Jackpot. Chapter 17
Today is Yeaster. After his sermon, in honor of Cheesus’s resurrection on this Holiest of days, El Profeto has invited the flock to enter the inner sanctum one at a time to receive his Yeaster blessings and have their Pibles autographed. After a dozen disciples, his actions and words become automatic, and he retreats deep into his mind. For three days now, he’s assured himself that Eliza hasn’t left him. Maybe he’s just been too busy and they keep missing each other in the apartment, or maybe she’s staying somewhere else in the pyramid because she’s still mad at him. But now, on this sacred day, he can deny it no more. When Roger Ferry approaches for his blessing, El Profeto pulls him aside and asks if he’s seen Eliza anywhere.
“Not me, but my wife says she saw her in town a few days ago.”
In town? Eliza’s hardly been to town since they moved into the pyramid! He thanks Roger and waves in the next disciple. Suddenly, the whole pyramid shakes.
“What’s going on?”
“Must be an earthquake,” says Roger.
It shakes again and the disciples scream.
El Profeto picks up the receiver to the pyramid-wide intercom. “Please everyone, remain calm.” He presses a button and his nasally Spanish cover of “What’s Going On?” by Garvin May comes on to calm the people and remind them that even he doesn’t know what’s going on sometimes, and that’s okay.
The music stops and a new voice crackles through the speakers.
“Attention! Disciples of El Profeto! This is God speaking!”
The uproar ceases in the presence of God.
“You have sinned in the eyes of the Lord! My eyes! You’re making them sting, you’re sinning so badly. Stop! At once!” The pyramid rumbles again. “You feel that? Y’all have five minutes to leave before I blow this place up, and ain’t nobody’s coming back like Cheesus!” God hangs up and the music comes back on. Half the flock stampedes and the rest tumble in the crush or stand their ground stunned like boulders in a stream.
Roger Ferry looks to his savior, but El Profeto’s just as confused as anyone. He presses the receiver and the intercom screeches for a second. He gulps.
“I don’t know whether that was God or not, but I guess we should leave.” He drops the receiver and hops down from his platform as the music comes back on.
“You don’t know?” a disciple shouts at a television broadcasting the inner sanctum.
“It could be terrorists!”
“It could be the CIA!”
“But what if that really was God?”
“Then El Profeto’s a fake and we’re being punished!”
The exodus continues, the crowd flooding out into the parking lot, angry and scared.
El Profeto puts his hand to the wall beside one of the potted palms and a secret door opens. He waves Roger over.
“Come on, it’ll be faster.”
Roger hesitates, then follows him in. They walk down a long set of stairs going straight to the bunker under the parking lot. When they reach it, El Profeto opens the fridge, cracks open a tamarind soda, and sits down in a comfy rocking chair.
“You can have one too if you want.”
“Shouldn’t we go up?”
“We’re good in here, right?”
“I don’t know, the bunker might still count in God’s eyes.”
“If he can see us.”
“Of course he can see us.”
“I meant if that voice really was God.” El Profeto takes a long sip.
Roger checks his watch. “I guess we’ve got a few more minutes.” He opens a mole soda and they drink in silence. It tastes better that way. When they’re finished, El Profeto puts both their bottles in the recycling bin, then opens a manhole in the ceiling.
“See you on the other side.” He disappears up the ladder.
“El Profeto! That’s not the exit!”
But El Profeto doesn’t listen. Roger opens the exit and climbs out into the sun.
“Hey everyone, I found Roger!” shouts the secretary. Those nearby cheer, but before word can really spread, everyone’s distracted by El Profeto’s emergence onto a platform beneath one of the parking lot lights.
“Attention, amigos!”
The crowd simmers down.
“One way or another, it appears God has spoken! Please, return to your homes.”
“But what about the pyramid?”
“So that really was God?”
El Profeto laughs. “God or not, if anything should happen to this pyramid, know that buildings may rise and fall, but nothing can shake our faith! Please, take precautions! Go home! And if any be without a home to return to, may they be welcomed in the homes of thy neighbors. And in the worst of cases, should any of thee find thyselves forced to book a hotel room, hangeth on to the receipt, and we shall reimburse thee at the earliest opportunity!”
The reassured crowd cheers, and they all get in their cars and head back into town. El Profeto watches them drive off in a cloud of dust, and in the end only Roger remains.
“Want a ride?” he shouts from the ground.
“Yes, thank you!” El Profeto goes back inside the lightpost and starts climbing down. As he descends there’s a horrific groan, and he hangs on for dear life as the lightpost topples over. He’s smacked against the inside and everything goes black.
