by A. R. Braun
“I’ll be eighteen next month.”
He yanked his hand away.
Why does God send men and little girls after me? I ask Him three times a day for Miss Right. Of course, He never gives that.
Jig winced as the projector flashed the golden arches on the screen above the pulpit. Because the head pastor and his family were on vacation—a cruise in the Mediterranean—Pastor Charlie Daily was slated to preach.
With a smirk, Charlie walked up and stood before the pulpit. “Anyone recognize this logo?”
“McDonald’s,” the congregation cried.
Jig shifted in his seat, suddenly uncomfortable.
“Why do you think I had this logo thrown up on the screen?” Pastor Charlie added.
“Because they’re brainwashed,” everyone in the congregation but Jig cried.
“You got it. That’s what they are, eating those big sandwiches. When I was a boy, all they had were small cheeseburgers.”
Jig put his face in his hands.
***
The subject of the sermon had turned to “loving everybody” and “giving everybody everything.”
I don’t know about all that. Wait, I’d better submit to God, or it’s an eternity in hell.
As if in answer to his thought, the service finally ended (and wasn’t that soloist the worst singer in the world with his off-key chirping? Apparently, one didn’t have to be a professional singer to croon at church), but a long-haired youth approached Jig. His blond mane came to his collar. He had the face of a woman and a slim body.
Give everybody everything? Love everyone up?
Jig didn’t want to do anything for this guy. He wasn’t the kind of person Jig had hung out with when a metalhead.
Watch it. Better please God, not myself.
The young man who smelled of moisturizer grinned at him with movie-star teeth.
Bah, someone told him I played guitar—probably Charlie.
“Hey, cool,” the young man said in a soft, purring voice. “My name’s Dougy. What’s yours?”
He sighed. “Jig Tanbaw.”
Dougy spider-walked with his hands. “Woo! Gettin’ Jiggy! I saw you doin’ your ‘jig’ to the church band.”
Jig shook his head. Another thing he felt compelled to do: dance during the worship service, though all the teen girls gave him the evil eye when he did, as well as the shaven-headed men, who added laughter to the mix.
“Well, way cool. I heard you play guitar.” Dougy grinned ear to ear, his red cheeks so rosy Jig thought he would burst an artery. “I do, too, and I know a drummer. Guess what? Charlie said I could practice here.”
Jig fought not to roll his eyes.
Dougy held out his hands. “What’s the matter, bro’? Don’t ya wanna get down?”
Just endure it so God won’t send you to hell.
“What bands do you like?” Jig asked.
Dougy’s mouth formed an o. The young “man’s” lashy eyes looked up at . . . what? An invisible halo? “Oh, you know, whatever rocks: Bleach, Clay Aiken, Newsboys, Adam Lambert, and David Bowie. Oh, and American Idol.” His eyes widened. “But for God.”
“You’d love my boss,” Jig said.
Dougy cocked his head, his baby-fine hair flopping like a sixteen-year-old girl’s. “Oh? Where do you work?”
“Varsity Cheer. We’re not hiring, though.”
I’m not working with this guy, too.
Dougy said, “Why don’t you jam with us?”
“When did he say we could practice?”
He grinned again. It seemed he never frowned. “Bring your guit-fiddle Tuesday at sevenish.” He actually batted his eyes.
A thought of violence flashed into Jig’s mind: punching Dougy in the face. But he resisted and clung to his faith. “I guess. I’ve got family coming over this afternoon. Gotta go.”
Dougy winked at him. “Bye, cool.”
Jig power-walked out of there.
Later, he couldn’t sleep because he hallucinated a naked Dougy climbing all over him. He threw punches at nothing till 5:00 a.m.
***
A wreck, Jig dragged his feet into work on Monday. He sat at his desk and stared in despair at the black keyboard.
When he turned on his computer, green alien babies with long black claws and black eyes held a concert on their purple planet with a donkey’s face in the sun. They sang Yahweh Girl’s latest song that Jig had endured on the way to work: “I’m Not Perfect, but a Little Betta than a Bad-Bad Sinna.”
