by Jim Hodgson
Barton had many infuriating qualities, but to Phineas, his worst was the use of allusion to female breasts in every metaphor. Positive, negative, didn't matter. Maybe he'd been breastfed too long as a child. Maybe he hadn't been breastfed at all and he needed to fill that gap in his life. Whatever the case, Barton's day to day speech was peppered with mammaries whenever he could squeeze them in. Things he liked were "tits" or "the tits." Things he didn't like were "saggy tits" or "useless as tits on a boar hog." Often, he'd even make himself laugh at his own stupid breast-isms. He wore his thinning hair slicked back over his head, as though awareness was streaming over and around his body without attaching to him.
Phineas had to admit that even worse than the banal turns of phrase was that, going by numbers alone, Barton was good at deity beat reporting. He knew just how to frame his headlines to make people click on them, how to frame any seemingly innocuous tidbit to make it seem as salacious and damning as possible. He didn't report what was, he reported what he thought people would want to hear. It was despicable. And it worked.
Phineas mumbled unintelligibly -- technically not an apology to Barton for holding up the line -- and stepped up to the counter. He gave his order then sat at a cafe table to wait. Don't come over here, he thought, beaming telepathically at Densworth without looking. Densworth didn't get the message. He strolled over.
"Whatcha working on today, Sealby?" he said, smirking and hands jammed in the front pockets of his cargo pants. Why did he insist on wearing pants with pockets on the legs? No one needed that many pockets. They were as empty as Densworth's reporting. "Something boring, I bet, huh? Ah, I'm just pulling your tits."
"Yep," Phineas said, pretending to focus on Jerry Joe Walker and his panel on helmets. Jerry Joe Walker and the rest of the panel went to commercial, though, so Phineas was forced to feign intense interest in a commercial advertising female hygiene products. The commercial rhymed "pad" with "glad."
Barton went on. "Hey, how's that Karlyn, huh? Tell her I said hello."
Mercifully, the barista called his name, and Phineas stepped over and picked up his drink. "Yeah, okay, Barton. I'll tell her," Phineas said, thinking, I absolutely will not tell her any such thing, you revolting shit. He pushed through a glass door onto the sidewalk and checked his watch. Probably awake by now.
He texted his girlfriend, the love of his life, future mother of his children. "Morning, gorgeous." He slipped the phone back in his pocket and headed south on Peachtree street toward the Margaret Mitchell house where Barry would be speaking.
He could feel the weight of the phone in his pocket now. Pressing against his leg. With every step he waited to feel it vibrate a reply from Karlyn. He thought he felt it move, so he touched it through his pocket with his free hand. Nope. Just his imagination. Phantom vibration.
A man holding a placard stood in the sidewalk ahead wearing a shabby suit. He had a lengthy pointed beard, which was as full as the rest of him was skinny. The effect was that of a hat rack dressed as a gnome. He was covered in dust as though he'd been stored in an attic for a long time, then gotten out of the attic and tossed down a hill.
The placard had writing on it, but the man had used a yellow marker to draw the words on a white piece of poster board, so they were hard to make out. Phineas squinted.
"I see my words are affecting you, stranger!" the man called, theatrical and far louder than he needed to be. Phineas was ten feet away, but closing at stride. He'd be past shortly. The man continued, his bushy brows descending over his eyes. "You have the squint of a man whose mind is changing!"
"Actually, I can't quite read it. Sorry," Phineas said, intending to live the entirety of his life without learning the message. But the man leapt into his path. Phineas stopped short to avoid touching the elongated gnome, causing his coffee to splash around in its paper cup and blort out of the drinking hole onto his hand. Phineas spluttered a "gah!" sound.
"Exactly the point!" the man declared, index finger on his free hand waggling a bony eureka. "The Message is often hard to divine, but no less important!" The man was doing his best to block the sidewalk. His knees were bent, ready to scuttle to either side should Phineas attempt escape.
"And which god would that be?" Phineas asked, trying not to sound like a huffy bourgeoisie prat, and, to his further huff, failing.
