by Sam Clemens
“For sex?”
“Fuck off. Their names are Roy and Retha. They, um…” He grasped for the right words. “Well, it’s weird.”
Laird spun circles with his free hand in a gimme more motion. “Yeah, yeah, weird like how? I need the juice.” He looked to his left and ashed the cigarette on the rock display.
“Well.” Cosmo inhaled deeply. “They, uh, think I’m someone.”
Cosmo did his best to recount the interaction while Laird smoked a cigarette next to the kayak stand. Laird watched him intently, only breaking eye contact to knock the ash off.
“And so,” Cosmo said, trying to wrap it up, “they said, ‘To lead us out of the darkness.’”
Laird’s eyes were as big as half dollars. “My dear Christ.”
“Hey.” Taylor appeared from an adjacent aisle. “Do you guys smell smoke?”
Laird scrambled to hide the cigarette, turning his back and stamping it out on the faux rock. Tiny burn marks were left where he touched it to the plastic surface.
“I did smell something,” Cosmo said.
“Damn kids!” Laird yelled, standing to direct attention away from the evidence. “Always loitering over here in the mornings. Marijuana, I bet.”
“Nah,” Taylor said, “it smells like cigarettes.”
Laird stepped to the manager. “Tay, did you know Cosmo is the second coming of Christ?”
Cosmo shook his head. “Something’s off with him today.”
“Boss, let me ask you this,” Laird said, putting a hand on Taylor’s shoulder. “Hypothetically, if a couple of strangers approached you and said you were their ‘salvation,’ how do you suppose you’d react.”
Taylor tilted his head.
“Hypothetically,” Laird said.
“Well, I s’pose I’d walk away.”
“And if they were persistent?” Laird asked.
Taylor shrugged his shoulders. “I’d probably call the police. What’s this about, anyway?”
Laird nodded. “That’ll be all, Taylor. We appreciate your time.”
The boys spent the morning drifting from one department to another, avoiding management and dissecting Cosmo’s conversation with the Copper Mine employees. It was quite possible they were deranged, Laird surmised, though derangement wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Perhaps there was an opportunity here.
“Look—they called you ‘sir,’ didn’t they?” Laird asked.
Cosmo nodded. They were in the winter sports section—dramatically pared down in the offseason, but still a modest selection of skis, snowboards, and snowshoes were on display.
“So maybe it’s not a bad thing that they’re batshit insane,” Laird continued. “We’re not talking about those vagrants holding cardboard signs over by the interstate. These people have steady jobs, and they have something we want.”
“What’s that?” Cosmo asked.
“Food! Sandwiches. At the very least, you could parlay this into free food for us.”
“Oh I see,” Cosmo Hendricks smirked. “Now you’re involved somehow?”
Laird rolled his shoulders. “You know, it wouldn’t kill you to help a friend out once in a while. Now that you’re the supreme leader of some imaginary planet or whatever. It seems like these folks are open to suggestion.”
Cosmo ducked. “Shit.”
“What?”
The taller man tensed his body, and quickly crouched behind a shelf of helmets. “They’re here,” Cosmo said. “Over by bait and tackle.”
Laird got on his toes and looked over the shelf. He located the Copper Mine employees and nodded. “They’ve come to find their messiah.”
“Shit,” Cosmo repeated. “Maybe it’s coincidence.”
“It’s not coincidence.”
“Maybe they need some, like, replacement tubes for their bikes, dude.” Cosmo shrunk farther toward the floor.
Laird shook his head, a knowing look on his face. “This is nothing to do with bike tubes. Their tires have all the air they need. What these folks are looking for is salvation.”
“Shit,” Cosmo said again.
“Coz,” Laird said, and squatted to meet his friend, “listen to me. There’s an opportunity. I know Taylor said he’d call the police if it were him, but is Taylor—or is he not—a total freaking rube?”
Cosmo nodded. “Yeah.”
“Right.” Laird patted him on the shoulder. “So we can’t think like him. The best course of action is to ride it out. See where this goes. It’s not like they’re dangerous. They work at the damned sub shop.”
