Convent

by Sam Clemens

  The pizza joint was full steam ahead. Cosmo and Laird met with their contact at the ownership company, and signed the lease and got a key. The building permit was faxed to them. They took public transportation straight to the building.

  “You know,” Laird said, standing in the bus’s aisle and holding one of the metal support poles, “we need to think about getting a car.”

  Cosmo was sitting, arms outstretched. “Calm down. We just got a restaurant.”

  “We can’t have the emancipator taking a bus everywhere. It’s bad for optics.” Laird’s head bobbed with the bumps in the road.

  Cosmo conceded that he was right. Once they generated some more cash—most of what they had was locked into the pizza place—they’d look at buying something used. “Nothing nice,” he said.

  “Of course,” Laird said. “Why would we do that to ourselves?”

  It was a proud moment, opening the door to the restaurant space for the first time. Sure, it had been obtained through illicit investments from members of a cult that Laird and Cosmo had essentially stumbled into, but still, it felt vaguely like an accomplishment. This was theirs. It was a simple, one-story slice of a strip-mall that had large tempered glass windows along the street-facing wall. Good natural light. Once the door was opened, they stepped inside and saw just how much work was in front of them.

  The place was a shit hole. The main counter and pizza ovens remained, just as the brochure had said, but they were covered in an inch of dust and seemed far away from working condition. Sinks and wash tubs had been hastily removed by the previous tenants, leaving exposed plumbing and unpainted strips of wall. Nails and hanging hooks hung from the wall where decorations had been. There was a mixture of dirt and drywall dust covering the entire floor. A lone, empty five-gallon bucket sat in the center.

  “Huh,” Laird said, hands on his hips. “Needs some work.”

  “Needs a lot of work.”

  It came to the surface then, what the two men had known all along: they didn’t have a clue about building, opening, or running a restaurant. Looking at the dilapidated space, it smacked them right in the face.

  They stood there and looked at it until Laird’s positivity bubbled up. “We’ll figure it out,” he said. “We always do.”

  “You know,” Cosmo added, “a few months ago we didn’t know the first thing about starting a religion.”

  He smiled, and the men hugged—an earnest, strange embrace that celebrated the bizarre and wacky lot in which they’d inadvertently found themselves.

  Twenty-One

  The next meeting opened with Cosmo Hendricks giving a short sermon on the value of community. Community, he said, is what bonds us to the maker. It’s what lets us bridge the gap to the great beyond, for only through our shared experiences can we hope to assemble the pieces of enlightenment. They had community in this group, and that, Cosmo Hendricks told them—robe swishing as he paced—was what mattered. Community creates the great and holy union.

  “Brotherhood—and sisterhood—are the first steps to godliness,” Cosmo said. “Through community, we can touch the stars.”

  Laird stood in the corner and wondered where he came up with this shit.

  The sermon was over, the populace applauded, and individually wrapped cookies were distributed. The group was up to an even forty. Instinctively, the members began opening their wallets, billfolds, and purses for donations.

  Laird stepped forward. “There will be no offering this week,” he said, and each member stopped. “For tonight,” he said, “we’re asking for a contribution of a different kind. The future of Cosmography depends on it.”

  It was all hands on deck, he explained. The pizza place was theirs, and it would be the foundation—nay, the lifeblood—of the second wave of Cosmography. So many exciting things were happening! But first, he said, voice lowering, they needed volunteers. Tradesmen, accountants, buyers, cooks—anyone who could lend a hand to help bring Pizza By Cosmo into existence.

  “With brother Cosmo focused, of course, on guiding the great ship of our spiritual journey, it’s on the rest of us to get the place up and running,” Laird said. “I will be the general manager and will oversee operations. But to be honest, friends, I don’t have a lot of…relevant experience…in the industry.” He paused. “What I’m saying is I don’t know what I’m doing.”

  Laird motioned behind him, where the soon-to-be-former Copper Mine Subs employees stood. “Thankfully, I’ll have these two running the kitchen,” he said, “and that’s a tremendous start. But I need the rest of you. Let’s all have another soda and, please, if there’s an area you think you can assist, come talk to me.”

