by Sam Clemens
Cosmo looked at him. He heard Laird’s voice in his head. Become who they think you are. “If we’re going to do this,” he said, pushing his chest forward, “you guys are going to have to start…believing, that what I say is…right.”
Totally flubbed—four out of ten, at best—but they got the picture. Roy began clearing the table.
“No, just—box it up,” Cosmo said. “I have a friend who will eat it.”
“Of course, sir,” Roy said.
They sat across from each other again, Cosmo on one side, Retha and Roy on the other. Cosmo Hendricks folded his hands in front of him, as he imagined someone important would do. He waited for them to speak.
They didn’t. Roy and Retha looked at him, pleasant faces at ease, ready to serve.
The plan was for Cosmo to speak second. “Whatever you do,” Laird had told him, “don’t speak first. It sets a bad precedent. Waiting to speak is a power move.” Cosmo had also read this in some business book in college, so he signed onto the plan. Problem was, they weren’t saying anything. Hell, they didn’t move—like two Muppets after the show had ended, dumb looks stuck on their faces and waiting for their masters to come bring them to life in the morning.
A minute went by. Still nothing.
“Okay,” Cosmo exhaled. “So, what’s the plan?”
Retha blinked. “The plan?” she asked. “Sir, that’s for you to tell us.”
He shook his head. “I’m going to need some help here. Some input. Okay, so I’m the leader, right?”
They nodded their heads.
“So that’s that, but this is going to be a collaborative thing, you get me? Everyone’s involved. And I’m making you two…” Cosmo searched for a fitting word, “um…my…deputies?”
Retha and Roy looked at each other, cheeks bursting with gratification. “Outstanding,” she said.
“Now,” Cosmo said, “you mentioned there were more in your—our—group. I think I met one of them at the beer garden the other night.”
“Johanna,” Roy said.
“Very good. How many of them are there in total?”
Roy looked at Retha. “Eleven,” she said.
“Awesome. I look forward to meeting everyone,” Cosmo said. “As you know, I’m the prophet who didn’t know he’s a prophet, so forgive me if I’m learning on the job. It might be a little rocky, but bear with me. That’s why you guys are here to help, as my deputies.” He put his hands out in front of him. “Do me a favor, brief the others on this. I don’t want them expecting Billy Graham or something.”
“Sir,” Roy said, “you’re just as you need to be.”
“Indeed,” Cosmo nodded. “Indeed I am. You sir, are a wise member. Member of…Cosmography.”
Retha looked down. She blew air out her nose, and for a second Cosmo wasn’t sure what reaction was taking hold. A laugh or a cry, but it was straddling the line. Finally, he saw the tear from her left eye.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “The day is here. It’s so…”
“Exciting?” Cosmo asked.
“Yes!” she exclaimed, her word reverberating off the tile floor. “What an exciting day!”
“I’m just as pumped as you guys,” Cosmo said. “Really, it’s badass to find my calling. Oh, I should mention, I have a new recruit of my own.”
Roy looked pleased. “That’s excellent,” he said.
“Right. His name’s Laird, and he’s super devoted. Devoted as fuck. He had the whole dream thing, too. He’s gonna be my assistant to start out. Kind of a right-hand man while we get this thing off the ground. That’s cool with you guys, right?”
“A new member is a blessing,” Roy said.
“We can’t wait to meet him,” Retha said, the tear still drying on her cheek.
Cosmo smiled. “You’re gonna love him. Dude’s hilarious. One more order of business: we need a place to meet. A clubhouse, if you will.”
“A place of worship,” Retha said.
“Yeah, sure. You guys are meeting at the Boulder Library right now, that right?”
They nodded.
“That’s not gonna fly.” Cosmo put his hands flat on the table. “We need something to grow into. Plus, librarians ask questions. This thing’s gonna get bigger, and they’ll be up our asses before you know it. They’re real touchy about religion in this town. Seen it a hundred times.”
“Of course,” Roy said, “we’re not a religion.”
