Why Aren't You Smiling?

by Alvin Orloff

  It was a day for hibernating. The autumn sky was covered in clouds the color of pencil lead and the air smelled of approaching rain. Christ’s Crash Pad was deserted. Even Ferguson, who practically lived at the place, was nowhere in sight. Rick would have split himself, but he’d signed up for the Tuesday afternoon shift and had a responsibility. If anyone wandered in off the street in need of ministering, he’d be there. Right from the start, it had been obvious to everyone that Rick had a way with Lost Souls. He’d gotten the clinically paranoid girl with a butterfly tattoo and a nasty cough to stop screaming and phone her parents. He’d gotten the murderous-looking Black biker to kneel and pray. All he had to do was smile, and people calmed down and opened up.

  Of course, Rick couldn’t just smile. He had to say stuff, too. He’d been reading up on early Christianity, heretical sects, and charismatic leaders, picking up words and phrases he could fashion into happy homilies, uplifting advice, and semi-coherent answers to life’s cosmic conundrums. When totally lost, he just cribbed from the inspirational posters on the wall. Seagulls flying over a beach at sunset… “The key to happiness is freedom – the key to freedom is courage,” that sort of thing. The Lost Souls loved it, and Rick’s near-magical ability to comfort and console them made him feel special. And important. None of that lackey stuff for him any more. He had finally found something he was good at, a scene where he belonged, and a place light-years away from Esther, Sol, Rose, and Aunt Sylvia. He could see himself doing this for a long time.

  And, of course, there were fringe benefits. Once a kid trusted you, it was often possible to take things a little further. Lars had gone off to college at Berkeley, but there were others like him. Rick was delighted to find that many Christian boys displayed an uncomplicated randiness that his sexually neurotic Hebraic brethren utterly lacked. More than a few turned out to be insatiable Love machines. The moment a new kid off the street started hanging around, or a new Jesus Freak offered his services to Ferguson, Rick would be there to scope him out. Before long, he developed an instinct and could tell right off who’d be interested in his special brand of one-on-one counseling. He almost felt bad about being so predatory, but he was just making people happy. What could be wrong with that?

  To quell his boredom in the empty storefront, Rick began reading his library book, a biography of Saint Francis. Ferguson abhorred anything Roman Catholic (in a modern, ecumenically tolerant sort of way), but Rick found Francis wonderfully appealing. He was humble and preached sermons to birds. Totally groovy! A few minutes into his book, Rick happened to look up and see a bearded face peering in at him through the window. The face looked familiar, but disappeared too quickly for a positive identification. Rick went back to reading. Twenty minutes later, the front door of Christ’s Crash Pad swung open with a thud, and the face from the window, now attached to a large and agitated man, strode inside. It took Rick a second to recognize him under the long beard, but it was Jonas.

  “I thought that was you, Rick. Glad to see you. You don’t know how glad.” Jonas eased himself onto a beanbag opposite his friend, his legs sprawled out in front of him.

  Rick felt slightly embarrassed to be seen at Christ’s Crash Pad. Some part of his mind thought of religion as his safety school, the second choice he was forced to settle for when he figured out he couldn’t become a rock star. His embarrassment evaporated on noticing what bad shape his friend was in. Jonas had bloodshot eyes, sallow skin, matted hair, and a general air of dishevelment. Rick tossed aside his book and gave Jonas his full attention. “Yeah, glad to see you, too, man. Talk to me. Tell me what’s happening.”

  Jonas looked around the room. “I never took you for a Jesus Freak. For some reason, I always thought you were Jewish. Me, I’m not so much into one thing or the other, or I didn’t think I was.” He leaned forward and spoke in a low voice. “The Satanic thing was supposed to be a gimmick.”

  Rick leaned forward, too. “What Satanic thing?”

  “With the band. You never knew? We didn’t come right out with it ’cause we thought it was cooler if people had to figure it out themselves. All our songs were about Devil worship. My last name, Valac, is actually the name of a demon in Hell who rides a two-headed dragon. The other guys, too – Nekomata, Stolos, Rakshasa – those are demons.”

  Rick nodded. “I did kind of think you guys all had weird last names.”

  “And that was the idea behind the Transylvanian look, too. You know, Dracula and all that.” Jonas shuddered.

  “Dracula was a vampire, wasn’t he?” Rick still wasn’t sure what exactly Jonas was talking about. “Not a demon.”