The man drew back as though Phineas had just vomited down his shirt. "Which god, sir? Which god indeed!" The man then held his shabby suit coat open to reveal a tee shirt airbrushed with a poor representation of Barry the god of Atheism. Barry's likeness was drawn in neon pink and blue, and a cartoon thought bubble containing a sideways figure eight infinity symbol floated above his head.
Phineas looked up at the sign. "Ah, I see now that it says 'God of No God'"
"God of no god! The only true god!" the man repeated over Phineas, the words running together. They'd been said many times. The man nodded emphatically, the tip of his beard dipping to partially obscure the top of the tee shirt image of Barry's head with each nod. Phineas considered running but didn't want to risk having the man leap bodily into his path. The thought of his face being pressed into that dusty beard... Yikes. The man went on: "Atheism is the only true theism."
"If you like," Phineas said, hoping agreement might placate the man. He took a hesitant step around. "Now, if you'll excuse me—"
As feared, the man moved into Phineas' path. He crouched like a goalie, with his arms out. He wiggled his head side to side like a snake charmer, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. The effect would have been hilarious if it hadn't been in Phineas' personal space. "But what excuse can there be, sir?" he asked. "Do you take issue with my lawful public religious demonstration?"
"No, I don't. I just want to be on my..." Phineas stopped short, focused on the sidewalk across Peachtree, over the man's shoulder. "Isn't that Barry there?" he said. The man turned, giving Phineas the opening he needed. Phineas stepped around the man, crossed Tenth street, and looked back to see the man with the sign watching him as a cat might watch birds outside a kitchen window. His gaze and body language said "Well, shit."
At the Margaret Mitchell house, a security guard asked for identification. He scanned Phineas' face for a long moment, as though deciding whether to even consider credentials, then looked at Phineas' press identification. He said, "You're going to have to finish that coffee." Phineas drank the last bit of it then looked around for a trash can. There wasn't one to be seen. He looked back across the street. The bearded man was still gazing at him, standing next to a public trash can. No way in hell.
"Can I throw it away inside?" he asked.
"Sorry. No outside containers allowed," the guard said in a monotone. "There could be a weapon inside."
"There's not a weapon in here. Look." Phineas took the top off and tipped the cup toward the guard. The guard didn't look.
"No outside containers."
There was something about that monotone. Phineas realized he was talking to a man who took great pleasure in enforcing rules. Phineas looked at the cup, and then began ripping it. He got coffee all over his hands, but when he was finished he had a pile of waxy paper scraps and a paper lid.
"There. Now it's not a container. It's just trash."
The guard considered this development. He seemed to decide that he'd demanded compliance and had gotten it. "There's a can to the left of the door," he said. His gaze unfocused and he crossed his hands in front of him. He was done talking.
Phineas entered the house and threw the cup away. He was tempted to keep the coffee-wet scraps as a small act of defiance against the unreasonable guard, who didn't turn to see if they'd been put in the trash, but decided he already had enough coffee on himself. He looked around for the bathroom, but there was another guard who could have been the first guard's twin brother standing there and looking at him. Phineas pointed at the door. The guard shook his head.
Phineas sighed and wiped his hands on his pants.
#
> In the lecture hall, the seats were all taken. He wondered how many members of the press were here for Barry's talk and how many were just hoping there'd be another attempt on the god's life. He stood inside the door and pulled out his phone to check for new messages. Nothing. No return text from Karlyn. His insides bobbed downward.
Someone entering the door bumped into him. "Oh, sorry, Phineas." He looked up. Barry, God of Atheism, had bumped into him. And then apologized. By name.
Phineas just managed to resist saying "You know my name?" in an amazed voice. "It's no problem," he said instead. "I'm looking forward to your talk." He then realized with cold dread that he had no idea what the topic of the talk was. Damn. He'd known it this morning. Women in Technology? Vaccinations? Damn it. He should have add "Barry" to the end of his previous sentence in a bid to build rapport. But was he on a first name basis? And did it count as first name basis if someone only had one name? What would he add after? Mr. God of Atheism, sir?