Cosmo waved his hands. “Of course. Like-minded people who share a set of beliefs. Completely different. I know that, you know that, but they don’t know that, see? And we have to protect this thing fiercely, dudes, especially in the early going. So,” he said, “we need another location. Either of you think of a place we could use? Someone’s house, maybe?”
Again they looked at each other, trying to communicate with facial expressions.
“Go ahead and talk,” Cosmo said. “That goes for always.”
Retha put her hands out. “We share a modest apartment in Gunbarrel.”
“Not gonna work.” Cosmo leaned back in his chair.
“We could ask around the group,” Roy said. “Nothing immediately comes to mind”
“Maybe someone knows someone,” Cosmo said. “With a building we could use.” He tapped the table. “Wait, what about this place?”
They looked at him.
“Yeah,” he said, looking around. “I know you don’t own it, but you have keys, right?”
Roy nodded.
“And you close up at ten. I know that. So we wait until everyone else clears out, and we meet in here. Grab some sodas and do the sermon or whatever.”
For the first time, they looked uneasy. Retha fidgeted.
“Speak,” Cosmo said.
“Well, sir,” started said, working her rump back and forth on the seat, “it’s just that, our boss is a bit strict. And there are…cameras and everything, and I’m concerned if we were caught…”
“Guys,” Cosmo said, palms out, “we have to have a little faith here, no? We’ll be careful. And if something happens, I’ll handle it. Remember: I got it under control.”
Their faces cheered up, and Retha and Roy again made eye contact.
“How about it?” Cosmo asked. “For the cause?”
“For the cause,” they repeated in unison, and the deal was struck.
For Cosmo, the sub shop was a perfect meeting place. He didn’t want to be masquerading as a shaman in public—especially a high-traffic place like the library—so it was key to ensure the location was somewhere only he and his followers would be. And at the sub shop, there was virtually no risk; if they were indeed caught in the middle of one of their little meetings, questions would be raised, to be sure. But two of the shop’s employees would be there, making the ensuing conversation one between Retha, Roy, and their boss, rather than between the participants and the police.
Cosmo meant what he said—if the location became an issue, he’d figure out a way to handle it. He didn’t intend to hang his new Copper Mine friends out to dry; in fact, he didn’t intend to take advantage of anyone in this process. What he planned to take advantage of was the situation. At this point in the logic, things got muddy, but Laird assured him these two ideas could work in concert. So Cosmo’s declaration that he’d “handle” any potential issues marked the first time he’d taken real ownership in this endeavor, but leaders have certain responsibilities. Even cult leaders.
Now was the issue of the meetings themselves. Namely what—the fuck—Cosmo Hendricks was going to do or say. He had minimal experience with public speaking and even less being a religious cleric. Moreover, he had no idea what these people actually wanted, or what they expected of him, or what they believed other than that he came to them in a dream and would—presumably—explain the mysteries of time, space, and the one true universal light. It felt like being woefully unprepared for the final exam in a class to which he’d accidentally wandered in. This was why he pushed back hard against the idea of wee
kly meetings in his negotiations with Laird, but as usual, Laird persuaded him.
“If we’re going to do this, we gotta do this, man,” Laird said to him. They were in Cosmo’s apartment again, working on reducing the pile of food Cosmo had acquired at Copper Mine that day.
“Monthly,” Cosmo countered. “Once a month is fine.”
Laird shoved a cookie in his mouth, sending crumbs tumbling to the carpet. “You can’t pussy foot around. You have to become Cosmography.”
“Yeah but I don’t want to start an actual cult,” Cosmo said. He reached into a bag of chips.
“You’re not. It’s a…false cult. It’s a harmless ruse that’s bringing people joy.” Laird finished chewing. “As good an explanation for religion as any, I suppose.” He turned to Cosmo. “Listen, it’s like snowboarding. If you don’t commit, you’re gonna get hurt. The worst way to do it is half-assed. Commit or die. The gospel of send.”
“Yeah yeah yeah,” Cosmo said, “But I’m the one who has to stand in front of these people and talk.”