  Jonas sighed. “Devils, demons, vampires, they’re all evil. It started out as a way to add little pizzazz to our image, make us seem kind of dangerous and sexy. Then the other guys started really getting into it. First, it was capes and candles, a little chanting. I thought it was just kid stuff, like sneaking into a graveyard at night to scare yourself. Then we all went to a party at this guy’s house up in the Hollywood Hills and there was a Black Mass. The whole deal: pentagrams drawn in blood, naked chick on an altar, invocations. I… I felt something that night, some unearthly power, and I wanted it. Wanted it to work for me. After that, we started hanging out with some serious Satanists, and… I said and did things I shouldn’t have. Made deals. And now…” he lowered his voice as if afraid of being overheard, “I may have to pay the price.”

  Rick leaned over to pat his friend on the shoulder softly as he spoke soothingly. “It’s OK, man. It’s OK. You’re safe here.”

  Jonas stared at Rick with haunted eyes. “Maybe not.”

  “No, you are. You’re safe here,” Rick assured him.

  “I saw a real demon,” gasped Jonas. “An actual demon.” Tears welled in his eyes. “It was horrible, man. Horrible!”

  Rick tried not to sound as skeptical as he felt. “Are you sure?”

  “I was driving down Santa Monica around three this morning and I saw Astaroth, Grand Duke of Hell. He looked right at me and smiled, like he knew me. Like I was his.” Jonas’s nose was running, his body shaking.

  “You’re sure it was him? There’s a lot of freaky shit out on Santa Monica at three a.m., maybe…”

  “He was right there on the sidewalk… dark, scaly, too many eyes…”

  “Prob’ly a movie prop.”

  “It was alive and moving. It wasn’t the look of the damned thing that frightened me so much as the bad vibes. You could feel hate shooting off all around it, like in waves. Or maybe it wasn’t hate, but something worse, something not human. Older, dry, and dead and just… malevolent.”

  Rick put on a casual, nonjudgmental voice. “So, um, you were dosed, right?”

  Jonas composed himself. “Of course, that’s why I could see him.”

  “Are you still tripping?”

  Jonas shook his head violently. “No, but he’s still there!”

  Rick calmly asked, “Where?”

  Jonas pointed out to the street without looking. “Right outside.”

  Rick felt silly, but he looked. There was a car dealership, a donut shop, an apartment duplex. Reasoning with Jonas while he was still whacked out was pointless, so he opted for a soothing fiction. “Don’t worry, you came to the right place. No demons can get in here. This place is, uh, sanctified. A demon-free zone.”

  Jonas’s eyebrows shot up hopefully. He wanted to believe, but wasn’t sure. “Sanctified?”

  “Yup. Sanctified by the… the Holy Spirit.” Jonas still looked worried. Apparently, the Holy Spirit wasn’t doing the trick. “We’re in a storefront, but this place is an actual church. We hold services on Sundays. Jesus dwells here.”

  “Jesus?” Jonas repeated.

  Rick flashed his hundred-watt smile. “The one and only!”

  Jonas relaxed, the muscles in his face slackened. “Then we’re safe. Rick, I need to crash, man. It’s been too long. I need some sleep.”

  “No problem. We’ve got place.” Rick stood and led J
onas to Ferguson’s office. Beside the desk and filing cabinet were a couple of mattresses. Jonas fell onto one with a thud. Rick switched off the overhead fluorescent light.

  Jonas looked up. “Hey, man, maybe you better leave it on.”

  “Sure thing.” Rick flipped the switch again.

  “Uh, Rick? Could you stay here awhile?”

  “Yeah, sure. Of course.” Rick plopped down on the other mattress and smiled reassuringly at Jonas. As he did, he took the man’s measure. Handsome but in a thick, burly way. More ape than angel. Not a prospect.

  In a very sweet voice, Jonas said, “Thank you, Rick. You saved my soul. Astaroth eats souls.”

  Rick smiled. “Nobody’s eating any souls in here.”

  “Good night, Rick.”

  “Good night, Jonas. God be with you.”

  Rick sat on the swiveling office chair in a casual manner, hunched forward with his elbows on his knees, as he sermonized to a sea of kids propped up on beanbags or sitting cross-legged on the floor. Everyone was assembled for Friday Night Singalong, scheduled to start in a few minutes, but nobody seemed anxious for Rick to quit. In fact, the kids’ eyes shone up at him with respect, admiration, and maybe even Love. Rick felt star-like and wonderful.