"Thanks very much," Barry said with a smile. "Literacy is an important issue with me, especially among children."
"Oh yes, absolutely. Me too. That's why I'm here." Phineas breathed a sigh of relief. Literacy! Of course.
Barry's face took on concern. "But today's talk is about marriage equality..." he trailed off, looking at Phineas. Someone at the front of the room was approaching a lectern. The chatter in the room quieted.
Phineas gibbered. "Well, I ah, the um, yes I..."
"Hah! I'm just pulling your leg. It's childhood literacy," Barry said, smiling a good natured smile, his voice descending to a conspiratorial level to match the room's hush. "You know, I'm a fan of your work at the Record."
"You are?"
"Absolutely. You cover deities, but you also get to the heart of the story. Some of the other deity beat people are just..." Barry waved a hand in circles as though he were hoping to waft the word he wanted to use out of the air.
"...Empty?" Phineas suggested. Barry was being announced now by the woman at the lectern.
"Empty. Exactly. Hey, listen, if you ever need anything, don't hesitate." He withdrew a card from an inside jacket pocket and handed it to Phineas, who accepted it like a college student might accept an unexpectedly high grade.
The card was simple. Barry. God of Atheism. Email address. No phone number. A quote attributed to Richard Dawkins: "By all means let's be open minded, but not so open minded that our brains drop out."
"Oh. Uh, thanks Barry," Phineas said, but Barry was striding toward the lectern. He began his speech with a quote Phineas' brain half recognized but couldn't manage to concentrate on. Barry the God of Atheism had spoken to him directly. And complimented his work!
Suck on that, Barton Densworth. Suck on it with great relish.
Bodies were pressing around the back of the room now, as more people stood about to hear the speech. Phineas took out his phone. A new message. Karlyn. His heart leaped again. "Hey. Need to talk later." It said. His insides did a downward dip again, now a mix of elation at being recognized and dread at what the talk with Karlyn might be about. Would she break up with him? God, no, he thought. That would be... but wait. This was negative thought, and thus, useless. It was Worry and Worry was borrowing trouble. He fought it back and focused on Barry's presentation. The crowd was applauding politely. He didn't manage to focus very well, but Barry'd mentioned a web site with notes on the lecture. That should be sufficient for an overview.
Chapter Four
Back at the Record office, more of Phineas' coworkers had arrived. The empty sea of cubicles were now mostly populated, the occupants thereof typing or gabbling into phones. He was glad he hadn't run into the strange airbrushed gnome man again on the way back. He'd cautiously scanned the street as he walked, but the street was mercifully free of hirsute weirdos.
Phineas gave a short wave to his cubicle neighbor Geoff, a sports reporter. Geoff's cube was across an expanse of carpet. Even when busy at his computer, Geoff's round head of curls could be seen over the top of his cube, owing to his long, lanky frame. Geoff had apparently been a decent basketball player in his high school days but wasn't good enough to continue playing through college. He'd started as a sports writer for his college paper and stuck with it. This way, he said, at least he could be near the sport if not playing it.
Thanks to the close nature of the cubes, Geoff and Phineas could talk more or less privately across the aisle, sitting in their respective cubicles and facing one another.
"You went to that Barry talk, didn't you?" Geoff said, half smiling.
Phineas nodded and flopped into his chair. "Yep. Literacy."
"You sucker."
"Hell I am."
Phineas pawed at his mouse to bring his computer terminal to life. It showed a number of new emails. Some crap about his insurance, most likely a notice that the premiums were climbing again. A note from the lady who lived in the apartment next to his detailing the various purse snatchings and muggings that had taken place in the neighborhood that week. Thanks for letting me know, he thought, I was almost feeling good about my home.
Last was an email from Dr. Losscraft, Record publisher, father of his girlfriend Karlyn Mailie Losscraft, and champion level Phineas disapprover. The doctor wanted a meeting. Which would explain the blinking light on Phineas' desk phone. It'd be a voicemail message from Dr. Losscraft asking Phineas to confirm that he'd received the email message.
