. The big J.C. But everytime I see my friends out, and they see I’ve got on a new shirt, or notice someone not wearing sandals anymore or white or when I see my wife has a new purse, I know I am going to get a call from my brothers in Christ at Fifth Methodist of Newport Beach. And they say, Hey Pastor Pablo, I’ve been praying for you.” He puts on this real peach-pie voice, all sweet and fruity. “They always say that, like I owe them something. Like, Hey Pastor Pablo, I prayed for you when your brother lost his job and how he’s got one. I wanna say, Look, thanks, just send me the bill. But they call me, and they try and butter me up. Well, Easter is just around the corner.” He’s prolly one of those guys who watches the late comedy shows and then wakes his wife up to repeat the jokes. He loves this moment, standing there while the whole crowd waits for him to finish a goddam sentence. “Like I don’t know that.” Guts burst. “Like I don’t have a calendar or—or five dishes of jelly beans my house. Like I don’t know when Easter is. But I know. I can feel it coming like I can feel Memorial Day coming. I just know I’m going to get this call, Well, Easter is just around the corner. And we always have a few extra souls in the pews. So I was wondering if maybe you could find someone to fill in for you at…at uh..The First Church of Junior High… And we would love it if you could come down and help with communion.” Outrage and shock continue their game of Marco Polo.

Ellen pulls out her checkbook and scrawls something out, then she hands her brother fifty buck and gives me twenty. We talk in church eyes: Are you sure? She widens her soft eyes back at me, Of course. “But they do not understand why I left. I have told them dozens of times. I have shown them these graphs. And they do not believe me when I say that Pastor P. will always stick with the Church of the Little Wave, where we seeks to glorify Jesus Christ, not Thom Marcus!” The cheers built up while he spoke. By the end he had to yell louder and louder as the cheers stirred guts of the auditorium. Even me, a little bit. And I never heard a sermon before. Mom’s church doesn’t have pastors. People just get up toward the end of the service and talk about time they got sick and what Bible passages they read until they felt better. Mostly old people stand up. The feeble kind who look like they could use an extra cane. My son made me go to the doctor and they said the cancer would take over my entire stomach in six months. Dad used to call it an Organ Recital.

“And that is a roundabout way of telling you something that the people at Fifth Methodist may never be ready to hear,” he signals to someone in the back with a head nod. “Sorry. Before we go any further. This is a friendly reminder that DJ Adam Acolyte will be spinnin’ the collection plate in a few minutes. So get your checks ready. Please make them out to Cash.” Someone changes the slide to a big picture of a piggy bank. “And what they may never be ready to hear in church is this—getting back to marriage now. My wife and I have seriously great sex.”

Hampshire’s eyes widen. I don’t know if I believe what I just heard.

“Isn’t that right honey?”

“Oh yes, baby,” she hollers from the front row.

“That’s right,” his face lights up with another one of his joke farts that he can’t hold in. “That’s what she was screaming last night.” He walks back over to the water bottle and takes a sip, waiting for everyone to stop laughing. The puritan museum in our town has an old stick with one metal end and one end with a feather poking out. If girls fell asleep in church, they tickle them awake. If men snored they knocked ‘em upside the head. Pastor P. does both instead.
“I mean it. Every day, pretty much. Sometimes we hold what she like to call the Midnight Mass, which is a killer if we’re gonna have a little Sunrise Service. If we could get this auditorium space later in the day I would. Because the only place I would rather be on Sunday mornings is in bed with that woman right there. We have been married for five years and it is still getting better. I hope I did not make anyone uncomfortable. In fact, I know I did. But I think sex is like prayer. Most of us do it in private and we need it to keep our lives happy. But we never talk about the joy if it.” Two rows up I see five surfer guys writing down everything he says, checking with each other for exact quotes. “The more we love each other, the more we love loving each other. But you know how it is not always going to be perfect. In fact, at our wedding, my uncle pulled me aside and said, Enjoy it while it lasts, kid. He’s been married three times, so he thinks he’s some kind of expert. But he said, Enjoy it while it lasts before you start fighting about every little thing. And I did not know what he meant by that. But then we were about half way to Monterey for our honeymoon and we had our first fight. I am sure it was about something stupid, but I just wanted to turn around right there and drive back to Fifth Methodist before they filed out papers. I did. I really did. But before we got to our bed and breakfast, she pulled over and said to me, Baby, we need to start off right. If we’re going to lay together, we have to pray together. And we asked God for guidance. And we talked about our problems. In the end it was a misunderstanding. They always are, and we made up. And that’s how God works. Sometimes I find myself with all of these bills to pay and a junior high to fill and I wonder, My God, my God. Why have you forsaken me? Why didn’t you send me to Law School? Why didn’t you give me rich parents so I could give my kids a good home? Send them to nice schools? But learning to understand each other is essential to your marriage and vital to your relationship to God. I see a lot of you with notepads our right now, and if you take away one thing from today, go ahead and write this down.”
The screen interrupts him and says, “PASTOR P.’S GUIDE TO GREAT SEX AND THE KINGDOM OF GOD.”
“Thank you, Jacob. Number one.”

