by Sam Clemens
He looked at each face. An older woman—long, gray hair, red-framed glasses. A man that looked like a laborer. There, in the back, the woman from the beer garden. Johanna. At the end of the front row, Retha. Roy took his seat next to her.
Cosmo clasped his hands in front of him. He wore a tan button-down with no undershirt, gray jeans, and flip flops. The sandals were a must; he’d examined the leaders of all the most famous sects of the last hundred years, and not one of them wore traditional footwear.
“Now,” Cosmo said, flashing his smile, “my friends. How many of you have seen me before?”
Slowly, carefully, all thirteen raised their hands. The soda machine buzzed.
“Excellent,” Cosmo said. He motioned to his left. “This is brother Laird. He is a close friend, and a devout follower—”
“And Cosmo’s trusted lieutenant,” Laird said, stepping forward. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I present to you: the emancipator.” He pointed to Cosmo.
With the words, there were murmurs among the crowd. Energy; smiles, fingers interlocking. The cautious mood in the room began to break up, and the attendants relaxed. Their faces went from tenuous to eager, and excitement crept in.
“The emancipator!” Laird said again, and finally the dam broke. The followers exploded from their seats and rained vigorous applause. One woman held her heart and began to cry. A confetti cannon went off in the back, and blue and white strips of paper floated down on the group, baptizing them in their new spiritual order.
Nine
At midnight they walked down a lamplit sidewalk, back to Cosmo’s apartment. It was still before bar close, the streets of East Boulder were mostly quiet. An occasional biker or young female in heels passed, but otherwise it was Cosmo, Laird, and the dark night.
Had you seen the duo, you’d assume they were leaving a bar, their joy and merriment manifested in the same way it does a happy drunk. Laughing and reminiscing, leaning on one another, slowly ambling their way down the path.
“Brilliant,” Cosmo said. “Positively brilliant. ‘The emancipator.’ You damned idiot,” he said, but he meant it in the best way.
Cosmo Hendricks’ fears about performance had largely been allayed. He’d set the tone early with his booze-aided poise, and after that, things had just fallen into place. He’d thought they’d expect an inspirational performance of some sort, but in the end that wasn’t at all necessary; the people wanted to love him—as he was already established as the prophet who had come to them in a shared dream—and Cosmo realized he could just get out of the way and let them do it. After the confetti popped, the gathering had evolved into a meet and greet, with Cosmo circulating the room and shaking hands. Party subs were lifted from the Copper Mine coffers and served to the group. Soda flowed like wine. Everyone seemed happy—honored, even—to be in the presence of the emancipator.
Part Two
Ten
Saturday morning, foggy-headed but in good spirits, Cosmo Hendricks walked to REI. He made his way to the break room but didn’t clock in.
“Hey Max,” he said, “you seen Taylor?”
Max, in the middle of his own clock-in process, didn’t look at Cosmo. “He’s on the floor, like usual.” There was an upward inflection at the end, indicating irritation.
“Right, dumb question,” Cosmo said. “You know which department?”
“Camping, I think.”
“Thanks.”
Cosmo left the room. From behind him, he heard Max ask, “You already punch in?” He ignored it and strode to the camping department, where he found Taylor intently focused on a mock campsite display. The manager stood with his hand on his chin and gazed at the scene—four collapsing chairs set around a fake fire pit, with Coleman’s flagship eight-person tent set up nearby.
“I can’t decide,” he said to Cosmo, “if it looks better with four chairs or three.”
Cosmo stood next to him. “Four is symmetrical. I’d stick with that.”
“But is symmetry really what we should be going for, dude? Our aim is to grab the customer’s attention. To really jog them out of their normal routine.” He stopped. “Huh. Little accidental exercise pun there. I think three chairs might be more effective.”
Cosmo tilted his head and looked at the display. “Maybe you’re right. Anyway Taylor, I need to quit.”
Taylor grabbed his side, like he’d been hit by an arrow. He turned to face Cosmo. “Cosmo. What?” His lip curled out.