“It’s simple!” Laird said. “We’ll write out a game plan. Dude, public speaking is easy—you just tell people what they want to hear. And these people, well, they want to hear about galaxies and the creator and some shit.” He shrugged. “Simple enough.”
“Simple enough,” Cosmo said.
“The main thing is confidence. Whatever you say, if you say it with enough confidence, people will believe you. That’s the secret behind all the great cult leaders.”
“But this isn’t a real cult.”
Laird exhaled. “No, but you’re pretending it is. How many times must we plow the same ground?”
They settled on Laird’s title—lieutenant—after another long arbitration. Laird pushed for assistant leader, but Cosmo said that was too confusing, and anyway, they weren’t even sure what the members would be calling Cosmo yet. Surely, “leader” was too plain; something like Osho or His Grace was likely.
“How about His Assistant Grace?” Laird asked.
“No,” Cosmo said plainly, and lieutenant it was. He felt a little silly doling out made-up ranks—lieutenant and deputy, already—but they sounded legitimate, and legitimacy was important. And it was vital to establish Laird as someone of consequence in the group, because as both men knew, Cosmo needed him in a position of power if this thing was going to work.
The group had a leader, the leader had a right-hand-man, and a new society was born.
Eight
The first meeting of Cosmography was set for Friday night. When the day rolled around, Laird was unusually quiet during his shift at REI; he kept his gaze low and mostly rummaged through the clothing displays. Cosmo said little himself. He avoided customers and tried to stop his hands from sweating as he watched the clock.
After their shift, they went to the Horse and ate burgers and drank flat beers and tried to kill time until the meeting. Cosmo was careful not to drink too much—he and his lieutenant agreed that if he showed up drunk for the first confluence of his new religion, he ran the risk of losing the flock before they even got started. Secretly, though, a small part of Cosmo wished for that to happen—it would bail him out of this new responsibility with no harm done. The later it got in the day, the more apprehensive he became about what they were doing. He nursed a golden ale and glanced at the TVs, which were showing some meaningless soccer game. Laird had that subdued look on his face, like his mind was elsewhere. His beer sat in front of him, untouched.
“Hey,” Cosmo said. “Hey, what’s up?”
Laird looked at him in the dim, windowless light. It was dinnertime, and the place was filling up. College students crowded the bar and leaned in to make their orders, and one by one, the dark wooden tables and booths were occupied.
“Nothing,” Laird said. “Jacked for tonight.”
“I can see it on your face. You’re nervous, aren’t you?”
“Nervous? Cosmo, God no.” Laird waved his hand. “You think your buddy Laird gets nervous? I was born for this shit.” He gave a small chuckle and spun the ketchup bottle between his hands.
“You’re nervous,” Cosmo said. “When your face looks like that, you’re nervous. I know you, dude.” He sat back on the booth bench and raised the glass to his lips. “Well, I’m nervous, anyway.” He took a long drink.
“God, me too,” Laird said, exhaling and slouching forward on the table. “Man, I didn’t want to let on, but I’ve been thinking about it a lot.” He gave an exasperated sigh. “I mean, what did we get ourselves into?”
Cosmo craned his neck. “Pardon?”
“Yeah man, I know I helped move this thing forward, but—”
“Helped move it forward?” Cosmo said. He looked around the bar in disbelief. “Dude, you full-on talked me into it.”
Laird nodded briskly. “Yeah yeah yeah. Okay, yeah. But you’re the prophet here. You’re the one who was promised.”
“Come on.”
“And don’t tell me you don’t get some satisfaction out of that.” Laird pointed at him. “Being the big man in charge. Admit it.”
Cosmo leaned back and folded his arms. “Unbelievable.”
“Take ownership, dude!” Laird said. “It’s not like I forced you to do anything.” He picked up his beer and downed half of it.
“Yeah,” Cosmo said, watching Laird. His tone turned hopeful. “Yeah, that’s it. It’s just nerves, is all. For both of us. Let’s have a few and we’ll be fine.” He tipped his own glass back and finished the beer.
“Not too much,” Laird said. “We need to be sharp. You, especially.”
