The Rise and Falling Out of Saint Leslie of Security

by Andrew Tisbert

  The ‘foyer’ door was the remains of a glass parking garage elevator, which had been rigged with a twenty-year-old intercom system from a long-since destroyed apartment house. Roger found the button marked ‘June 109’ in black marker, held it down, and yelled into the mike.

  The speaker crackled, and he barely heard her voice: “Roger?"

  "Yeah, June, it's me. Will you unlock the elevator?"

  There was a pause, then, “Come on up."

  Roger heard the lock click loose and pushed through the door into the cool, dark hall along the pitted alley pavement. He immediately smelled garbage, sweat, and stale rum. Heard the dull, restless sounds of life around and above him—a crying child, a hoarse, angry man, a barking dog. He passed walls of tin and particle board, doors of burlap bag and cardboard, until he reached the jerry-rigged elevator and rode it to the second floor. He stepped out of the rattling box onto a floor of sagging plywood. He saw June waiting in the hall as he turned around. She looked a little apprehensive.

  As guilty as he felt about it, there was no inner reaction, no jolt of affection pulsing through him upon seeing her. There was just a twitch in his cock. She stood there, her uncombed hair framing her gaunt face, and jerked her arms out to him in uncertainty. Roger hugged her tightly, as if to atone for his lack of excitement, and the pressure of her breasts against him brought back the image, and further stirring, at least, of one kind of feeling. When they parted, June looked up at him and smiled. He thought she was beautiful when she smiled; her hazel eyes almost glowed and the scar by her left one almost disappeared in a delicate wave of creases.

  "Wait till you see what I've done with the apartment,” she said, as Roger let her take his hand and lead him down the trembling hall. “It took me three weeks to do all the salvaging.” Roger nodded as June led him through her door—a real wooden one, with cracked, peeling green paint.

  The apartment was one room, a flickering vision wall in the back, a tottering table in the front beside the door, a counter propped on salvaged cabinets. What had changed was, instead of crates around the table, there were real stools. And instead of the makeshift pallet she had slept on, there was an actual couch, bellied in the middle and stained, with fashion magazines piled under one corner. By the couch glared a lamp without its shade.

  "Well, what do you think?"

  Roger nodded again. “It's coming along.” Then he sat down beside the table.

  "Of course it's not like your place or anything ... Roger, what's wrong?” Roger pulled another of the stools out for June to sit beside him. She did, and for a moment he considered not telling her what had happened to him.

  "I...” he began, hesitating, “got a call today. You'll never guess who from.” He watched her face sober questioningly. Then she shrugged and he told her: “The new saint on vision, Saint Leslie of Security."

  June's eyes lost focus for a second as she thought about it. Then they dilated sharply. “The one who stopped the assassination attempt? Who killed your bro—"

  "Yes, exactly, that one.” He described their conversation to her. June listened quietly. When he finished, Roger could hear her breathing heavily for a moment, as she stared at him.

  "What are you going to do?"

  "I ... don't know. She wanted to meet with me. I told her I could call in sick at work and see her in the morning."

  "Are you sure this is for real? I mean, with no visual or anything, it could have been a practical joke, or—"

  "I thought of that. Actually, you were the first person who came to mind."

  "Thanks a lot."

  "Well, things were messed up the last time I saw you."

  June looked down and scratched at the tabletop with a thumb nail. “I know,” she said. “I'm sorry."

  Roger shook his head. He'd called her all kinds of names and told her he never wanted to see her again. But she was apologizing. “Let's just forget about it."

  Looking up, June asked, “Have you gotten into contact yet? You still know the number?"

  "You mean with the Sons? No. I wasn't sure if I should. Especially from my own vision, with Security Saints speaking through it and all."

  "Use my wall. I'm not ashamed or afraid to be connected to the Sons of Man."

  "I'm not afraid either, June. But I don't want to owe them anything ... more than I already do. Or anyone. Not Washington, and not The Sons. Everyone feels like I owe them something."