He wakes up in an unfamiliar room. The curtains are drawn but daylight beams in through a gap in the middle. There’s a glass of water on his nightstand and he takes a sip. His face hurts, his ribs are killing him. Just sliding the covers off feels like ripping off a hundred bandaids. He peeks under his shirt, his pants. It’s all black and purple. He hopes he hasn’t broken any bones. He carefully pulls the covers back over himself and goes back to sleep.
Roger and someone else are standing over him. Roger and Dr. Abel. He remembers Dr. Abel from the early days. A true man of God. He hasn’t seen him much around the pyramid, but he’s glad he’s here.
“There he is,” says Roger. He gently brings his hand to El Profeto’s cheek. “You’re in good hands.” He nods to Dr. Abel and leaves the room.
“What happened? Is the pyramid still standing?”
“Yes, yes. It appears the lightpost you were climbing down from hadn’t been constructed properly and came loose. You have some cracked ribs and heavy bruising, but you’re lucky to be alive.”
“I suppose God still has a plan for me.”
“Yes, well, unfortunately I don’t think that plan involves you going back to the pyramid. A bunch of goons showed up later and seized control.”
“Goons? When? Who sent them?”
“I don’t know who sent them, but they’re very professional looking. They got there just a few hours after we left. If that voice of God was just some trick, it wasn’t in their favor. I hate to say it, José, but those goons are looking for you. They already stopped by, but Roger sent them on their way. Still, Roger says some folks are aware that he stayed behind to give you a ride. Under ordinary circumstances, I would urge you to remain in bed at least another couple of days, but seeing as this situation might pose further danger to your life, as your doctor my recommendation is that you leave town as quickly and discreetly as you can. Roger has expressed willingness to aid you in that endeavor.”
“But what about my home? What about my disciples?”
“José, I don’t know who you crossed before you came here to preach, but they’ve got money and, it seems, the government’s blessing to hold you accountable by any means necessary. So don’t worry about any of that right now. You’re a good man and an inspiring teacher. The congregation will figure out how to get by without you. If you’d like to write a letter explaining your absence, I can read it before them all at the first opportunity.”
José thinks it over. Looks like Eliza was right about that article. But if he’s not safe in the middle of nowhere, where the hell is he supposed to go?
“Thanks, Dr. Abel. I’ll write something.”
“Great! I’ll leave you be for now.” He places a bell on the nightstand. “Give this a ring when you’re ready to go.”
“Sure thing.”
Dr. Abel looks him over one more time, sorry he can’t do more to help.
José spends the whole afternoon writing his letter, scrapping draft after draft, scouring the depths of his mind for the right words and the right way to say them. Being a religious leader has meant so much to him, it’s almost as hard to express how he feels right now as it’s been to translate the Word of God into the human tongues of American and Spanish. But eventually, he gets the job done. He rings the bell and the brass gleams in the amber light of the setting sun. Dr. Abel and Roger Ferry return and he reads them his letter. After all, they too are among his:
Disciples, Amigos, Familia,
My heart is heavy, my body is bruised. Some of my ribs are cracked, but already I can feel God’s nimble fingers threading them back together. Yes, maybe you’ve heard. An accident happened after you left. The lightpost from which I directed you all away from the pyramid was not properly constructed. The base came loose and the whole thing fell over while I was still climbing down. This accident was not Roger Ferry’s fault, though I must confess to you all before God that I cursed his name on the way down because yes, he was the architect after all. He did supervise the construction of the pyramid, including its parking lot. Really, such an accident should not have happened. But no, all that matters is it’s over, I’m safe, I’m healing. Unfortunately, I cannot be with you at the moment due to the current persecution of our faith by malevolent goons sent by the forces of evil. Please, return to your daily lives and keep your noses clean. The pyramid shall rise again. Let it stand tall in our souls. Don’t let these goons take your town from you and trample your faith! Fight! Fight! Fight!
In exile, I too will be fighting. Every day my heart shall long to be with you, burning for the day we can again be scorched by God’s love together in peace! But for now, hang tight and get these goons out of here in some kind of secret revolt. You probably don’t have to kill them all, I bet you could do something like maybe put a bunch of pies in the windows of the jailhouse, hide in the bushes, and push those motherfuckers in when they come sniffing around. Or go to the Russians, or Panamanian bankers or something, somebody. Or if all else fails, maybe you can move our operation to Vegas and get in on a piece of the action over there, do some major soul saving. I’m just spitballing, but I’m sure Roger can build you all a new pyramid when he gets back, one more glorious than any this continent has ever seen! You’ll fit right in.
