Setting myself up with another round, I dove into fallenangels under the additional identifier khunthunter. That’s when I discovered Kaddisha. Her user name: choke_me. In her profile she begged to be “throttled by manly hands.”
I couldn’t sleep until well past dawn.
A few hours later I was up though barely conscious. I phoned Cyrus first thing. Voicemail. I said: “I need to talk to you, man.”
I messaged Remedios: “Soon soon soon . . .” She had said she would show at my place around lunchtime. I did my best to get it together.
By mid-afternoon when she still hadn’t arrived I messaged her: “Donde esta mi cerezo?”
I wrote her again: “Don’t tell me you passed out por favor.”
Once more: “Why don’t you have a phone???”
Then: “mi cerezo . . . no no no.”
It was now early evening. I’d tapped out ticktockclock’s stash, drained the whiskey well. I hadn’t heard from Remedios. Cyrus never called back. I texted Kaddisha: “pre-party?” Then I messaged Remedios: “no mi amor.”
I wrote finally: “you best be passed out on the floor.”
I spent the rest of the night on fallenangels. User name: khunthunter. I read and reread every detail on choke_me’s profile until crashing on the floor, laptop in my arms.
TWENTY-EIGHT
The next morning at services the Reverend was inspired. “Is there a message?” he said. “Is there meaning in the madness?” He framed his damp pink face with large hands. They looked like wings sprouting from his chin as he gazed child-like at the ceiling fan. “Most assuredly,” he told the congregation, his incisors gleaming. He was beardless Uncle Sam with Hollywood teeth. “But it’s up to each and every one of you to see it, believe it.” Dramatic pause. “Know it.
“This is God’s truth, friends and neighbors,” he said, “and your challenge: the eternal struggle between good and bad, right and wrong: drawing the line, sticking to your guns, leading by example.” He marched across the altar, head high, beckoning his imaginary minions to toe the line. Returning to the lectern, he about-faced and carried on. “You must reconcile lust and greed, the whimsical desires of free will, with faithful adherence to God’s Almighty law.
“To wit: Love the Lord your God with all your heart, all your soul, all your mind. That’s a simple one to follow.” The congregation clucked. “If you’re living in Christ,” he said. “We’re all Christians here. That’s how we define ourselves. No worries then. Love your Lord God.” He wiped the beads of sweat from his brow. The church was broiling, despite the spotty attendance, nowhere near capacity. My empty stomach churned. I was sure I’d throw up. I’d aim for the collection basket.
“Love your neighbor as yourself. Doable,” he said. “If you know what it means to love yourself.” He solicited a show of hands. “Who among you loves him- or herself?” Staggered response as parents looked to each other, then at their children, until all raised hands together. Friends and neighbors did the same. I followed suit, whiffing my own funk as I did so.
“A convincing display.” The Reverend grinned. “Maybe not so easy as loving God. But can you love God if you don’t love yourself?” He wagged a twiggy index finger beside his flushed cheek. “Reconcile the whims of free will. Then you’re in a position of personal power, personal strength, to willfully follow God’s law.” The Reverend sighed. I belched into my hands, upchuck rising in my throat.
“Love God, love your neighbor, as yourself so love yourself, then . . . do unto others as you would have them do unto you. That’s doable. Same difference.” He tapped his fingers on the supersize KJV. “Now for the toughie,” he said. “Love your enemies. Dicey territory. Consultation time.” He cracked open the big book. I glanced at my watch.
“Christ in Matthew 6:44-45 says, ‘Do good to those who hate you, and pray for those who persecute and calumniate you, so that you may be children of your Father in heaven.’ Calumniate. There’s a silver-dollar word. Translation: bear false witness. So Christ charges you to love those who break his Holy Father’s commandments, those who try to bring you down . . . as you love your neighbor, love yourself, love the Lord God in heaven above, it goes without saying.” He smiled wide. I itched my crotch through a pants pocket, felt a headache coming on.
“Let’s jump to verse 48: ‘You therefore are to be perfect, even as your heavenly Father is perfect.’” He gently closed the book. “So Christ charges you to strive toward perfection, to be like the Almighty—impossible, but worthy in the trying—to live according to His Word. How? By loving one and all equally, yes! And yet.”