Cosmo shrugged. “You were the one who said confidence is the most important factor. We’ve always been more confident after a few cold ones.” He played with his empty glass on the table. “Remember going after those chicks last winter? At the Rio? We each took two shots, and that gave us the balls to talk to them.”
“If I remember correctly, they left with the guy in the Corvette.”
Cosmo waved him off. “Yeah, but we did it. And we had fun. And that’s all this whole thing is, man—fun.” He drummed the table with both hands, suddenly renewed. “I’m going to get us another round. Drink up.”
He returned minutes later with two more beers and two shot glasses filled with a dark syrupy substance.
“Oh come on,” Laird said when he saw them. “We need to be sharp, man.”
“We need to be confident.” Cosmo raised his shot glass and held it there when Laird balked. Finally, Laird followed suit. The men held the tiny glasses in the air, trying not to spill.
“To Cosmography,” Cosmo Hendricks said.
Laird looked at him. He held the gaze for a long time, and finally, shook his head. “Ah, fuck it. To Cosmography,” he said, and drank.
The men charged through the tunnel underneath 28th Street in high spirits. The vow to keep a lid on the sauce was a distant memory, and Cosmo put his arm around Laird under the warm buzz of light beer and Jaegermeister. What was it, three shots? Four? No matter. He had performed under lesser mental capacities in the past—he couldn’t think of an example, but he was sure he had—and confidence was the key to the whole thing, anyway. After what they’d had, confidence was high.
“Wait!” Laird said as they were about to emerge from the tunnel. “We need a breakdown.”
“Explain yourself,” Cosmo said.
“Breakdown. Like in sports. Hands in the middle, go team. That type of thing.”
Cosmo stuck his hand out between them. “Very well. Hand in.”
The two men stacked their hands together at the mouth of the tunnel on that warm summer night. Friday. They could hear the buzz of students emerging from their apartments—the de facto holding cells between class and the party—overdressed and ready to go.
“God,” Cosmo began with a bowed head, “if you’re there, please don’t get pissed.” He adjusted his stance and thought of what to say next. “May my words be sharp, my mind be…strong…and my spirit be…f
ucking…awesome.”
“Cosmography!” Laird yelled, and threw his hands upward.
They arrived at Copper Mine and Cosmo straightened himself. Set his spine, pushed his shoulders back, and relaxed his eyes. They walked through the alley to the back of the store, as was agreed upon, and stood next to the dumpster. Calmly, Cosmo gave two knocks on the door. It was 11 p.m.
Right away the door creaked open. Through the small opening, Cosmo saw Roy peering out. Roy saw it was them and opened the door fully.
And there they were. Twelve people sitting quietly in plastic chairs that had been set up like the gallery at a sparsely attended dance recital. Cosmo and Laird both felt punched in the back when they saw them. Real, live people. Strangers. It was happening.
“We’ll be right in,” Cosmo told Roy, and took Laird to the side.
The men walked behind the dumpster, where no one could see them. Cosmo noticed the faraway look was creeping back on Laird’s face. He reared back and slapped him across the mouth.
Laird recoiled and prepared to yell out, when Cosmo put his hand to his lips. “Shhh,” he said, whispering. He whisper-yelled at his friend. “If I ever see that look on your face again, I’m demoting you to corporal. Do you understand me?”
Laird touched the spot where Cosmo’s hand had landed. It was a solid smack—a good, reverberating connection. Laird gathered himself and nodded.
“Yeah,” he whispered. His face returned to normal.
“Good,” Cosmo said, breath smelling of barley and black licorice. “Now: confidence. Fucking ooze it.”
They strode through the back door and into the Copper Mine Subs dining room. Cosmo put on a smile and walked slowly, doing his best impression of that tan weirdo in the speedo on the Netflix documentary. The people had loved that guy, before the allegations.
“Good evening!” he said, spreading his arms in an embrace of the moment. Charging hard ahead, projecting certainty, beating back meekness. Cosmo walked to the center of the room and faced the gallery. He heard the door shut behind him. “My name is Cosmo Hendricks, and it’s so, so great to meet you all.”