So go forth, for the Kingdom, the Power, and the Glory are Yours, now and forever, Amen.
Blessings of Love to All,
José Jones
A.K.A.
Yours Truly,
El Profeto
Roger’s crying, grateful for the trust José has placed in him to lay the foundations for God’s Kingdom wherever he needs to, even in Las Vegas, a city of vice and sin. Whatever happens, he will always remember this moment.
Abel is mystified and worried by Roger’s reaction. José totally set him up as a scapegoat. And to incite the town to fight back against the goons? People are going to get killed! How is that the way of Grist? He shakes his head. Oh well. Best thing to do as a doctor and a Gristian is to get him out of town.
“El Profeto, this letter is truly something. I’ll be happy to read it to everyone when the time is right,” says the good Doctor.
“As soon as possible.”
“As soon as it’s safe.”
“Maybe just a little sooner if it’s possible, though.”
Dr. Abel’s intelligence feels insulted, his medical expertise overlooked, but he holds his tongue. José heaves himself out of bed and immediately falls, knocking over the lamp on his nightstand. Roger and Dr. Abel rush to his aid.
“No, no, I can walk on my own.” But he can’t so they toss his arms over their shoulders.
“Are you sure you’re ready to leave?” asks Dr. Abel.
“Absolutely. They could search this place any minute. Just throw me in the trunk with a blanket and some water, I’ll be fine.”
“What about a pillow?” asks Roger.
“Sure, that’d be nice.”
Roger hurries off to fetch everything and Dr. Abel walks José down the hall, down the stairs, and into a rocking chair in the coatroom behind the kitchen. They wait while Roger goes out and loads the trunk. When he gives the signal they hobble out back and slot José in with the speed and precision of a pit crew on race day. With just a nod, Roger and Abel part ways. Roger hops in front, the lights come on, the engine starts, and he drives off with the same calm as a morning drive to work. Abel doesn’t even watch, he’s already back inside.
Roger cruises through the streets, obeying every traffic law. The goons are out in force, sitting outside restaurants eating ribs and pizza and drinking beer, walking around with ice cream cones and balloons and more beer. At least they’re helping the economy. Wait, if the pyramid’s closed, but these guys are shopping everywhere, which helps the economy more? Roger does the math and realizes the economy is actually a competition between the town and the pyramid. This whole time, he’d been so focused on the pyramid that he forgot about the bigger picture. Everyone did. The pyramid was where the action was happening. Now, forced back into their old way of life, everyone must ask themselves: What is God telling us?
The escape goes off without a hitch. When they’re far enough into the desert, Roger pulls over and lets José out of the trunk.
“Come on, why don’t you lie down in the back?”
“It’s alright, I’ll ride shotgun and lean the seat back.”
Roger would feel more at ease if he lay down in the back, but El Profeto’s the boss. They get back in the car and set off again.
“So where to?” asks Roger.
José thinks about it. “No hotels. No motels. Nothing that would leave a paper trail, no unusual activity.”
“You think they’re that thorough?”
“I don’t know.”
They drive in silence.
“My apartment.”
“You have an apartment?”
“Yeah, back in LA. I’ve still been paying rent this whole time. I signed a five year lease like a fucking idiot.”
“Well it doesn’t seem so stupid now!”
José sighs. “You’re right. I’m too hard on myself. Still, we should approach it with caution. My Biggest Enemy knows I haven’t been there in years, but he might still have someone watching it.”
“Your Biggest Enemy? Is that who sent all those goons?”
“I think so.”
Roger shakes his head. “I don’t understand. You’re a great person!”
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”
As they drive through the night towards the city of angels, José tells Roger his life’s story, starting from his fateful friendship with Leroy. With the exception of the journalist he fucked the other day, José has been notoriously tight-lipped about his past since becoming El Profeto, telling all who ask that he’s too busy right now, even during private dinners and intimate post-coital moments. By the time he gets to his dealings with the Important Client and Leon Primrose, Roger starts to understand why José’s been so keen to leave it all behind. Far from containing the scandalous seeds to his downfall, as all curious disciples secretly feared when their questions were brushed aside, José’s story deepens Roger’s faith in and respect for him, not just as an interpreter of God’s Word, but as a fellow human being who’s strived and suffered, who’s risked and won and lost it all and carried on anyways. For the first time, Roger sees José not just as his savior, but as his friend.