“Yeah, man. Sorry but I got another opportunity I couldn’t pass up.”
“Huh,” Taylor said, standing up straight. Hopefully, he asked, “Is this one of your jokes?”
“Afraid not.”
“You’re catching me off guard here,” Taylor frowned. He took a staggered step backward. “Do you mind telling me what the job is?”
“Not at all. I’m going to be the spiritual leader for a dozen or so people. Hopefully more. Anyway, it’s going to take up most of my time if I’m going to do it right.”
A whirlwind of emotions played out on Taylor’s face—confusion, disbelief, frustration, and confusion again. He reached out with his right hand in a warm manner. “Man, what’s this about?”
“I know how it sounds,” Cosmo nodded, “but I’m being serious. I’m, like, the head of a new church.”
Just then, there was movement in the Coleman tent. The unmistakable sound of friction on nylon, and then whatever was inside began unzipping the front flap. It was halfway open when Laird popped out.
“Yeah, Taylor, I gotta bail, too,” he said, climbing through the opening and laboring to his feet. “Fuck this place.”
Taylor gasped. “What the fuck, dude?”
Laird turned to look behind him. “Oh, I hang out in the tents all the time. Well, hung out. Like I said, I’m done.”
Taylor put both hands on his head and attempted to think. It was overwhelming for the man—yes, he was losing two reasonably reliable employees, but for Taylor, the lines between work and friendship were always flimsy. By mere nature of their employment relationship, he considered both Cosmo and Laird friends.
“Look, Taylor, don’t take this personally,” Cosmo said. “It was bound to happen eventually.”
Taylor looked up at him. “But you’re fucking with me. Dude, you’re not even going to tell me where you’re going? Is it top secret or something?”
“I’m not fucking with you,” Cosmo said. “I’m one hundred percent serious.”
“He’s the emancipator,” Laird added. “I’m getting some pamphlets printed if you’re interested.”
Cosmo and Laird walked out of REI free men. It was hot—in the eighties and still well before noon—and Cosmo’s shirt stuck to him as they made their way down the sidewalk.
“You sure about this?” he asked Laird. “Seems like we could’ve used the income until this thing gets off the ground.”
Laird shook his head. “We’ll have money coming in in no time. If it doesn’t work out, we can always get another shitty job. But like we promised ourselves: all in.”
“What’s our total in donations?”
“Almost fifteen hundred,” Laird said.
They’d passed a hat. It wasn’t planned, but there hadn’t been a plan, and the energy that night sent things in a certain direction. While Cosmo was glad-handing, he’d seen Laird’s blue ball cap moving from one member to the next, adorned with a hastily made note that read, “Suggested Donation: $100.” His initial reaction was anger—how dare they take advantage of these people financially, and so early on—until he saw how eager people were to put cash in the hat. Everyone gave something, and at the end of the night that thing was overflowing.
Cosmo Hendricks realized then how thirsty these people were to give to the cause. It wasn’t a hard-up bunch—the dirty secret about Boulder hippies was that most of them had an inheritance or two. And judging by some of the brands and jewelry he’d seen worn that first night, his new followers were no different. Rich people needed religion, t
oo.
He promised himself—and made Laird promise—that the money would only go to operational expenses. And there wouldn’t be a problem spending it, because they had grand plans.
The next meeting was a small one; to strategize for the future, Cosmo thought it prudent to call together only Roy and Retha—his “deputies”—and Laird. A closed-door conference between the leader and his trusted advisors. He dubbed it the tribal council.
The sub shop wouldn’t be necessary for this one. To see four glassy eyed people discussing nonsense in public was not an uncommon occurrence in Boulder, so it wouldn’t raise any red flags. They met at Scott Carpenter Park in the late afternoon and sat in a circle in the grass like proper weirdoes.
At the leader’s request, Retha and Roy brought chips.
