by Sam Clemens
And finally, Alejandro. Cosmo and Laird agreed he should be compensated for his work as the inside man on the city council, and so they gave him an extra-large room and a Ford F-150.
There was the issue of Sadie. Somehow, in all the time he’d been philandering, Cosmo hadn’t been able to shake her loose. She hung around his estate on a regular basis and made disparaging comments about other women, even though the emancipator no longer needed a driver and thus she wasn’t employed in an official capacity. It was mostly Cosmo’s fault—and Laird relayed this to him often—for allowing her into his bedroom every now and again. But the way he told it, he didn’t want to risk alienating her. It was a delicate situation.
Aside from that, the congregation was harmonious, and greatly anticipating the first Sunday night sermon in their new home.
The Great Hall was decked for Sunday night. Tasteful, soft track lighting illuminated the room, leading the eye to a grand oak stage at the north end. The decor was mountain contemporary, with exposed beams and large windows that let in the last of the day’s twilight. Bunches of exotic flowers sat in tall pots that dotted the wood floor, the colors bursting in the room—green, purple, blue, and orange. There was no seating, as the sermons no longer required it. At the south end were two hefty walnut tables where the pizza would be staged.
The congregation filed in first, each member clad in a different linen ensemble. Linen had become the unofficial uniform of Cosmography—the leader had first donned it at a meeting long ago, and now it was everywhere. It appeared sporadically at first, with pastel button-up shirts and the occasional pair of easy gray drawstring shorts, and then spread like a virus. The group was awash in light, breathable fabric. Soon they’d have to trade it in for warmer clothing, but for now the daytime temperatures held. They found spots on the floor and made excited conversation.
Laird and Cosmo were in the back, enjoying the new staging area.
Into the Great Hall was built a green room of sorts; a thousand square feet of rest and relaxation for the emancipator and his lieutenant to enjoy before the biweekly meetings. Currently they were utilizing the ping pong table, but there was also a large leather couch, ninety-inch television, Xbox, Playstation, and beer fridge. If you stood in the hallway next to the door, you could hear the rhythmic whacking of the paddles against the hollow plastic ball.
“Eff,” Laird said, conceding the twenty-first point to his pal. He’d lost two of three—even Laird’s blistering serve wasn’t enough to get past the rangy arms of Cosmo Hendricks. “You’ve been practicing.”
“It’s natural,” Cosmo said. “What I have can’t be taught.” He selected two beers from the fridge, handed one to Laird, and sat down on the couch.
Laird joined him. “So,” he said, “what’s the play?”
“The play? I’m going to go out there and do my thing.”
“And then what?”
Cosmo looked at him. “We’ll have fellowship, you and I will get drunk, and I’ll likely retire to my quarters with a lady or two. By the way, how’s the runoff been?”
“Good,” Laird said, which was true. Since they’d initiated the move, his luck with the ladies had been better than ever. It seemed that if you were a virile young lass educated in the ways of Cosmography, and you didn’t make it to the big man’s bedroom on any given night, fooling around with the lieutenant was a reasonable consolation prize. Runoff sex, they called it, and Laird had benefited greatly. Currently, though, his mind was elsewhere.
“Coz,” Laird said, “what I mean, though, is…after that. Then what?”
Cosmo let out a familiar sigh. “I don’t know why you keep on about this, dude.”
“Like what’s the end game? Do you ever think about that?”
“No, I don’t. We bought this property and built this compound. We’ve created something, man. The people love me—that’s good enough. They love you, too.”
Laird bobbed his head. “They like me.” He pointed to the wall, in the direction of the main room. “Every time we do this, there’s more people out there. Do you even know how many members we have?”
“Nope.”
“Exactly,” Laird said. “So where does it end? Does it just keep growing and growing forever?”
Cosmo drank his beer. “I don’t know, Laird.”
“I mean, really. How long can we keep this up?”