Green guts exploded from the screen onto Jig’s face, the scent of the goo like bubble gum and expired milk, which turned into pink maggots, then leeches that sucked the blood out of his veins as he again crumpled in his mind.
Jig hurried to the bathroom, lucky his boss was detained. Once inside, he cried out and tried to bat away the hallucinations with his hands. Yet they wouldn’t leave. He forced himself to walk back to his desk.
I’m going to kill myself if these hallucinations don’t stop.
He gagged, then sighed in relief as the computer now showed the familiar call list he abhorred. He scrolled through it. Holding coffee, Biff came through the door.
Next to Jig, Bobert continued to cough.
Biff cried, “You gonna make it, Bobert?”
He could only nod.
Biff hurried to the huge man’s desk. “Buddy, you’re sick all the time. You’re going to infect the whole office. I insist you go home and rest.”
Bobert snapped his neck Biff’s way. “But boss! I—” He sneezed.
Biff clutched a folder to his face. “But nothing. Orders from on high, my friend.”
Bobert glanced at the ceiling. “From God?”
Tamara, Jillian, and Dirk laughed.
“Corporate, genius,” Biff answered.
“Fine. Let me get my stuff.”
His “stuff” amounted to a gas station mug the size of Jig’s chest, a carton of smokes, and packages upon packages of cheese puffs and chocolate-flavored treats. He coughed and whooped all the way to the door.
Wishing for death, Jig watched his manager do a perfunctory cleaning job at Bobert’s desk with a roll of paper towels and all-purpose cleaner.
Biff winked at him. “You’re getting a new buddy.”
Oh, Lord, not someone worse.
Knowing his Gawd, it would be Chucko.
“I’m gonna call Bobert and tell him he’s fired,” Biff went on. “Disease! Yuck! When’s he not sick?”
Jig nodded and went back to his arduous work. Biff walked out of the room.
After a few minutes, Jig looked up. A young man with black hair to the collar and a Megadeth shirt with a picture of Dave Mustaine jamming on his guitar stood next to him. He also wore a ChiSox hat, plus black high-top Chucks. He rocked the dad jeans, had a goatee, and didn’t look like a woman at all.
Now this is the kind of bandmate I want.
Jig groaned as he thought of tomorrow night’s jam session.
Tuesday night: time for Dougy.
Thoughts of beating the girly man to a bloody pulp tried to take over his mind, but Jig again resisted. It was getting harder to overcome, though.
The man nodded at him.
Biff stood between them. “This is your new buddy, C. J.”
C. J. furrowed his brow. “ ‘Buddy?’ You mean co-worker?”
Biff clicked his mouth. “It’s time for some on-the-job training. Jig, let him listen to you for a while.” Biff laughed, slapped Jig on the back, and walked off.
“What’s up?” The stolid man held out his hand.
He shook with him. “I’m Jig.”
“I heard.” C. J. sized him up. “What’s wrong, brother? You look like death warmed over, if you don’t mind me saying so.”
Jig made a call and struck out again.
I know, God, I’ve got to witness to him. Thanks a lot. That’s illegal at work.
“Nothing’s wrong. I’m a Christian and blessed . . . I guess.” He dialed the next nu
mber.
“Me, too. You don’t sound blessed, though.”
Jig groaned after he blew the next call. “Christianity is driving me insane. I’m trying to act like the people in the Bible, but it’s making me hallucinate.”
C. J. chuckled and nodded. “Been there, brother. Talk to me on break.”
***
At break time, C. J. took him over to the side of the building, away from the others. “Look, fanaticism drives people insane.”
“But what about what the Bible says?” Jig asked.
C. J. shook his head. “The Bible says, ‘Be not righteous over much. Why should you destroy yourself’? In a world where congregations drink poison to hop a spaceship, you’ve got to be a little down with evil, or you’ll lose your mind.”
Beads of sweat erupted on Jig’s forehead. The angry sun had turned murderous.
“I used to be a fanatic and I had to stop,” C. J. continued. “It drove me nuts for a few years, making me see shit that wasn’t there. You’re an apostate. You can’t be like the people in the Bible.”
“You’re right, I can’t.” Jig shook his fist at the sky. “I’m so mad at God!”