“Alright,” Cosmo said. He broke the seal on a bag of original Lays. “For this thing to get off the ground, we’re going to need an income source. We really appreciate all the donations—”
“What a blessing,” Laird said.
“—but it’s not fair to try to build this purely on the backs of our members. We don’t want to become Scientology.”
Retha made a disgusted face at the mention of the hucksters. Roy shook his head.
“So we’d like to buy the sub shop,” Laird said. When he spoke, the yellow mashed chips were visible in his mouth.
Roy looked at Cosmo. “Sir?” he said. “That’s a sizable investment.”
“You’re right,” Cosmo said. “But Laird and I have a plan. We’re going to pool the existing donations—along with my personal savings—and put that towards the down payment. Once we determine how much…um, additional financial need…we have, we’ll put out a call for investments.”
Retha and Roy listened.
“We’ll offer it to the members first, of course,” Cosmo continued. “That way they can not only help advance the cause, but hopefully make some money off this, too.” He stopped and checked their faces. “I know this is moving fast, but there’s no reason not to. We’re very, very excited about the future.”
“We’ll still be accepting donations on a weekly basis,” Laird said, “naturally. These will cover operating expenses and upgrades to the shop. With a few small tweaks, we think we can make that place highly profitable.”
Roy raised his hand.
“Speak,” Cosmo said.
“If I may,” he said, “what tweaks do you mean, specifically?”
Laird tipped his chip bag back and shook the crumbs in his mouth. “There’s plenty to be done. Place is a dump, no offense. New tile, get a Coke freestyle machine in there—those things are awesome—that type of thing. Oh, probably put in a drive-through window.”
“Once we own the shop,” Cosmo said, “it’ll also eliminate the problem with the meetings. We’ll be able to meet there any time without restrictions.”
Retha and Roy looked at each other. Cosmo tried to read them. They seemed reasonably open to the ideas.
“What I need from you,” he continued, and watched them both perk up, “is a meeting with your boss.”
The man’s name was Abbot Phillips. He was stocky and gruff and had that bald cul-de-sac thing going on, a hairstyle exclusive to older generations. His skin seemed unnaturally crispy, and when his polo sleeves moved a little, you could see a hard line where the tan cut off.
Mr. Abbot Phillips, vice president of the Boulder Chamber of Commerce and owner of Copper Mine Subs, was already seated at a back booth when Cosmo arrived for their meeting. He looked unhappy.
The bell rang when Cosmo entered the door. He gave a nod to Retha and Roy, who tried to look busy behind the counter, and made his way to the table.
“Mr. Abbot, thank you for meeting with me,” Cosmo said, hand extended for a shake. He wore a collared shirt, tucked in.
“Phillips,” the man grunted. “Abbot Phillips, not the other way around.” He did not stand, nor did he extend his hand.
Cosmo acknowledged him and slid into the booth. “Of course,” he said. “Just a thing I say. Mr., followed by the first name. I would be Mr. Cosmo, in this example.”
“Cosmo,” Phillips said. “Where’d you get a weird name like that?” His face was bunched in a pugnacious scowl. They were not off to a good start.
“My mother was an amateur astronomer,” Cosmo said. He smiled.
“Huh.”
Sweat broke out on Cosmo Hendricks’ forehead. “Well, sir, I appreciate you meeting with me…”
“You said that already.”
“I suppose I did. The thing is, Mr. Phillips, I’ve been an admirer of your business for some time now, and a loyal customer. You sure know how to make a buffalo chicken sub!” He laughed.
Abbot Phillips said nothing.
“Right. Well, sir, I wanted to see about the possibility of investing in the company.”
“Buying it,” Phillips said. “You want to see about buying it. That’s what Roy said.”
Cosmo folded his hands. “That’s right. I’m prepared to make a fair offer—”
“It’s not for sale.”
The younger man tilted his head. “Is that final?”
“Real final,” Phillips said with a snort. “I told Roy that, too. He shoulda told you that, we wouldn’t have to be here wasting our time.”