  Cosmo Hendricks stepped next to Laird and raised his soda cup. “To the journey,” he said.

  “To the journey!” they repeated.

  Helpers were plentiful in the congregation of forty. Some had useful skills, and all were ready to lend their hands. The excitement about the project was tangible.

  There was Pete, who owned a general contracting firm and offered to handle the buildout. An interior designer named Krista who had experience with restaurants and would design the kitchen and dining room. A CPA who said he’d handle the books. An electrician. Two plumbers. All insisted on helping with the job, gratis. And a dozen men and a handful of women who may not have industry-specific experience but insisted on pitching in as laborers. Laird thanked them individually and told them to stay tuned.

  At the end of the night, when the cookies were eaten and the soda was drank and the arrangements were made, Cosmo again stepped forward to address the group.

  “Before we depart, I need to say something.” Conversations halted and every head turned to listen. “I look out on you tonight, and I see something,” he said. “I see energy, I see excitement. I see potential in a group unlike any I’ve ever seen before.” Cosmo clasped his hands and walked his path along the tile, back and forth. “But mostly,” he said, looking up at them, “I see community.”

  The congregation sighed. “Ahhhh,” they said in glorious union.

  “I see a community,” Cosmo said, raising a finger, “that will stop at nothing to build the world it wants. To build the world the way it ought to be. And when I lie my head on my pillow tonight, I will wonder: how have the cosmos seen fit to bless us so?” He smiled then, and turned toward the back door. “Goodnight, my friends. It is only the beginning.”

  He walked through the door to reverent silence.

  “Thanks, gang,” Laird said, “meeting dismissed.” He gave a quick wave and followed out into the night.

  Twenty-Two

  Construction on Pizza By Cosmo started immediately. Pete the contractor brought his team and tore out what was left of the haggard old space, leaving nothing but the studs and pizza ovens. The plumber and the electrician met with the designer and mapped out their trades. She delivered the plans for the final space to Laird, who approved them and passed them along. Soon, there was sawing, building, and sparks flying.

  Retha and Roy met daily with a lovely old woman in the congregation who had a history with pizza-making. The three tinkered away in her kitchen, testing different crusts and topping combinations. Roy brokered a deal with a local baker to obtain their dough. The recipes began falling into place.

  While Laird presided over the restaurant’s buildout, something nagged at him. It was a small thing, and in truth, difficult to pin down, but yet there it was: he was seeing less and less of Cosmo Hendricks. It could have been simple coincidence—with so much happening, they’d both experienced shifts in their day-to-day lives—but in a subtle way, Cosmo seemed less visible, and more closed-off when they were together. After the last meeting, he’d elected to go straight home rather than do their customary postgame drinks at the Horse. Laird didn’t see him otherwise, unless he decided to pay a visit to Cosmo’s apartment. With Laird at the helm of the cult’s operations, sometimes he wondered what his friend was doing all day.

  He decided to drop by the l
eader’s domicile on Saturday. Laird showed up with a sixer of Dos Equis and an uncut lime.

  “Hey pal,” Laird said when the door opened. He held out the beer.

  Cosmo stood in the doorway. He was wearing his robe. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing. Just thought I’d say hi.”

  “You’re doing that thing where your voice is all upbeat. You do that when you want something.”

  Laird shook his head. “I don’t want anything. Other than maybe to share a beer with you, my friend.”

  Cosmo squinted. “It’s morning.”

  “Hardly! But no, Coz, I’m square. What else could I want? Things are going great for me. I’m the proud general manager of Cosmo’s Pizza.”

  “Pizza by Cosmo.”

  “Of course,” Laird said. “I’ll get it.” He held out the six pack farther. “Beer?”

  Cosmo hesitated, then stepped aside and invited him into the dark apartment.

  Laird walked to the kitchen and set down the beers. He looked around for a cutting board, and noticed that most of Cosmo’s dishes were sitting unwashed in the sink. The place was messier than usual—there were clothes strewn about the living room, and the counters seemed covered in a film.