And yet.
“There’s a nuance here that must be examined,” he went on, and on, “understood, lest you find yourselves in the blind alley of relativism, i.e., accepting wrong as right because that’s just how they do it over there and everyone and everything they do deserves to be respected.” The Reverend closed his eyes, bowed. “At what cost?” Perspiration dripped down his scarecrow nose. I loosened my tie, wiped the sweat from my brow.
“This sorta misreading of the Word is what’s bringing our country to its knees!” Wide-eyed, he pulled the microphone from its stand and said, “Do not mistake the meaning for the madness.” He spun in slow circles down the center aisle, dead-stopped, trained his eyes on me, hunched over at the far end of a back corner pew. I saw Cyrus staring me down. I glared right through him.
The parishioners behind the Reverend now turned round to see what he was seeing. “If you’re to know the perfection of the Lord God in heaven,” he said, “then you must be open-hearted, clear-sighted as the Almighty on Judgment Day.” He whirled and jogged back to the altar. “You must be willing to distinguish right from wrong, unafraid to draw the line.” He bent down low, pretending to mark the floor with a pen lifted from his breast pocket. “You must judge your neighbor as yourself and hold him accountable as you hold yourself accountable as the Lord God will hold you accountable, rest assured.” He sat crosslegged on one side of the imaginary line. “Don’t be lured into the moral muck of relativism, universalism. Don’t let yourself be swayed by false gods, the calumny of others.” He stood up, glowered at the faces in the pews. “Surprise, surprise! In this world there are lies. Don’t believe the hype.”
He hustled to the lectern, wrapped his hands around the KJV. “Believe what you know.” He lifted the heavy book above his head. “Believe what you know.” He lowered it with care. “Know yourself by knowing God. Love your enemies, yes.” Pause. “But be careful! Don’t be fooled by forked tongues. Stop, look and listen. Then judge accordingly and make every effort to lead—even your enemies—in Christ’s holy name.” I stepped outside, puked in a potted hibiscus.
After my gloryhole weekend, the Reverend’s sermon hit deep. I no longer saw the fallenangels as allies in need of understanding but enemies to hold accountable. I was doubting every so-called connect I’d made since coming to Gethsemane. None of them seemed real. From Shannon to Cyrus to Remedios, no one was here now. No matter how I extended myself, no one was reachable. And no one reached out to me. I was the one who had to extend myself for any kind of contact. Even my urgent messages were ignored.
The Reverend’s voice shot through the vestibule speakers, urging worshippers to carry the Word of God to the ballot box. “There’s no greater joy,” he said, “than public service that brings the Savior’s love unto friends and foes alike. In this great nation of ours, you have the power to embody God’s grace and make His grace known by exercising your constitutional right to suffrage. Vote in Jesus name and fear not!”
Following the Reverend’s lead, I was determined to send a message that would resonate in the community. Like God the Father who banished our ancestors from the garden and scorched the eyes of those who failed to acknowledge His mercy, I would demand respect, offer redemption with a heavy hand. If a dog rolls in its own shit, you stuff its throat with the object of its pleasure until its stomach turns. Such discipline may seem extreme, but it works, brot
her. Ask any trainer. So it follows, if you insist on perfection, or as the Reverend put it, the striving for perfection, from yourself and others, if you barricade all the exits, admit no quarter, then the path will be open to all. I could see this so clearly now, and I resolved to lead by example, not at the polls (democracy is an illusion, politicians gamers) but in the one world I could control.
After services I didn’t stick around to shake the Reverend’s hand or sniff Good Charlotte’s twat. I drove straight home, signed in to fallenangels with my real name, pored over the profiles with surgical precision. When I came across the phonies, I would edit their words to better reflect who they were or cut them from the site with no regrets. I could pretty well pick out the fakes, flakes, freaks, fantasies and fraidy cats from those seeking true fulfillment. Our community would only thrive from honest, open, caring, loving communication. Anything else was an affront to our mission, an alignment with mainstream values we knew were a farce.