You'd think that the publisher of a top ten US market's top paper would be sufficiently satisfied with the efficacy of email by this point. He was not. And he was the boss. Phineas had no plans to ask him to knock it off with the voice confirmation. Actually, Dr. Losscraft was higher up than the boss. As publisher, he enjoyed uberboss status. He hired the Editor in Chief, Marjorie Dawes, and she oversaw the deity beat editor, Dave Thomas, who oversaw Phineas.
Phineas didn't know if Dr. Losscraft called most reporters to confirm emails. He had the vague notion that the publisher's opinion of him was so low that he thought Phineas required micromanagement. But Phineas was lucky enough to be dating Karlyn and willing to take the good with the bad. Someday he'd be Dr. Losscraft's son-in-law, if all went well. Old Man Losscraft would probably call his cell phone just after the marriage service to confirm that the vows had been completed, if not the consummation as well.
Karlyn Losscraft Sealby, she'd be. He daydreamed about her in a white wedding dress, surrounded by family, smiling at him. She'd be gorgeous.
Phineas opened the email. Typical Dr. Losscraft. As economical with words as it was ambivalent about punctuation. Ellipses delineating sentence fragments: Can you meet ... my office ... 2pm ... Thank you. Phineas emailed back to say that he'd be there, apprehensive about the meeting. His insides were moving uncertainly again.
He then phoned Dr. Losscraft's office to confirm by voice that he'd gotten the email and would be present at 2pm. As expected, he got assistant Bernice. She was polite but had no wish to remain on the phone.
"Okay, thank you!" she said when the email and meeting were both confirmed.
Phineas spoke quickly to keep her on the line. "Wait! Did he say what it was about?"
"Oh, he didn't, no. Sorry! Bye!" She was gone. Phineas felt a flashbulb of irritation, but then he reminded himself he was just going to ask her a second time if Losscraft had said what the meeting was about. She was probably experienced enough with handling these calls to know she'd be asked twice. It was likely irritating repeating yourself to job-fearful journalists all day.
He hung up, and Geoff was looking at him. No more smile.
"What?" Phineas said.
"Who was that?"
Phineas gave the man a look. "Geoff, we both know you heard every word."
"Okay, true. Listen. Let me give you some advice—-"
"We've been through this. I need more views. More sensational headlines. I get it."
Geoff sat forward in his chair, long arms reaching out to demonstrate a larger world. "Okay but do you get it?"
"I feel you man. I'm a romantic, like you. But you have to get eyeballs on your work or you won't last. You think I like ignoring the history, the soul of the game, to report sports gossip? No! But I do it. Why? Because I like being here to hassle you." Geoff seemed like he might stop there, but no. He had momentum. "You gotta get something better than Barry trying to get kids to read books, man. War. Pestilence. Satan. Something."
"The paper's been full of War and Pestilence since papers were invented. That's not why I'm in this. And everyone knows Satan's hiding or in Hell or whatever. No one's seen him, and Jesus won't even say he exists."
"Aw, come on. He has to!" Geoff was of the opinion that the Lord of Lies must certainly be walking the earth, though Satan had never been seen. The topic was hotly debated on message boards and at dinner parties. Kids printed out lost dog flyers with drawings of Satan on them and put them up on telephone poles as a prank. Geoff left off the Satan topic. "You gotta get some zing into your thing, buddy. That's all I'm saying."
Phineas nodded, waiting. He looked at Geoff, letting the silence speak for him.
Geoff grinned good nature. He put his hands up and showed his palms. "All right, all right, I've said it a thousand times before. I can see I am not getting through."
"I appreciate it, dude. Really. But if I can't tell the story that needs to be told, I don't want to work here."
Geoff looked like he had a biting remark ready for that sentiment, but he kept his mouth shut and shrugged instead. "Okay then. What did Losscraft want to meet about?"
"Don't know, but I'm going to ambush Dave about it. You stay here and see if any of your athletes smoked drugs out of a stolen handgun last night, or whatever." Phineas rose and headed for the deity beat editor's office.