  Roger watched her gaze drop at the last statement. She sighed. “Why did you come here? You're right. You don't owe me anything. So—"

  "June.” He shut his eyes and rubbed his temple. “I lied. I am afraid.” When he opened his eyes, June was looking away from him, obviously thinking. “You were the only person I could think of I trusted."

  Turning back to him, she grasped his hand in both of hers. “I'm here for you. Okay? It's just...” She looked away. “Well, I've been doing a lot of thinking. We're never getting back together. I've made up my mind. You've never been happy with me. And I deserve better."

  Roger pulled his hand away and stood. He fought off the feeling of betrayal. After all, he knew she was right. He'd grown so accustomed to the idea June would hang on to the possibility of being with him, it became a comfort as well as a burden. Although he wanted to holler at her, he knew he needed to see the situation more objectively than he usually did. He swallowed hard, said, “I'm so sorry,” and was suddenly filled with a desire for her that raised the hair on the back of his neck.

  "Me too,” she said. “I shouldn't have brought this up now, huh?” She rose and took his hand again.

  "No. No, it's okay."

  "Wow. This is really serious. You should call the Sons of Man. They can tell you what to do. Use my wall."

  After a moment, Roger nodded. “Where's your remote?” There's no turning back from this now. He felt sick. June went to the knickknack shelves beside the vision wall, made of used bricks and rough-cut boards. She returned with the remote. Roger took it and walked to the couch in silence, punching in the number. He sat down. June's vision wall was dim, and the advertisements in the corner flashed occasionally, as if the wall was about to short out. But as his call went through, the ads shrunk in the right corner, and the image of a middle-aged man with a shaved head fluttered onto the screen. He had a soft-looking belly and wore a tee shirt and shorts. He stood, looking at Roger and scratching at his waistline. “Wait just a second. Don't say a word."

  June had approached to sit on the arm of the couch, resting a callused hand on his shoulder. The bald man continued to stare. Half a minute stretched on. Finally, the man spoke again. “Sorry. I had to run a signal path check on you. We can guarantee the path remains safe for only a short time, so make it quick."

  "My name is Roger Calvin, and I have a problem. Saint Leslie, the new Security Saint, contacted me and wants to meet with me. I don't know why. She's supposed to come to my apartment tomorrow...."

  The man's eyebrows bunched and collided over his nose. “You're Jeffrey Calvin's brother, aren't you?"

  "Uh. Yes."

  "And you say Leslie of Security got into contact with you?” He hardly waited for Roger's nod to continue. “What exactly did she say she wanted?"

  "It didn't seem like she was acting on the behalf of Security. She said she felt guilty and wanted to find out more about my brother and his motives."

  "Really.” The bald man grinned.

  Roger swallowed down the edge of panic that hadn't left him all afternoon. “Can you tell me what this is all about?"

  "Actually, I have no way of knowing right now. But we can help you. First of all, you should definitely meet this young lady. You don't want to seem like you have anything to hide from the government. But if anything goes wrong, the Sons of Man can provide you with a safe house."

  He pursed his lips for a couple seconds and gazed upward. Then he looked at Roger again. “I'm going to give you a security code that will get you into any of these safe houses, if you end up needing
them. The locks are self-revising, but it's good for forty eight hours. Can you read and write? Good. Write this down, but as soon as you've memorized the information, burn the paper."

  June jumped up and found him a pencil and a piece of cardboard. As he wrote what the man told him, he felt June's fingers dig into his shoulder. He pulled away from her and finished.

  "All right. This call needs to end now. You know where to find us if you need our help. Please be discreet.” The wall flickered and went black, the advertisement corner enlarged, and Roger blinked, frowned.

  "That's it?” He felt June squeeze his shoulder where she had dug her nails into him. “Great."