CondeeCandee had told me how she needed to be loved the way she wanted. But love is about give and take, an improvised duet on an arena-size stage, attending to each other’s needs, not a solo gig, a hogging of the spotlight. She didn’t get this. She was too selfish to love. I x-ed her from the database.
I did the same with countless others, some I’d met before, many who were strangers. I could tell who didn’t respect the spirit of our kinship, those whose write-ups failed to meet the minimum standards of authentic representation of the self and full disclosure of desires. Word choice provided the clues. I thank the Vocabularist for hipping me to the subtleties of language, though I erased her for obfuscating her sore-loser Scrabbleness. Other examples of lies and truth: voluptuous = sow-shaped; thin = anorexic; petite = midget; young at heart = old peculiar; active = ADHD; well-to-do = pompous; thinning hair = bald; kinky = abused and/or abusive; bi-curious = faggot; generous = sugar daddy; partygirl = tweaker; former rocker = yuppie; rockstar = poser; good Christian = hypocrite; open-minded = relativist (aka apologist) and so on.
When I’d had enough I checked in on FEAR NOT. The blog was blowing up with reactions to the Reverend’s sermon. The most popular thread, DEFINING THE ENEMY, presented a series of challenging questions: “In the ‘eternal struggle,’ as Reverend Puck said, the battle to discern right from wrong and act with a clear conscience, we need to know who the enemy is before we can do anything, yes? But how do we define the enemy? Is it someone who looks different than us, thinks or acts different? Is difference the defining mark of the beast? Or is it someone who appears to look and act the same, or does so perhaps in public but in the privacy of his home or in his deepest darkest thoughts is not who he seems to be otherwise? What if this person is lying to himself? He doesn’t know it but we do. Does that make him an enemy? And then with regard to our foes, how should we engage? How do we effectively disarm and defeat our adversaries? With words? Ideas? Hand-to-hand combat? Shotguns and IEDs? Nuclear bombs? While our battle is a noble one, to be sure, ordained by our heavenly Father Himself, how do we know where to draw the line in the fog of war? What if we get dragged across in the fury of conflict? Is it ever okay to cross the line? What if the ball hasn’t yet been snapped? What if it has? Who makes the call? Who referees? Is it Christ? Our community? Ourselves? Our enemies? Finally, if we do cross the line fighting the good fight, are we then hypocrites of the very ideals we’re fighting to uphold? And how might our transgression affect our enemies? Would they feel justified in their position and dig in their heels? Would they grow stronger? Or is the only way to triumph in the war of moral integrity by any means necessary? How far is too far? Is there a point of no return?”
This topic fascinated me for what I hope are obvious reasons. Wearying of the pressure from so many simultaneous relationships, so-called—all with redemptive potential, though none delivering on the promise—I knew I’d lost my way. Yet there was no going back. I had zero allies, no one to turn to for direction or a sympathetic ear. Disconnected from family and friends, I was shattered, body and soul. I’d wake from nightmares of teeth falling out with a sore jaw, bleeding gums and a headache that would plague me the whole day through. My weak shoulder had begun acting up again. My tongue was all blisters and boils.
Since my rockstar beatdown I’d been overdosing pain meds like a kid with his Halloween treats. But the drugs scarcely did their job. The stash I’d borrowed from ticktockclock was a bandaid on a chest wound. The drinking: gasoline on hell fire.
Enemies were everywhere. What had Shannon said about trust? Dog eat dog. No, that was Kaddisha. Oh Shannon! I was rabid.
When I hadn’t heard from Remedios by early evening, I clicked on her profile to administer the appropriate justice. But she’d saved me the trouble, pulling her own bad self off the site. This sent me into a panic.
My heart raced and my lungs constricted as my hands did a Parkinson’s jig on the keyboard. Her e-suicide meant she was not passed out on the floor or in the emergency room but alive and well and had played me from the start. Yet there was no way to teach her you can’t treat people this way. She didn’t have a phone, allegedly. I called anyway. The number was disconnected. She probably didn’t even attend that art school in Athens. Everything she’d ever told me—her Mexican roots, goals as a filmmaker, her illness, me being her crush—it was all lies to draw me in, to create an illusion of intimacy, so she could spit me out like Texas chaw. The jpegs she’d posted likely weren’t even her. She could have been a guy!