“I don’t know, Laird, but I’m not sure why you’re so focused on the negative. We’re about to have our first big meeting in our new digs and you’re being a Debbie Downer.”
“I’m not,” Laird said, putting his hand out. “I’m just trying to think about the future. Where this goes, you know? I can’t help you succeed unless I see where it’s going. And to be honest, man…we’re at the end of anything I ever envisioned.”
Cosmo tipped his beer back and finished it, and then stood up. “There is no end,” he said. “I can’t believe I have to explain this to you.”
“So we just—”
“Tonight’s exercise will engage them like never before,” Cosmo said, cutting him off. “And when that wears off, I’ll find another one. A bigger one, better one. And after that, we’ll go even bigger. Do you get it? There’s no limit.”
Laird looked at him. He did get it, and that was the problem—the very nature of “bigger and better” had been eating at him for weeks. He saw it the first time he visited this property. The inevitabilities.
“Yeah man,” Laird said congenially. “For sure. I’d better get out there and scope the crowd.”
Thirty-Eight
Laird lurked in the shadows and looked out at the restless crowd. The buzz in the room was electric; dear God, there were so many people. What had they done?
His eyes went from face to face, linen to linen. Many people he recognized, some he didn’t. From where were they coming? He hadn’t distributed pamphlets in months. They were, on the whole, a good-looking group, and Laird had questioned this often—why did their brand of pseudo-spirituality attract…the attractive? Perhaps it was coincidence, perhaps it was that they were picking from a choice pool in Boulder. Perhaps it was something else. This, like so much else, he had learned to leave alone.
So many faces. Retha and Roy, head to toe in white linen, steadfast as ever. Brianna—a sporadic companion to Laird—fly as hell in her light brown. Sadie, reasonably content. Alejandro. Taylor and Jordan, wholly devoted. Next to them, someone familiar. Dark framed glasses, stiff. Laird recognized him from somewhere. Where?
He worked his way around the perimeter. The group in question was seated on the flank, so he could walk right up to them. Laird sidled across the edge of the crowd, and identified the mystery man from behind, then tapped him on the shoulder. The man turned, and the lieutenant remembered then; the terminally unimpressed expression was a dead giveaway.
It was Max Schmidtmann, the stickler for timecards—and most else—from REI. Such an inconsequential player in their lives, but his presence here put a bow on the absurdity of what they’d created; getting Jordan and Taylor was strange enough, but Cosmo and Laird had at least been cordial with those guys. Schmidtmann had been a nuisance at best, and more often an adversary. His personality was as pleasant as an upended port-a-potty. And here he was in the great hall, awaiting the sermon amongst the believers.
“Hey dude,” Laird said. “How you been?’
“Whoa,” Schmidtmann said, eyes wide. His head whipped around. “Mr. Laird, right here? Where’d you come from?”
Laird pointed over his shoulder. “Around back. Where’d you come from?”
“My goodness,” Max Schmidtmann said. “What a blessing to be in your presence.”
Laird sighed. He motioned to Jordan and Taylor. “These guys recruit you?”
“Sir,” Max said, composing himself. “They didn’t, actually. I…I heard about the movement in the news. Everyone knows, sir.”
“Uh huh.”
“I had no idea either of you were involved,” Schmidtmann c
ontinued. “And I must be honest, I was skeptical at first. But once I met some members of the congregation—” he made a sweeping motion, “—and I saw the truth, sir…well, there was no question but to join. How can you continue on as usual once you’ve seen the light?”
“The light,” Laird said.
“Yes, sir.” Schmidtmann smiled broadly.
For better or worse, the man had undergone a transformation. His resting bitch face was at odds with his new attitude—absent was the sniveling cynic from the REI break room. In his place was this, some wide-eyed believer ready to raise his right hand in the air once the sermon started. Another carbon copy, like so many before him.
“You’re wrong,” Laird said, as conversations buzzed around them.
Schmidtmann frowned. “Sir?”
“This isn’t the truth.” He put his hands in his pockets. “It isn’t the light. It’s bullshit. Get out while you can.”