  She reached behind his head and began to massage both shoulders. His muscles felt ready to cramp they were so tight. He leaned against the pressure of her hands and tried to calm his stomach. He had to find his courage to meet with the saint tomorrow. He needed to be tough for once. He remembered all the times he'd put on a show of ranting against Washington's oppression in this very room. He was a fucking hero when only June watched. Where was his bravery now? All his pent-up bitterness and dissatisfaction was webbed up in a numbing fear. Pressure continued to build. Roger didn't know what would happen if he couldn't hold it all in any more.

  "So, I guess this is goodbye, huh?"

  Roger turned to June. “I guess so."

  "Will you stay for just a little while? We can pretend we're good friends, and there's nothing wrong. Just for a while."

  "Actually, I'd love that,” he said.

  The scar disappeared in her smile again. Yeah. They could pretend for a while. He clenched his teeth. He was good at faking it.

  7

  Local coverage shows a twelve-year-old girl trampled to death by anti-abortion demonstrators after the Blessing of the Unborn. The eye focuses in on the edge of her jaw in a streak of thickening blood across the pavement, feet jostling all around her, as the anchorman quotes official sources calling her ‘another tragic martyr in the War on Abortion'.

  Johnny Phallus, famous Hollywood actor, who recently called Washington an ‘evil dictatorship only interested in military coercion and monetary profit for the elite', appears in front of countless mechanical eyes to give a formal apology to the American people for his comments. After his statements, before and after watchers’ polls are displayed.

  "As you can see,” the anchor man smiles, “an overwhelming majority of US citizens called Johnny Phallus a terrorist sympathizer and criminal before his apology today, but our new on-the-spot poll shows support for Phallus quickly rising. California's ambassador has not been available for comment."

  Public service announcements follow, encouraging citizen action: “Don't wait for Rebel Day to be a hero—your neighbor could be a Commie, an Atheist, a pagan, or even a dirty sand nigger. Watch for the little signs. Does your neighbor keep to himself too much? Does he avoid you and act like he's hiding something? Does he resent common everyday rules? Do your part to help catch terrorists. Don't wait, call your local authorities NOW."

  Channel 35 runs footage showing three US servicemen killed in a bombing incident along the Southern border of Vermont, their bodies coming apart in a spray of blood. One of the men's heads bounces at a mechanical eye's feet. “An outpouring of sympathy for the families of these heroes is sweeping the nation, as Washington calls for swift retaliation".

  Vision cuts to the Senator of Carolina. “We as a people,” he says, “support our troops fighting for capitalism and democracy in foreign lands, and anybody who calls himself an American who doesn't should be taken out and hung from the nearest flagpole. I'm sick and tired of people criticizing Washington in such a dark and dangerous time...."

  Dr. Bankley is on Channel 62, discussing the ‘ritual’ of democratic elections. “What many people from other cultures do not understand,” he says, “is the relationship between the voting process and the divine spirit descending into a new Father Washington, to create God's presence here on Earth. Of course, skeptics ask, ‘How it is God can be elected?’ They have completely missed the point. It is clearly the sacrament of voting which makes the descent of the Holy Spirit and God to our mortal world possible, just as the sacrament of baptism opens an individual to the spiritual world. Voting—this act of collective consciousness—draws the spirit of God into His mortal avatar.... “Bankley is interrupted to upgrade the nation's Terrorist Readiness Alert Status to Jealous Rage....

  * * * *

  After a thoughtful hesitation, Leslie pressed the buzzer by his door. His deep voice responded immediately. “If it's who I think it is, come in, it'll open."

  She stepped forward and the door did open, to reveal Roger Calvin standing in the entrance of his kitchen. His skin was ivory pale under his hair and the stubble on his weak chin. He was about four inches taller than Leslie, his arms threaded across a narrow chest. He was smirking. Leslie stepped inside his vision room. Soporific advertisements whispered softly.

  "Lock the door behind you, huh?” he said, and Leslie pressed the locking unit. Roger started forward, dropped his arms, then stopped. “I made coffee. I figured you'd need it after your big night last night."

  He disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Leslie stranded in the middle of the room.

  "You know, I watched it all,” he called. “I don't mean the news coverage—that was on all the channels. Channel 63 broadcast the whole event. Nice body, by the way."