Cosmo Hendricks inhaled. His friend was right, he supposed. They weren’t dangerous, and he’d left them in an odd way. If things stayed as they were, he really would have to go to Jimmy John’s for the rest of his life, and no one wanted that. He stood up and peeked beyond the shelf. “I should go talk to them,” he said.
“Yes,” Laird said, and pushed him into the aisle.
Roy and Retha milled about the bait and tackle area, occasionally examining an item but generally showing the telltale signs of people who weren’t there to shop; quick looks about, fidgety movements, the like. Cosmo walked slowly in their direction, but before he reached them, they were approached by an employee named Max.
Max Schmidtmann was older—late forties. Skinny, short hair, and black-framed glasses. Kind of a turd, but Cosmo tried not to judge; when people still worked at REI late into their adult lives, something had usually gone dreadfully, shamefully wrong. Legend had it, Max had once been a famous college athlete, and later a high-ranking executive in the Denver content industry, until the latter position had collapsed amid some sort of scandal. So he worked at REI now.
Max was intently explaining something to Roy and Retha when Cosmo approached.
“Hey guys,” Cosmo said.
“I got this, Hendricks,” Max said, and extended his hand in a Heisman pose. “It’s under control.”
Retha and Roy turned toward Cosmo, and he again addressed them. “What are you guys looking for?” he asked.
“I said it’s under control.” Max stepped between them. “I’m helping these fine folks select a fly rod.”
“We were actually just browsing,” Retha said.
“These guys are friends of mine,” Cosmo told Max gently. “I can handle it, if it’s okay.”
Max held his eyes on Cosmo’s, and squinted to process his words. There was something in his face—betrayal, disbelief. He’d always valued customer service over friendships, so this was a bit upsetting. Cosmo nodded again, signifying that it was okay. Finally, Max threw his hand up and walked away, grumbling. They were alone.
“What’s up?” Cosmo said.
“We came to see you,” Roy said, his face again alighting in a gleeful smirk. “We were concerned we spooked you yesterday.”
“Rest assured, there’s no reason to be afraid,” Retha said. “There are only positive things ahead.”
Cosmo looked at them. “Who’s making sandwiches?”
“It’s our day off,” they said in unison.
“Let me make you an offer,” Roy said, sticking a hand out. “Let us buy you lunch tomorrow. At Copper Mine. We’ll sit down and explain everything. Explain that we’re not crazy. You probably think we’re crazy.” He gave a forced laugh.
Cosmo fidgeted. “We can talk here.”
“It’s not a suitable conversation for a place like this,” Roy said. “And we don’t want to take up any more of your work time. But tomorrow at Copper Mine. Noon?”
“Noon tomorrow?” Laird said. “That’s great.”
They were in the stockroom, tossing a foam football back and forth.
“Yeah. They said they’d hook up lunch,” Cosmo said.
Laird sent a stiff spiral sailing through the stale air of the back room. “You didn’t, ah, make a rezzy for two, did you?”
Cosmo shook his head. “Didn’t seem wise. I need to play it straight if I’m gonna find out what these freaks are up to.”
�
�I s’pose,” Laird said. “Could kill for free lunch, though. Things are a little tight after the Nuggets fiasco.”
“You pay Jordan?”
“No.” Laird shook his head. “That’s the problem.”
Cosmo took a five-step drop and launched one over Laird’s head. “Sorry,” he said. “Hey, I got a freezer full of frozen pizzas if you want to swing by for dinner. Got ‘em in bulk.”
Laird fished the ball out of a pile of cardboard boxes. “I would be delighted.”
That night, they sat in Cosmo’s apartment and collectively ate three Tombstone pepperoni pizzas and drank Old Style and watched a documentary about a religious cult on Netflix. At one point, Cosmo noticed Laird staring at him.
“What?” Cosmo said.
Laird smiled. “Nothing. I was just thinking how good you’d look in a robe.”
Six
Mondays were slow at REI. Laird was off, and Cosmo helped Jordan and Taylor unload a shipment of tents at the loading dock. Taylor talked excitedly about the epic climb he was planning for his next day off.
Cosmo’s attention drifted in and out. His mind was on his noon meeting, and each time he began to form an expectation, his hands got sweaty.