  “So if God is Love, and we all have Love in our hearts, doesn’t that mean we have God in our hearts? God isn’t some Big Daddy in the Sky giving orders, God is the Cosmic Life Force we tap into when we Love. God is Love.” He flashed his brilliant smile and was gratified to see a facsimile returned by several listeners. “I think we trip too much on all the thou shalls and thou shalt nots in the Bible when all we need to do is remember to Love one another.” Heads bobbed in agreement. This was going down well.

  Except with Ferguson, who sat glowering disdainfully in the corner, his arms folded over his chest in a manner that suggested he was having none of it. Rick found the intensity with which Ferguson hated him almost comical. Naturally, Ferguson tried to hide it, but it had been obvious for weeks. The man’s eyes narrowed into slits whenever he saw Rick, his lips pursed, his voice took on an exasperated tone. Rick didn’t care. It was just petty jealousy. The Jesus People had started soliciting Rick’s opinions during the endless theological discussions that raged like wildfires through Christ’s Crash Pad. Despite his recent studies, Rick couldn’t match Ferguson for Scripture knowledge, but he made up for it with the sort of blustery confidence that comes from not actually giving a damn. Rick was quickly becoming the go-to guru of Christ’s Crash Pad and Ferguson… well, he was fairly with-it for an old coot, but there was something off about his worldview, something inflexible and judgmental. More than one person found it odd that the preacher sported an American flag bumpersticker on his Ford Fairlane.

  Before Rick could go on with his sermon, Ferguson emitted a condescending little chortle. Heads turned to face him. “You’re a little off course there, Rick, my boy. God’s Spirit can move through us, fill us, but we’re imperfect vessels. We can’t hold much of it in us for long, it just sort of leaks out.” He smiled to indicate this was supposed to be funny, and a few listeners obligingly manufactured tiny chuckles. “That’s why He gave us commandments to teach us how to live in his Grace. Keeping Love in our hearts is important, essential even, but we need to remember the Scriptures. Look at the similarity between the words ‘disciple’ and ‘discipline’. If we want to be Disciples of Christ, we must discipline ourselves. It really couldn’t be more obvious.”

  Rick gloated inwardly. He’d forced Ferguson to sound peevish. Then Rick reprimanded himself for his pettiness. This wasn’t a Rick vs. Ferguson power struggle. Still, all this talk of law and discipline rubbed him the wrong way, reminding him of teachers and parents. Ferguson had to be taken down. Rick paused a beat, then tossed a bomb. “Well, I’m afraid I have to disagree.”

  Silence.

  This was unheard of. Nobody contradicted Ferguson. Sure, some druggie off the street might argue with him, call him names, or tell him he was full of it. For the regulars, though, Ferguson was the ultimate arbiter of all disputes, the font of all wisdom. Tension filled the room like teargas. Shocked faces turned to Ferguson. He opened his mouth to say something but Rick got there first.

  “We’re imperfect vessels for God’s spirit, but words are imperfect vessels for God’s meaning. When there’s a conflict between Love and the Law, I say follow Love, that’s the… ”

  Ferguson interrupted, “I think, friend, you’re getting a bit carried away with yourself here. Jesus said, ‘When thou doest the commandments of the law, it is the light that doeth the works.’ See? Human will is not God’s will, and the best way to reflect God’s Love is by performing the commandments of Scripture.” Ferguson unfolded his arms and shoved his hands in his pockets, annoyed, but keeping his cool through willpower.

  Rick felt supreme calmness, like when he played Benedick in that Shakespeare play at school, only better, because he didn’t have to remember any lines. He sat up in his chair, and faced Ferguson with a respect he didn’t feel. “The Bible can be interpreted to mean almost anything.” He turned so his audience could see his face. “People have used Scripture to justify both abolitionism and slavery, burning witches and saying the Earth is flat. The important thing is to let Compassion guide your actions.”