  “What’ve you been up to?” Laird asked, prying the cap off of one of the bottles.

  Cosmo scratched his head. “You know. The usual.”

  “Yeah?” Laird handed him a beer. “Could use a little tidying up in here.”

  “Jesus, Laird, don’t lecture me.”

  “Oh, I’m not. I haven’t seen you that much—I know you’re real busy.”

  Cosmo Hendricks walked to the couch and sat down. He didn’t respond.

  “Been doing anything exciting?” Laird asked.

  “I’ve been meditating a lot.”

  Laird walked to the living room. “Yeah?” he said carefully.

  Cosmo reclined low on the couch. There were two empty bags of chips on the cushion next to him. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m trying to like, get in touch with this shit or whatever. It helps.”

  Laird sat down. “That’s good.”

  “I don’t know. It might seem dumb but with all these people showing up I feel like I have, like, a responsibility.”

  “Right.” Laird nodded. “Just don’t put too much pressure on yourself. And keep in mind, you know—” He lowered his voice to a whisper, “—It’s all a work.”

  “It’s not, though,” Cosmo said. “These are real people with real beliefs. I owe them something for all they’ve done for us.”

  Laird put his arms out. “And you’re giving it to them,” he said. “You’re getting so good at the sermons. People leave fulfilled and inspired, I can tell.”

  “No,” Cosmo said. “They can tell I’m a fraud.”

  “Cosmo, what? The people fucking love you. Why do you think they keep coming back?”

  The leader shook his head. “Some of them. But some of them see through it. I can tell when I look in their eyes. They’re judging me.”

  Laird left his mouth halfway open. He searched for words.

  “I need to do better.” Cosmo stood up. “I need to become him. That’s the only way this will work.”

  “Coz, it’s working.”

  “I love you, Laird. You’re real supportive, and I always appreciate that. But I need to step my game up. I gotta figure this thing out.” He walked toward the door. “Thanks for dropping by,” he said. “I needed it.”

  At the next meeting, Cosmo didn’t show up.

  Laird had known something was up when he texted his friend about pregame drinks.

  Yo! 8 o’clock at the Horse like usual?

  Cosmo responded simply, Not tonight.

  No worries! Laird wrote. See you at Copper Mine then?

  No response.

  Laird showed up to Copper Mine at ten and waited. The congregation found their seats, and Retha and Roy served chips. Laird peeked in from the back door and counted forty-five people. He thought of the effectiveness of his pamphlets and wondered if perhaps they’d worked too well; his buddy was having a mini freak out about being the focal point of this whole operation, and meanwhile his followers continued to multiply. He assumed the pamphlets were the reason for the boom. Surely all these people hadn’t seen Cosmo in a dream?

  Laird tapped his foot as he checked his phone. 10:05 came, then 10:10. He texted Cosmo again.

  Yo dude. You coming?

  Nothing. 10:15. Laird could hear the conversations inside growing louder. He tried calling. Five rings, then to voicemail. The man didn’t even have the decency to leave a custom outgoing message, so the automated lady read the standard one. Fuck. Laird felt sweat break out on the back of his neck.

  At 10:22 it was clear Cosmo wasn’t coming, Laird took a breath and walked inside.

  “Good evening,” he said, quieting the conversations. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming, as always. I’m afraid I have some bad news to share.” Laird rubbed his hands together. The sub shop was quiet. “Our leader—the emancipator—has come down with an illness.”

  Unrest among the congregation. People fidgeted and talked amongst themselves. A man Laird didn’t recognize stood up.

  “It’s the county!” the town crier yelled. “They’re trying to shut us down. We’re being persecuted!”

  Some members murmured in agreement.

  “Let’s calm down,” Laird said. He smiled. “I can assure you the county has nothing to do with it. Cosmo’s just come down with a stomach bug, is all. He strongly regrets that he wasn’t able to make it tonight.”