When they were done unloading, Jordan approached Cosmo privately. His frame blocked out the light. “Your buddy ever going to pay me my money?” he asked. There was menace in the question.
“I don’t know,” Cosmo said. “Honestly, Jordan, I don’t.”
“Owes me a lot.”
“Well, Jordan, he’s an idiot. You knew this.”
At 11:55, Cosmo walked to Copper Mine. By then, the palm sweat was out of control—his hands were taking private baths in their respective pockets. His head felt light as he crossed the street. Cosmo didn’t know why he was so damned nervous—the people seemed perfectly nice and harmless, if slightly off the ol’ rocker. Perhaps it was the fact that none of it made sense, and it all seemed a bit fantastical, and made him feel like he might be going just a touch insane himself.
The bell rang when he walked in. Cosmo looked and saw no one behind the register. No one behind the counter.
“Hello?” he said.
The dining room was large, and laid out in a modified L shape—three of the always-empty tables were obscured behind the corner of the L, and this was from where Cosmo Hendricks heard the voice come.
“Over here!” it said. It was Retha.
Cosmo rounded the bend and saw them. Both Roy and Retha, situated behind a spread that would make William Howard Taft blush.
A three-foot party sub—buffalo chicken, Cosmo could see—conveniently cut into bite-sized pieces. But also chips—every flavor—a sixty-four-ounce cup of soda, and a stack of chocolate chunk cookies next to a stack of macadamia nut. Plus, things that weren’t even on the menu; a plate of hot wings with ranch on the side, a whole chocolate cake, an extra large basket of fries, and an economy size bag of peanut M&M’s.
“Welcome,” Roy said, standing next to Retha. “We’re glad you could make it.”
Cosmo stepped toward them. “Quite the spread,” he said. He motioned over his shoulder. “What if someone comes in?”
Retha shook her head. “No one comes in on Mondays. Please,” she pointed, “have a seat.”
Cautiously, Cosmo sat down at the table, and so did Retha and Roy.
“By all means,” Roy said, “dig in.”
The smells were overpowering. Sinfully fresh bread—baked within the past hour—the salt and vinegar of the chips, the delightful sting of the buffalo sauce. The oil from the fries. It was a damned smorgasbord. Cosmo regretted not bringing Laird.
He dove in with both hands. First, the sandwich. Indeed, he’d been right about the bread; bread was the bedrock of any sandwich, and bread quality factored greatly into the overall enjoyment of the sub, and this bread was on fucking point. Heavenly soft on the inside, with just a hint of crunch on the outer crust. It elevated the Buffalo Soldier—a sandwich that was already high on his list—into the stratosphere. The chicken-to-buffalo ratio was perfect, and of course, the sandwich was dressed with ranch rather than bleu cheese.
The sauces ran down Cosmo’s hands as he ate. He chewed the first few, blissful bites, and almost forgot his nerves. Roy and Retha watched.
“You guys gonna eat?” Cosmo asked with a half-full mouth.
Roy shook his head. “It’s for you, sir.”
“All of this?” he said. “What do I look like, Eric Cartman?”
Retha and Roy sat expressionless.
“From South Park?” Cosmo asked. “Used to be a famous cartoon? Cartman? Fat as hell?”
“Cartoons are for children,” Retha said, and smiled.
Cosmo paused. He put the sandwich down. “Technically yeah. But this one is more adult humor.” He wiped the buffalo sauce from his face. “Okay guys, lay it on me.”
Roy exhaled. He took his time, leaning forward on the table. He approached his response like a man who hadn’t yet considered it. “What I’m about to say may seem a little far-fetched,” he said.
Cosmo Hendricks took another bite of the sandwich. “Yeah, I gathered that.”
“Sir,” Roy continued, “would you call yourself a spiritual person?”
Cosmo thought about it. “Probably not, only because it’s annoying when people say that.”
They both laughed. “Of course,” Roy said, charmed. “We’re with you. But you do believe in a higher power, yes?”
Cosmo opened the nearest bag of chips, hands still saucy. “Sure, I guess. Lotta the time I don’t know what to believe, to be honest.”