  He reappeared with a mug in each hand. When Leslie reached to take one from him, he said, “Wait a minute. Just let me take care of something first.” He set the mugs on the coffee table, straightened, and then drew closer to her. “You don't know how much I've wanted to do this.” Leslie watched him raise an open hand and draw it back. She could have stopped him easily, but something kept her motionless. The slap stung her face and wrenched her head to the left.

  Then she didn't want to stand still anymore. She wanted to strike him, draw Gun, and shoot until he was charred and smoking on the dull brown carpet. Instead, she made herself lean forward, clutching the side of her face. And instead of cursing him, she clamped her jaws shut. A tooth seemed loose. As she glared up at him, she wondered if he'd expected the violent reaction she'd suppressed. He shifted uneasily from one foot to the other, and the skin around his eyes tightened with what looked like regret. Still, he muttered, “That's for my brother, because he can't be here to do it himself."

  Leslie fought back a dozen replies. He was frowning when he backed away, and she saw his hand tremble as he raised one of the steaming mugs. He held it out to her and she didn't strike it from his hand, as much as she wanted to. His voice was low and he spoke slowly. “Take it"

  You are here, Leslie told herself, because you want to be. You knew this man would not love you. You knew it would only be luck if he ended up helping you. She forced herself to take the coffee, then straightened.

  "There.” Roger sucked in a deep breath and looked around the room. “No guards breaking in. I'm not being beaten or cuffed. No troops. I'm not dead for my impudence.” He steadied his gaze on her. “Maybe you really are alone, hmm?"

  "Do you mind if I sit down at least?” When he didn't reply she sat on the edge of his couch. “Damn you. This is going to swell."

  He took another deep breath. “Saint Leslie, you seem to think I have something you want. If I do, then by all means please enlighten me. If it's not too dear, you can have it, and then get the Red Hell out of here."

  Leslie took her hand away from her cheekbone. “I want to understand."

  "What? Me? My brother? The Sons of Man?"

  "Yes,” she said, “yes and yes."

  "Look. If you want to know about the Sons of Man, I'm sure your agency has files on it that would fill a—"

  "Sure. But not for the important information. I don't want data. I want to understand."

  He scowled. “I don't think you could."

  "Why did your brother want to kill Father Washington, truthfully?"

  "First of all, I d
on't think the Sons of Man actually asked him to do it. Look, he ... there's not that much to understand—"

  "Please."

  Roger pursed his lips and sat on the other end of the couch. “We don't believe Father Washington is some kind of living god consubstantial with his father. We don't even believe that ‘god', if he exists, is necessarily on our side."

  "But doesn't history bear that out?"

  "History.” He frowned. “You want a history lesson now? Are you going to tell me how Father Washington led the chosen Christian people back to the desert to cast out Satan and rebuild Eden? How He fought off the Cold War evils by destroying dictators all around the world so wealth and democracy could grow? How Saint Einstein unleashed the wrath of Yahweh on the devil people of Hiroshima, and then had a cookout with the pilots to celebrate? How He avenged His Holy Father in the Middle East and infused the lifeblood of the world with the oil of charity and freedom?"

  "I don't accept all the legends without some interpretation."

  "Good! Good. Maybe you're not as stupid as your career choice implies.” He paused and looked at her, as if inviting her to anger. She held her cheek—and her tongue. “Do you know what it's like to be hunted just because of what you believe? To wake up every day wondering if this is the day your secret thoughts will be exposed? To look around at your fellow citizens, smugly adjusted to the religion of personality, and know they would turn you in within a heartbeat? Knowing their docility is what allows the system to work, while they watch their vision and go shopping, and save up for the vacation in Disneyland? And that knowledge only fans your hate and your frustration.” Roger rose and wandered nervously from the couch. He looked like he hadn't intended to say these things to her. “Listen. I'm really not in this thing at all. I mean, I believe in what the SOM stands for, but I've never been a part of it. I can't explain Jeff to you. Not really."