  The cute woman in the mesh hat raised her hand. “I’m a homeopathic healer,” she said. “Perhaps I could help.”

  Laird thanked her. “But I think this will pass on its own, thanks.”

  She kept at him. “Please,” Sadie said. “This is my spiritual gift. I have nothing to offer the restaurant, like so many other good members.” She motioned around the room. “If there’s any chance I can assist in the emancipator’s recovery, it would be my honor. I feel called by the cosmos.”

  The crowd nodded along, and a few members whistled in support. That was a new thing—Laird wasn’t sure when they’d started whistling.

  “Okay, okay,” Laird said, motioning for order. “We’ll, uh, talk afterwards. But now, I want to update you all on the tremendous progress on our new venture, Pizza by Cosmo.”

  The crowd listened intently as Laird delivered rudimentary construction updates as if they were renovating the Taj Mahal. You’re not the only one who can play the part, he thought, and cursed Cosmo for hanging him out to dry. Then, they passed the hat and received nearly three thousand dollars in donations.

  Twenty-Three

  The next morning, Laird marched to Cosmo’s apartment. He was going to knock until the bastard opened up.

  Last night had been a debacle. First, Cosmo no-showed at the meeting, then he’d hid in his apartment while Laird knocked in search of an explanation. The lieutenant gave up knocking around midnight, but today there would be no giving up. It was gonna be a damned knocking blitzkrieg. Laird brought no peace offering. No danishes or burritos or early morning beers. Only his two fists, ready to pound a hole in the son of a bitch’s door. He cocked his right arm to begin, and the door opened.

  Sadie walked out. Same clothes from the meeting, including her usual blue and white mesh hat. Her braided hair was frizzing. She diverted her gaze from Laird and quickly walked past.

  Laird watched her go. What in the ever-loving fuck?

  The door remained ajar. He reset himself and plunged forward, but before making his way into the dank apartment completely, he gave three hard knocks on the open door. The urge to knock had to be satisfied.

  “Hey,” Laird said loudly, ducking his head in the opening. “Hey asshole? The fuck is going on?”

  Cosmo sat on the couch and ate a breakfast Hot Pocket. He nodded at Laird. “What’s up?”

  Laird clenched his fists and walked towa
rd him. “No, dude. Don’t play that cool shit. You explain yourself, and you do it right now.”

  Cosmo nodded. “Sure. Which part?”

  “Well,” Laird thought. “First of all,” he said, pointing to the door, “what in the hell was that?”

  “Sadie,” Cosmo shrugged. “She’s great.”

  “Oh, fuck off.”

  “Dude,” Cosmo smiled, standing up, “she said—she said you sent her. Did you not?”

  Laird shook his head, flustered. “I—I gave her your number because she was going on about being a healer or whatever, after I had to make up a lie that you were sick at the meeting. The meeting you fucking ghosted, dude.” He folded his arms. It was a jumble of accusations, and less pointed than he’d wanted. “You fucked me, man. You hung me out to dry.”

  “Laird,” Cosmo said, “I’m sorry.” His tone was even, calm. “I did do that.”

  “Okay?” Laird said, thrusting his arms wide. “Care to like, explain yourself?”

  Cosmo placed his hand on Laird’s shoulder, and the shorter man shrugged but not enough to knock it off. “I fucked up,” Cosmo said. “I was in a bad place last night.” He began pacing then, back and forth in front of the couch. “I felt like—I don’t know, like I couldn’t give the people what they needed. Like I couldn’t even be the person you needed, dude. The person you thought I was. I just like, needed to take a break from it and reset. And I’m past it now, I promise. That won’t happen again.”

  “You could’ve, like, given me a heads-up at least,” Laird said.

  “I know. I should’ve. But look—you handled it without me,” Cosmo said. “If there was ever a question—and there wasn’t, in my mind—you sure proved your worth last night. You showed why you’re my lieutenant.”

  Laird nodded. He was powerless to compliments. There was a pause as the men didn’t know where to go next.

  “So,” Cosmo said, “you gave her my number?”