Retha exhaled. “Tremendous.”
“What are you getting at?” Cosmo asked.
“Well,” Roy said, “I know you’re familiar with the concept of a messiah. A prophet, if you will. All religions have them—they’re the one common thread that unites.”
Cosmo treaded lightly, as he saw where it was headed. He took a handful of chips. “Uh huh,” he said.
“But the problem is, here’s where they get it wrong: most belief systems put faith in messiahs who proclaim themselves messiahs,” Roy said. “Do you see how this could be problematic?”
“Sure.”
“And Retha and I—and some others—well, our belief system is different. We believe the lord will send a messiah who doesn’t proclaim himself so. Because by definition, someone who claims to be the bringer of the one true word…well, that person would be an egomaniac. And the true messiah will be free from ego.”
Cosmo Hendricks shoved salt and vinegar chips in his mouth. “Uh huh.” He put his hands out. “So before we go full tinfoil hat and you say what I think you’re going to say, tell me this: where did you get this idea?”
“Which idea, specifically?” Roy asked.
“About the messiah and the ego and all that. The whole framework. Where’s it come from?”
Roy furrowed his brow. “Well, we’ve studied the ancient texts for some time. We have a small group of devoted seekers. We meet every Tuesday.”
“Every Tuesday,” Cosmo said.
“Yes. At the Boulder Library.”
Cosmo eyed the chocolate cake, and without a word, Retha cut a piece and handed it to him on a paper plate.
“Thank you,” he said. “The Boulder Library. I’m surprised they allow any religious activity in this godforsaken town.”
“It’s not a religion,” Roy said quickly. “As I said, we’ve studied the ancient texts for some time, and we believe the message is clear.”
Cosmo pointed to Retha. “Why isn’t she saying anything?”
“I’m observing,” Retha said. “Roy is adequately conveying our message.”
Cosmo cut a bite of chocolate cake and stuffed it in his mouth. Sublime. “Okay, so you think I’m this messiah?” he said with a chuckle.
They both exhaled, as if a weight had been lifted. “We do,” Retha said with satisfaction.
The lights in the sub shop seemed to dim. The air became h
eavier, more humid. Retha and Roy, not long ago two simple restaurant employees, had become something else entirely. Wide-eyed, they watched him. A mood of mystery settled on the meeting.
Cosmo chewed. Don’t freak, he reminded himself. No harm in seeing where it goes. “And where do you get that idea?” he asked.
“It came to us in a dream,” she said.
Cosmo Hendricks froze mid-bite. “A dream,” he said with a full mouth. “Of course.”
“But it’s bigger than that,” Roy said, spreading his hands across the table. “You see, we all had the same dream. Retha first, then me, then everyone in our group. All of them—all of us—the same dream, the same visions, down to the last detail.”
“And what was in the dream?” Cosmo asked.
“You,” Retha said, and they all stopped. He looked at her and she looked back, and Roy looked on. “You were,” she said again. Her eyes were unblinking. “You were the person in the dream. You were the chosen one, exactly as you are.”
Cosmo had been handling it well to that point. He’d expected nonsense, and he’d gotten it, more or less. But he did not see that one coming. A dream, she’d said. A dream they all had. A dream with him.
He choked on a piece of cake and began to cough. Calmly, Retha pushed the soda toward him.
“Thank you,” he said through coughs. He sipped the soda. Dr. Pepper, his favorite. Hadn’t had it in years. How had they known?
Cosmo looked at them. He was dizzy, but manageably so. “Are you sure it was me?” he asked. “In the dream.”
“Positive,” she said. “Your face, and your height, and your hair, and your name.”
“Yes,” Roy agreed. “Cosmo. For years, we’ve been waiting for a man named Cosmo.”
Cosmo fought off another choke.
“Do you know the name of our study?” Roy said. “It’s the study of Cosmography. A small group devoted to learning the secrets of the universe, and of communicating with the one true maker. And today, I’m elated to say, we have made a major step forward.”
Cosmo knocked on the door to Laird’s apartment. It was a shade past 1:30, and he should’ve been back at work more than an hour ago. He didn’t care.