Max Schmidtmann’s face was contorted. He titled his head to the left. “I don’t—”
“I’m telling you,” Laird said. “I know because I created it. I’m the bullshit architect. Well, me and Coz. But he’s a fraud; we both are. Cosmo’s not a prophet or an emancipator or any of that.” He exhaled. “I never expected it to get this far.”
“Ah,” Schmidtmann said, his brain fulfilling some justification. “I see, sir. A test. Well don’t you worry, because I am committed to the cause. It is written.”
Laird shook his head. “Get out, man. Get out before this gets away from us.”
The crowd rose to its feet and applauded then, for the emancipator had emerged.
Their leader was as good as ever. He seemed energized by the new digs, and the ballooning congregation; as the crowd grew, so did Cosmo’s impact. There were prayers and poems and many calls and responses. It was written, and so it came to pass.
Near the end of the sermon, Cosmo called for the boards.
Retha and Roy emerged from the staging area pushing wheelbarrows full of two-by-fours, their white linens swishing as they went. Laird watched them set them up on sawhorses in the large open area. This, Cosmo said, was the portal to a new frontier.
“To transcend this place, one must separate the mind from the body.” He paced in front of the setup. “You must overcome what you think you’re capable of—you must choose progress over pain.”
Cosmo squared himself in front of one of the boards. He focused on the wood, gently placing his stiff, open hand in the center. He closed his eyes and slowly—dramatically—raised the hand like a karate instructor. Then, after a pause, he forcefully chopped the hand downward, fracturing the board in two.
The crowd cheered. Laird nodded; of course the board broke—he’d personally sawed it in the middle so only a small sliver of wood remained to hold it together. He’d sawed all the boards. It had taken hours the previous night. If you looked closely you could tell they’d been fucked with, but no one in this commonwealth did.
One by one, Cosmo invited the members of the congregation forward to break their own boards. He steadied them spiritually, put his hands on their shoulders, and offered words of encouragement. One by one, the feeble karate chops rained down, and one by one the boards snapped in half. The followers celebrated their achievements, wide-eyed at their newfound power.
When it was Laird’s turn, he reached into the wheelbarrow for a second board. He stacked the two on top of each other and the crowd gasped, seeing what the lieutenant was about to attempt. Laird plunged his fist into the planks and they splintered easily. The crowd went nuts. Chants of “Sir Laird!” rained down. Defiantly, Laird looked at Cosmo and walked off.
Fuck this, his face said.
Every member of the cult broke a board—and was transformed in the process—except one: Max Schmidtmann.
The hapless dork approached the exercise with requisite enthusiasm—and was given ample encouragement by the emancipator himself—but on his first try, the structurally weakened board didn’t budge. Schmidtmann rubbed his hand; he was in pain but undeterred. He repeated the process a second time, and a second time the board didn’t break. And a third time. And fourth. By the fifth swing of his feeble hand, Cosmo was out of inspiration, and Schmidtmann was frustrated. By the sixth, he was crying.
Cosmo, looking confused, motioned for Roy to take him away. Schmidtmann went willingly, a snot bubble popping in his right nostril as the sobs died down.
The crowd had gone quiet, unsure of how to take it, and emancipator turned to them and shrugged. “Not everyone is fit for the journey,” he said. “It is written.”
“And so it shall come to pass,” they responded.
When the spectacle had finished, Laird approached the stubborn board and confirmed it had the same saw cut as the rest. Privately, he put a hand on each end and snapped the two-by-four in half.
Schmidtmann, Laird thought, shaking his head. What a shame.
Around midnight, when the post-board-breaking celebration had calmed, Cosmo Hendricks lay passed out in his large, roundish bed. Four women from the congregation accompanied him, in various stages of undress. The master suite was dark.
The door swung open, shattering the stillness, and a slender, pigtailed woman entered. She turned on the light and charged forward.
