The Shelter

by Peter Foley

  “I’ve got a job that I’ve had for a year and it was got for me by a miracle,” she continues. “A man employed me when I wasn’t able to go to work for six weeks, and he waited for six weeks, with nobody working for him, because our Pastor kept that job open for me.”

  The congregation applaud with a pitter-patter of hands and emphatic cries of “Yes!”. By now, their six hundred eyes stare like a galaxy at attention. The lady speaker continues.

  “I was one of the fortunate ones to visit Disneyland with this Temple. I was also doubly blessed on that trip to be sat in the company of our Pastor, and in the course of our conversation he asked me how I was doing in my job, and I told him that each month we were getting fewer and fewer orders and that my employers were going bankrupt, and that was all that was said. When we came back from the trip, my boss was in a state of turmoil. The orders were pouring in so fast he didn’t know what to do with them.”

  Cries of “Hallelujah” ring out and many hands come together.

  “My boss had to okay another woman, one of our fellow Temple members, full time to keep up with the orders, and he still doesn’t know what’s going on. I didn’t even think to ask for any help.

  “Another thing is, I ran out of gas just the other day. I had about a mile and a half to go to the service station and, well, my car just sputtered and stopped. I tried to start it and see if it would go a few more feet, to save me walking, when suddenly there was gasoline in the car. The meter went up a few notches then down, then up a few notches and up again, and I was able to get to the service station. I drove to the wrong side of the pump and had to circle around. I was so excited, and I had plenty of gas to do all this, and I didn’t even ask.

  “And you know, for thirty years, I have prayed to God, getting down on my knees, pleading and crying for help, and I got nothing but disappointment and heartache. And now we have a Pastor who loves each and every one of us so much that we don’t even have to ask, the blessings are simply there. He wants to give us so much, everything we need and everything we desire and everything that’s good appears to us, even before we ask.”

  The crowd rises and whoops. The speaker lifts her palms to the ceiling.

  “How thankful we are, Pastor, thank you! With our Pastor here, I know everything is going to be all right. I just know it!”

  With her last exultation the crowd roar with delight, but she’s not done.

  “So, you know, Pastor, I’m going to come every single week, and if I can’t come for any reason, I’m going to call you an’ let you know why!” She transforms her expression from grace to imputation and fixes it on the audience for a time longer than a moment. The clapping and yelling sustains, then fades.

  She departs the stage and the band picks up the energy with a smooth soulful version of “The Spirit of the Consciousness”. People jump, sing and dance. Halfway through the first verse, Pastor Quincy Gordon emerges on the stage.

  The Pastor stands at the lectern and adds his voice to the song via the loudspeaker system. It’s a deep commanding voice. His posture is its equal; tall, upright and broad. His hair is slicked back. A long black shimmering satin gown falls from his shoulders down to his feet, as he moves the material flows like water. As he sings he raises a fist into the air, on his wrist rests a large gold watch, it glitters in the light. He lowers his hand with a slow deliberate motion. The watch face blinks white as he unclasps the watch and removes it from his wrist. Extending out his arm, he holds out the watch and offers the timepiece to a parishioner in the front row. The gift is accepted with delight.

  The final verse is over, the band settle into a slower softer melody. Pastor Quincy Gordon speaks over the music with his characteristic clear diction and warm southern baritone.

  “We come together today to build a better world. No more chains should bind us.

  Arise ye slaves once and for all. The earth shall rise on new foundations.

  We have been naught, we shall be all.

  We want no condescending saviors to rule us from their judgment hall.”

  The music fades and the sermon begins with some tranquil words from the pastor.

  “Now, would each of you give a fond embrace and a salutary kiss of greeting to your neighbor. Let’s fill this atmosphere with warmth and love.”

  Oscar hugs his mother and more open arms surround him. People turn towards one another with open hearts. The Pastor hugs the man next to him, then blows a kiss to the front row.

  “Love is a healing remedy. Freedom is faith. Let us believe. Let us be free.” A sudden snap of confusion contorts the Pastor’s face. He lifts a hand to his brow in discomfort.

  “…Sister… Sister Barbara,” he says, his discomfort dissolves into curiosity as he looks into the crowd.

  “Sister Barbara, you’re concerned about the loss of your sight? You’re not able to see me clearly?”

  An elderly woman rises to her feet. She stands hunched and unsteady in a canvas-colored smocked dress. A pair of thick glasses cover her eyes. The pastor speaks to her over the seated crowd.

  “Things are just a blur to you, aren’t they? You’ve had to stumble around recently, through crowds and… you’re not able to see people’s faces clearly, even close up, are you?”

  Sister Barbara lifts a tissue to her nose and takes a sharp, upset breath. “It’s true.”

  “You have told me nothing about your condition?”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “Please, now.” He strikes a pose with one hand on the lectern and the other on his hip, he holds his chin high in the air. “Take off your glasses, Sister Barbara. Let’s just dare our faith tonight.”

  The tearful woman removes her glasses and blinks at the Pastor.

  “Look at my face,” he says. Slowly running his hands through the air around his face, he turns her focus towards his eyes.