  “What you’ve come across,” seethed Ferguson, his smile now venomous, “is a very old heresy known as antinomianism. It’s the mistaken belief that keeping the spirit of God in your heart puts you above morality.” His voice turned sarcastic. “Don’t worry about the Ten Commandments, just do your own thing, maaaan!” His vitriol mounted. “You decide what’s right and what’s wrong! You’re smarter than everyone else. You’re smarter than God! It’s OK to sin as long as it makes you feel grooooovy!” The seated listeners frowned and shook their heads. Ferguson’s clumsy mockery wasn’t going down well.

  Beth, a pretty blonde wearing a mini-dress and Eskimo boots, stood to speak. “When Jesus was asked, ‘What was the greatest commandment?’ He said, ‘Love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your might,’ and then He said, ‘The second greatest commandment was, You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’ So, I mean, it’s pretty obvious that the commandments really boil down to Love.” Her triumphal tone, with its echoes of “I deserve an A for this,” was a little intimidating. Rick felt glad she was on his side.

  Ferguson smiled benignly. He didn’t take females seriously enough to get angry with them. “Well, Beth, I seem to recall a little passage in Matthew where Jesus says, ‘Do not think that I have come to abolish the Law or the Prophets; I have not come to abolish them but to fulfill them. I tell you the truth, until heaven and earth disappear, not the smallest letter, not the least stroke of a pen, will by any means disappear from the Law until everything is accomplished.’ ” Vanquished, Beth sat down and scowled, annoyed to have lost the debate point. Ferguson’s smile curled up at the edges, nasty and smug. Everyone turned to Rick expectantly.

  “Old Testament law says we should stone adulterers, that we shouldn’t eat shellfish. What’s that got to do with Love? I’ll tell you what: Nothing.”

  “Just a minute, just a minute…” sputtered Ferguson, his smile gone, his face reddening.

  Rick paid him no heed. “Seriously… how do we know everything that’s in the Bible was always in the Bible? Some people think stuff was added later on, during the Dark Ages. The Church changed the Gospels to justify their own grip on power, to control people. That Jesus said He didn’t want to overturn the laws… to me, that sounds like total bullshit!”

  Ferguson walked up to Rick, his body vibrating with anger. “That’s enough. I demand that you leave this place immediately!”

  Rick stood up and stepped away, but continued. He fixed Ferguson with a stare. “Do you believe we should ‘Render unto Caesar the things which are Caesar’s’?”

  Ferguson was insulted by the question. “I believe every single word uttered by Jesus Christ our Lord a
nd Savior with my whole heart!” Rick wasn’t surprised to hear that his rival believed things with his heart instead of his brain.

  “And if Caesar asks for your body? If Caesar asks you to make war? Go to Vietnam?”

  Ferguson was caught off-guard. “Of course, you go. Communism is a Godless system. Evil. In Vietnam, we are fighting pure Evil.”

  Jonas, sitting cross-legged in the middle of the room, called out, “But Christ said, ‘Resist not evil.’ Shouldn’t we turn the other cheek? Shouldn’t we Love the Communists?” It wasn’t a rhetorical question. Jonas was desperate to avoid another demonic manifestation and took Christian moral imperatives very seriously.

  Ferguson nearly shouted, “I was in Korea! The battle of Pork Chop Hill! You think I don’t know what war is? The horror? But if we surrender to World Communism, the Word of God will be lost to man forever! We’re not in Vietnam out of bloodlust, we’re fighting for freedom, for our souls! We’re waging this war for the Love of God!”

  Gasps swept through the crowd, followed by seditious murmurs. The shepherd was losing his flock. Rick let the outrage build for a few seconds then delivered his line with cool aplomb. “Brother Ferguson, war is not Love.” He calmly walked out of Christ’s Crash Pad enveloped in a pink cloud of sanctimony. He didn’t realize till he was on the street, wondering which way to turn, that he had four disciples following at his heels.

  Now calling themselves ‘The Forever Family’, Rick, Jonas, Beth, Susan, and Bob stood on the corner making joyful noise. While Jonas strummed his guitar, Susan shook a tambourine, and all of them, except Bob, who couldn’t carry a note, sang. “Michael row your boat ashore…” Bob, holding an upturned hat of shapeless black felt in his outstretched hand, solicited donations from passersby. “C’mon folks! Join the Tentless Tent Revival! Put down your gun, put down your sword, raise your voice in praise of the Lord! Poor folks, rich folks, circus folks, atheists, monkeys, and beatniks, all are welcome!” The passersby, hippies and squares alike, gave the whole operation a wide berth. Eventually, the song ended.