“Out!” she yelled in the direction of the bed. “Out, whores. Out!”
The women scrambled for their bearings. Cosmo blinked heartily at the commotion and labored to a seated position.
“Sadie,” he said, dark chest hair blazing in the harsh light, “what the fuck?”
“OOOUUUUUUTTTTTT!” she yelled, a primal scream of which she looked incapable. It worked—the women hurriedly picked up their things and exited the room. This left Sadie standing at the foot of the bed, staring him down.
“What?” Cosmo said. “Seriously. What do you think this is?”
“Whore mongering,” she said.
God, how had she gotten in? He must’ve left the door unlocked in his intoxication. He had to stop doing that.
“I’m sorry,” the emancipator said, “were you under the impression you get to tell me what to do?”
She circled around the side of the bed. Her eyes narrowed. “What kind of man behaves like this?”
“You be careful, now.”
“What kind of man,” she said, pointing her finger, “tells a woman she’s his girlfriend one night, then hops in bed with four other women?”
He had said that. He’d been drunk.
“I was drunk,” he said.
“When? Then? Or now?”
Cosmo thought about it. “Both.”
She scoffed. “Unbelievable. You know what, Cosmo? We’re through.”
He lay back down. “We’ve been through.”
“Excuse me?”
Cosmo turned to his side and re-settled in the covers. “I said we’ve been through. You know it’s true. Please turn the light off when you leave.”
She stared at him, disbelief in her eyes. Finally she shook her head and went to leave.
“And Sadie,” he said, “never come in my home again.”
Sadie returned to her cabin in anger. It was complicated with Cosmo—it had been complicated for some time—but they were something. Just last week he’d invited her to spend the night. She was with him from the beginning, before any of those sluts. She was his driver. To deny that they had something real, in addition to the blatant promiscuity? Seriously, what kind of man?
She climbed in her bunk in the dark. For the first time, she wondered—really wondered—about his fitness to lead. She’d been close enough for some time to see cracks in the facade. It was blasphemous to even consider, but there it was; was Cosmo Hendricks truly the emancipator?
A darkened figure appeared next to her bed.
Sadie jumped when she saw it. “Ahh!” she said, pushing herself to the other side of the bed.
“Hello, Sadie,” came the voice. It was calm.
She squinted through the dark. The voice
was familiar, as was the shape. Her breathing leveled. “Sir Laird?” she said.
“I hear you’ve been a bad girl,” Laird said, staying where he was. He spoke like he was in a library.
“I—” she sputtered. “No. I didn’t do anything wrong.”
Laird paused. His figure didn’t move in the dark room. “Get up,” he said.
“What? Why?”
But he was already turned, walking toward the door. “Come on,” he said.
Thirty-Nine
She asked repeatedly where they were going, but Laird wouldn’t give it up, only saying, “away.” His Prius rumbled down the canyon, him in the driver’s seat, her in the back. Not tied up or anything; just sitting there, seatbelt unbuckled.
“Can you at least tell me what it’s about?” she asked.
He paused. The Prius’ headlights led the car down the winding road. They’d seen four other vehicles.
“You get the gist,” Laird said finally. “You went too far.”
“And?” she asked. “What does that mean?”
Laird tapped the steering wheel. “Just that your time with Cosmography has come to an end.”
Sadie sat back in the seat. It was a small relief, something so benign. “You’re not going to try any weird stuff, Sir Laird?”
“Cut the ‘sir’ shit,” he said. He turned the wheel sharply to the left to accommodate a tight corner. “If you’re asking about violence, the answer is no. I’m not even sure I’m capable at this point.”
She nodded, then folded her arms and looked out the window. “Okay, Laird.”
He dropped her off outside the Horse in Boulder and handed her a hundred-dollar bill.
“Go have a drink,” he said. “You can never be seen at the compound again. You are forbidden from contacting any member of the congregation, including Cosmo. Also, no media. No one will bother you unless you start talking about the group. So mouth shut. These are the rules.”