C. J. nodded. “Go ahead, get angry. He can take it.”
“The people at church would say not to.”
C. J. sighed. “They’re like the idiots that came to rebuke Job when he lost everything and cursed his life. God condemned them, taking Job’s side. The Lord knows He’s cruel.” C. J. regarded him intently. “You don’t have to be a fanatical fuck!”
Joy erupted in Jig like a drug high, and a monkey climbed off his back. “I’m supposed to go to band practice with this wimp tomorrow night because God says I should be into slow music.”
C. J. frowned. “What bands do you like, bro’?”
Jig pointed at C. J.’s shirt. “That kind.”
“Then you’re lying if you say you don’t like metal, and that’s a worse sin. My church said you could be stuck dead for that.”
Jig grabbed him and shook him. “You’re a lifesaver, you know it?”
C. J. laughed. “Deprogram, and your mental problems will go away. At my rock church, they accept me for who I am.” He looked at his watch. “Time to get back to work.”
***
Tuesday morning, a disturbing memory made Jig bolt upright in his bed. Chucko, spotlighted by streetlights, had been across the street from his apartment, yelling for him to wake up. Jig had crossed the street and stabbed him like a voodoo doll, then had hidden him in a dumpster. It seemed real, but it had to be a nightmare. It couldn’t really have happened, could it?
***
Elated and hallucination-free, Jig grinned as he walked into church with his black flying-V guitar, followed by C. J., who carried his black hourglass-body bass guitar.
C. J. saved my ass big-time, and he’s going to be my bandmate.
Jig walked up to Dougy, who stood with a pink guitar in front of a young man with a crew-cut and glasses behind the church’s enclosed-in-glass drum set. The drummer waved.
“Hey, cool,” Dougy cooed. “All right, you found a bassist! Let’s jam!”
Jig and C. J. plugged in.
“Let’s blow Dougy away!” Jig said.
The duo blasted into a thrash number they’d written after a few drinks called “Impending Destruction.” Cavalierly, the drummer sped up and kept up with them.
Dougy had no such luck. He blanched and froze. Dougy yelled for them to stop, but they continued through the coda.
The triumvirate finished. Jig and C. J. cheered the drummer. They shook hands with him and told him he’d done a hell of a job.
Dougy said, “No, cool, I can’t play that fast. If you want to play violent music, then I’m history.”
“I’ve wanted to say this for a while,” Jig said. “I don’t really care for you, Dougy, and I’m not going to play your kind of music.”
Jig pulled out his hunting knife and stabbed Dougy over and over in the stomach. Crimson bloomed like a rose on the effeminate man’s tie-dye shirt. The pincushion blanched, slipped in his own blood, then sat down hard.
C. J. and the drummer’s eyes grew wide. They gaped.
“You killed me,” Dougy whined, his hands stained with blood from holding his entrails in.
Jig chuckled. “Who cares? I’m going to C. J.’s church next weekend . . . after a double cheeseburger at McDonald’s.”
C. J. bent down before Dougy and begged him to be all right. The white-faced drummer whipped out his cell phone.
I’m finally free!
Jig raised his fists and cheered, but fanatic or not, sirens whooped in the distance.
Animals From the Beyond
Reed might as well have died inside. On autopilot, he walked out of the church. Apparently, it wasn’t enough for him to have lost his best friend—Midnight, the family cat. He’d also been the recipient of the world’s worst message: doom for all who lived.
The pastor had just talked about double blessings; yeah, right: double curses, more like.
He reflected on his dearly departed pet as he’d done many times in the last few days. Reed had been joined at the hip with his black cat, but Midnight hadn’t been able to resist chasing that rabbit into the street, and the delivery truck hadn’t had time to slow down. Therefore, his mom and dad picked up a kitten from the next-door neighbors, the last runt of a litter, in an attempt to ameliorate his state of mind. Yet Reed wasn’t placated.
It’s not the same. That kitten’s not Midnight.
Reed threw his brown bangs out of his eyes. It didn’t take long for his short hair to grow like the weeds that choked the church’s front lawn. His tight-fitting suit itched so badly he had to scratch in front of everyone; his skin crawled, pins and needles aggravating him to no end.