“Well, sir, clearly you took the meeting. So you must have some interest—”
“How old are you anyway, son?”
Cosmo Hendricks swallowed. “I’m twenty-seven.”
“Ha!” Phillips laughed. “Same as I thought. Those whiskers don’t hide nothing, kid. Tell me: do you know the first damned thing about running a business?”
“I may be young, but I’m ambitious,” Cosmo said. He changed his tone now; strong and hard. “I have numerous partners who believe in my mission. I can—”
“Well, maybe you should send one of them partners next time cuz, sorry kid, you ain’t it.” Abbot Phillips picked his worn mesh hat off the table and placed it on his head. “Don’t mean to be rude, son, but you’re nowhere near ready.”
“Mr. Phillips, if you’d at least hear my offe—”
“It ain’t for sale,” Phillips said. “That’s final.” He leaned in then. “And also, if you were part of any of that funny business that happened after close the other night, you need to know that’ll be the last time that happens.”
Cosmo blinked. “Not sure what you’re talking about.”
“Maybe you are, maybe not,” the owner said, sliding his way out of the booth. “Cameras and motion sensors, though. Place lit up like a Christmas tree. Only reason I didn’t call the cops is because Retha and Roy were here, and I’m giving them a do-over.” He put his hands on the table to get up. “Don’t know what it was about, don’t wanna know, but it ain’t gonna happen again or there’re gonna be problems.”
Abbot Phillips left, and Cosmo was alone at the table, staring blankly across the restaurant.
Eleven
Shit. The surly sub shop owner’s refusal to sell put a damper on Cosmo’s plan on multiple fronts. Yes, they needed a business to fund the operation, and he and Laird had hoped Retha and Roy’s relationship with Abbot Phillips might even garner some concessions in their favor. This turned out to be woefully inaccurate; the ol’ bastard didn’t seem to give a single shit that Cosmo was close with his daytime employees, at least not in a way that would benefit him.
But they could always get another business. The real headache had come from the bomb that baldy had dropped at the end: he was onto them after a single meeting, and using the sub shop for future cult gatherings looked doubtful. Perhaps Cosmo had been foolish to think they could sneak in under the radar. It was surprising the police hadn’t been called. He wondered what type of conversation the old man had had with Retha and Roy.
The issue here was cash flow; to generate the cash to buy a business, they needed donations, and to gather donations, they needed a meeting place. The plan was to gradually build up the coffers while the sale
was being negotiated—through investments and, if the generosity continued, straight-up gifts—and then come with cash on the day of closing. They could form a shell corporation to put a buffer between the business and the Church of Cosmography. Or something like that—Laird was on it. But they needed a place to meet.
Cosmo considered holding meetings in his apartment, but quickly came off it. Seeing that shithole would easily break whatever delusions these people had of him as their prophet, no matter how much he dressed it up. Same for Laird’s place, which was considerably grosser. They could meet in the park, but the whole group was sure to raise questions, especially if the pamphlets caused the growth Laird was projecting.
The lieutenant of Cosmography had invested a sizable chunk of their initial donations in the typesetting and printing of recruitment pamphlets. Trifold, glossy numbers decorated with bright galaxies and other celestial images. The messaging was wispy and ethereal, talking of “new frontiers” and “taking the journey” and “emancipation.” There was a number to call for more info—Laird’s cell—and, originally, cryptic information about the time and location of the meetings. Now, printing would have to be halted until they knew where they would meet.
Cosmo Hendricks spent the evening alone, mulling the problem. He walked along the town’s main bike path and wondered: where could they find a hideout as good as Copper Mine Subs? A public place that gave them privacy, and also free soda?
“We’re not going anywhere,” Laird said. He was adamant.
“I told you, dude, he knows. This guy’s not messing around.”
Standing in Cosmo’s apartment, Laird shook his head. “You told me the whole thing. He disrespected you. Even more reason not to leave. We can’t be intimidated into leaving our building.”