“1) Pray”
“When you pray you ask for God’s forgiveness, you unload your concerns, and you affirm for both of you, how deep and profound your love is. If you did this with your spouse every morning and night, you will have a hard time staying out of your bedroom when you get home. Put it this way, if you listen to me today, you’ll be spending a lot of time on your knees. Number two!”

“2) Remain Faithful.”
“If you think you can pray to God and Lucifer without hurting anyone, including yourself, then by all means stare at everyone else’s butts on the beach and fool around with whomever you want. But if you desire to wise up, you will devote yourself entirely. Number three!”

“3) Reconcile”
“Admit when you’re wrong, and be ready to give out forgiveness. Our Shepherd would leave his flock of ninety-nine if only to save one of us. And if you have got ninety-nine problems in a day and you drop them all to make up and come together again, both God and your spouse will understand, acknowledge, and appreciate it. Remember this: making up almost makes the fight worth it. Almost. Number four!”

“4) Take care of each other.”
“Jesus said that whatsoever you do unto the least of my bretheren you do unto me also. You need to make sure that both of you have your basic needs and that you know you can count on each other. God needs your dollars to power the churches and buy Bibles and pay for lowly pastors so their kids can go to Cabo. Everybody got their money ready?” The crowd, knowing what to do, somehow, holds their checks and bills in the air. “Now give me a double wave!” He holds his arms out to each side of the auditorium and everyone raises their money, one row after another from each end. The two waves crash in the middle.

“Wipe out!” he beams down on his flock. “Okay, now that we all know you can afford this, I want you to put your checks in your pockets. And by the time I see you on the beach today, I want to hear what you did with it. Give it to a homeless guy. Mail it to a charity. I don’t care. But don’t tell me about the great new outfit you bought and how happy it makes you to strut around in it.” The reverb of the microphone rings through the room. He finishes his bottle of expensive water, crushes the plastic and puts the wad on top of a stack of his papers. “Now. Please join me in welcoming back The Shepherd’s Herd.”

Labels: Chicago

At my last office job, I wrote for the life section of a small newspaper. And everyone else's calamaties made my day. If flashbulbs made your dress see-through or if your sister went into anorexia rehab, I was there. For a while I wrote obituaries, which meant that I spent alot of time on the phone with widows who ran out of positive adjectives in the first ten minutes.

I still shudder everytime they do a story about Martha Stewart in prison because I feel, deep down inside, that the whole joke-writing world not only reads The Hartford Courant, but that they all cut out and pinned up my page one rendition of her Connecticut Correctionals Cell.

One saturday I remember running to the office, like a fireman on a call, because JFK jr's plane went down. Everyone showed up and we acted like some real news had happened. And then a few weeks later I went back to school. And then 9/11 happened and--this is really shitty of me--I called into the office to see what I could do.

Now in my new job I keep track of people's great fortunes. I work for an office of a British university, handling their major fundraising. (When I say handling, I mean handling the files that other people hand me.) So yes, I, who refuse to donate to my own college, the school that gave me so much, am something of a sell out. It turns out that when you talk as much shit as I do: pretty much every weekend you're dealing with some kind of sell out.

Anyway, If you win the lotto or get a promotion or get listed on some fortune 500 list, I photocopy your name and find a spot in your file. If you get a promotion or you have a great third quarter, we know.

It should make my days better because all day I deal with everyone's good news. I just filed something about a new oil chief named to a big company. His family is probably really happy.

Today's also payday, which, growing up, meant we got pizza for dinner. And I can't help wondering: do rich people know when it's payday?

There's another department that deals only death. It's for donors who don't give us money but who send us the paperwork so that when they die we get a percentage. Maybe it would really start to lift my spirits if my phone only rang when the wealthy die.