“What’s got you down, slugger? You look like you just had a wide-awake nightmare.” His dad placed a hand on his shoulder. With his immaculate haircut and tailored suit, he could’ve been Spiderman absent his costume.
Reed stared at the cement as they reached the bottom of the church steps. “Nothin.’ ”
His father tickled him, yet Reed didn’t laugh.
“Not now, Dad!”
His mother lifted an eyebrow, her straight brown hair down to her waist. Mom could’ve been on TV, the new number-one model, but Reed didn’t care about that. She was the only girl he tolerated, albeit a grown-up girl. This one had his best interests at heart, unlike the kids at school. Deena even wanted Reed to be her slave, carrying her books—not in this lifetime.
His parents had donned their sunglasses. Reed lifted a hand to shield his eyes from the sun’s glare.
“Come on, buddy,” his father said. “Out with it, or no McDonald’s.”
“I’ll get in trouble.” Reed again faced the cement.
His dad lifted Reed’s chin. “You won’t get in trouble, I promise.”
His mom stood behind Reed and put her soft hands on his shoulders, squeezing gingerly. “Do as your father says.”
His dad bent his knees and grabbed Reed’s arms. “Now, slugger.”
Reed looked to the left, then to the right, and he finally fixed his eyes on his father. He heaved a heavy, trembling sigh. Like tearing off a Band-Aid, the only way to do this was to spit it out before he could change his mind.
“God told me heaven is full,” Reed said tersely.
His father met his mother’s gaze. She had the same suspicious look on her face: a furrowed brow, one corner of her lips turned up.
“Except the spots for the 144,000 Jews who wouldn’t sin,” Reed continued. “God said we’ve entered the tribu-something.”
“You mean the tribulation?” his father asked.
Reed nodded emphatically. “Heaven, full! You know what that means?”
His dad shook his head.
“We’re not the only ones left out.” Reed bawled. “That includes the animals, too!” He burst forth onto one of his father’s shoulders, drenching his dress jacket w
ith tears.
“It’s probably just your imagination,” his dad said. “Your best friend died, so your mind’s playing tricks on you.”
He wanted to believe his father more than anything, but Reed knew otherwise.
***
They’d gone straight to McDonald’s after church, and Reed hadn’t been able to enjoy the spicy food, but he’d forced it down because his parents expected him to. Now, he sat through the news, playing, but not really paying attention to, his hand-held video game as his parents cuddled. The newscaster said the Jews had rebuilt Solomon’s Temple in Jerusalem because a religious figure had risen up that they thought of as God. Reed wasn’t sure what that meant, but he knew it sounded awful. Yet his knowledge of what waited for the people of the earth was far worse. Could this have something to do with what God had told him? Even though The Lord had warned him up front, it provided little consolation.
Especially when his parents called this man the Antichrist.
When Reed asked who that was, they answered “an evil leader,” but told him not to worry. Not a stupid six-year-old, Reed worried anyway. He knew a sugar-coating when he heard one.
Before long, his bedtime came. Reed cursed Duke, the pit bull next door. The constant barking grated at his nerves. As soon as that stopped, his parents made wild-animal sounds.
If it wasn’t one thing, it was another.
Being grown-up is gross.
After all, why all the noise? Reed knew where babies really came from—the stork. The other boys at school had a different theory, however. Reed had heard the details from his chums, a sickening story about his parents’ sweaty bodies rubbing together with what they peed with. But Reed knew better. After all, his schoolmates told many tall tales, and this was no different.
When the moaning and groaning finally ended, Reed bounded out of bed. Protected from the chilly fall air by pajamas with funny monsters, he made his way out of his room and into the hall. It seemed like the longest walk he’d ever taken. Reed knew what waited for him downstairs, and he didn’t much like it. Something like a nightmare made flesh. He trembled, and his heartbeat sped up.
Reed had been hearing demented howling outside his window all night, a loud meow like a baby from hell. This stirred revulsion in his young-and-tender heart. He’d recognize that voice anywhere, no matter how morbid it had become.