How could I have been so foolish? I always knew the online world wasn’t “real,” but I thought it could be a medium for something that was. Now I know it’s all just fabrication, a distortion of and distraction from authentic communication, an entertainment for those who can’t connect one-on-one, a programming device that fuels alienation till we become an alien nation, strangers to ourselves and others, liars and identity thieves, twenty-four-seven, three-hundred-sixty degrees.
We are who we pretend to be at any given moment, no more, no less, no one, no thing. We are nothing, less than, duped into believing we’re something we’re not. We’re not. We’re just not.
I took fallenangels offline. It was the right thing to do. I scrubbed the server clean, banishing Cyrus’ noble refuge to oblivion.
At once, my breathing and heart rate returned to normal. My hands steadied as I sawed at the barrel of my Savage, oiled up the metal parts, polished the fiberglass. I now felt at peace with myself and the world.
Before my rendezvous with Kaddisha tonight, I would call on the ex. She had set me on this path. I owed her my thanks.
TWENTY-NINE
There was no moon and I could barely see, rumbling down the dark country roads, AweMediaPlayer shuffling millions of megabytes to cue my personal soundtrack of this very moment. I banged out the headbanging beats on the dashboard, whistling anthems like “Killing in the Name Of.” How I used to lullaby myself with this song. “Fight the Power” conjured images of sweet slumber. “Masters of War” promised nightmares as necessary.
PJ Harvey brought the bloodshed home with “The Soldier.” Then there was the Black Lips’ off-key Beatles perversion, “Dirty Hands,” a tune that somehow made me feel less alone. When Old Crow Medicine Show came on with “God’s Got It,” I broke my own commandment, punched ahead to the next track. God may have it, but He ain’t giving it away, not to me, anyhow. William Parker’s “Sound Unity” was more like it.
The horns were twisting up the melody like taffy as I pulled into a Petro Luv Mart for adult beverages. A rat-faced girl in front of me had an infant in her arms and two little boys at her side, tugging at the hem of her Jefferson Davis High School Football windbreaker. She hollered through the bullet-proof glass: “Cheetos, Doritos and Sun Chips, yeah, them. Coke, Pepsi, Diet Coke, yeah.”
“Late night snack?” I said. She looked at me with ragged eyes, mouth-breathing. There were gaps in her teeth. I crossed my arms and watched her as she hustled her brood into the motel next door. She needed a good man to h
elp her with her sons, share the responsibility. I was once a father. I used to have a son.
The night clerk told me county law barred liquor sales on Sunday. I said it was almost Monday morning but he wouldn’t budge. He barely spoke English. It wasn’t his fault.
I bought a twelve-pack of piss, drank three in the minutes it took to get from the gas station to the ex’s podunk palace. I slugged down another two while the epic Parker jam wound to a close and the next title faded in. It was the Gillian Welch ballad, “Throw Me a Rope,” a recent download of a bootleg recording from her concert at Disney Hall. I stroked the blue stock of the rifle, fingered the safety and trigger guard while musing on the lyrics: I’ve never been so disabused . . .
I aimed the barrel out the window at the ex’s front door. I could wait all night. I stared through the scope, my vision blurred.
I’d like to say how I gave the ex what she had coming yet was merciful in the act.
I placed the weapon in her mouth, grinding it against her teeth while urging silence or I’d do her daddy worse. I whispered in her ear how she failed us all: “You always were a skanky bitch, pathetic wife and mother, good-for-nothing daughter. You care for no one but yourself. You don’t deserve to live.”
But then I granted her a final prayer, a last-ditch stab at faith she knew would never save her. I caressed her cheek, said I’d forgive her in time. I let her wave good-bye across the room to our son.
How I longed to see the ex in a shallow grave. I’d like to say I put her there. But I was no killer. I wasn’t going to shoot anyone.
I cracked open another twelve-ounce, tucked the rifle behind the seat, headed out toward the interstate.
Badbadbad Page 21