  “I’m going to hold up some fingers for you. I want you to concentrate hard. I love you. The people love you. Tell me, how many fingers do you see?” He reaches out a hand in front of him and gestures a number with his fingers. Sister Barbara squints across the room. Amid the silence, she stares.

  “…Three…” she says. The room explodes with delight. Tears run down Sister Barbara’s face.

  “You don’t even need your glasses, child,” the Pastor says triumphantly, as Sister Barbara weeps. “Let us all be thankful with her and feel her joy.” The rapture of the crowd gathers. The Pastor continues.

  “Little Miss Rosie Porter,” he says with a sharp change of tone. Peering down at a little girl in the crowd, he says, “I see you frowning down there. Why do you frown at me? Just because you are small in size and age does not mean you can hide from Father’s gaze. Why don’t you smile at me?”

  “I do, sir,” the nine-year-old says.

  “Lies. The child lies. Even Sister Barbara, before she was healed, even with her bad eyes, she could see you frowning. Let me tell you, Miss Rosie Porter, the sooner you let love into your heart the better your life is going to be, little darling. So, get wise to it.”

  The audience agrees with a flutter of applause. Little Miss Rosie Porter bows her blushing head. The Pastor resumes his sermon.

  “This administration serves no other purpose than to show mankind the road to love and freedom. Condescending saviors can stay in their judgment hall. I am here as a sample, and as an example, to show you that with love and freedom you can bring yourself up with your own bootstraps, and show that you, yourself, can become your own God. Not in condescension, but in resurrection and upliftment from whatever health condition, economic injustice or servitude you might have had to endure. Within you are the keys to deliverance, within you is love and freedom. I have come to show you the only God you need is in you!”

  A current of power charges the room, it jolts joyous people into the air while the organ plays a few celebratory notes. Some people claw at their clothes, some screw up their faces, others tremor all over, some dance and jerk, others hop, some scream.
Voices fight for dominance of both volume and gratitude. The Pastor continues in full throat.

  “That is my only purpose in being here. When the transition comes, the soul of every man and woman will open like a moonflower and there shall be no need for Gods, or any other ideology, rituals or traditions. There will be no concerns about tomorrow because every day will be Heaven. We will build the Heaven that man has dreamed about. We will have Heaven, but not the one taught to us by the rich – the one in which maybe one day we would be given a job shining shoes in the throne room! No. We’ll have our own Heaven, here and now!”

  The Pastor drives each word as if it were a nail. He stands like marble as the applause rises and falls.

  “I want you all to know that I see you, I see your pain. These are the days when the American house is on fire. We need to get on our way to protection. The fat cats will not look out for you! When America faces a crisis, the people with the greatest social and economic problems are the ones that are going to go first.” The Pastor clicks his fingers once.

  “This morning, I heard the radio raving about a tremendous rainfall of such magnitude that the entire nation is fearful. That rain shows you two things; that God is on our side and it is beautiful!”

  The crowd burst.

  “A great hurricane is upon us. A cleansing rain is about to come and even Noah couldn’t build an ark quickly enough for this one, but dear friends, dear loved ones, how I am good to you. I have found a place for us, a place of perfect sanctuary where you will be safe, and you will be dry, and you will have all the supplies you need to live in freedom. Come five tomorrow evening, we’ll get on our Greyhound buses and we’ll take all we can — men, women and children. I will deliver safe passage to all!”

  9

  Double up or quit

  Stephen’s big California welcome is a bottle of Corkies beer. The bar is the legendary Rainbow Bar and Grill on Sunset Boulevard. It’s dark inside. The bar is illuminated more by rope lights and TV sets than any other source. The walls and floors are painted in two-decade-old, sticky, matt black paint. Pink and yellow posters are dotted here and there to advertise upcoming performances from local bands such as RockClawQanon and PythosNine.

  Although there are no smokers in sight, the musk of tobacco remains ingrained in the interior. The sound of a distorted guitar cuts the air. Colorful gumball machines crowd a small seating area that’s otherwise dominated by bar stools that have Jack’s black and white “Old No7 brand” emblazoned on the ass. Bottles of liquor huddle together on a long shelf behind the small bar, which is left unmanned, unless you look desperate enough for a drink.

  Two regulars keep an eye on things from the vantage of barstools close by the cash register. To their right sits a lonely video-gambling machine that the rock star Lemmy used to play all night and all day, as the legend goes.

  “Eight thirty,” one elderly barfly says to another. “Any minute now.”

  The old boys sit and watch the TV news with a glass of Jack and coke in hand. A few other regulars start flowing into the bar from the restaurant down the hallway. A new hushed tone asks what time it starts.

  “Eight thirty.”

  “What’s on?” Stephen asks a passing woman, gesturing at the biggest TV.

  “The President’s address,” is the short answer. The room quickly fills with people jostling for position, all trying to get a good look at the TV sets above the bar. The air is tense enough for Stephen to wonder if he should expect a declaration of war.

  At eight thirty prompt, the news fades out and the President of the United States fades in, centered on screen. He sits with his clasped hands resting on a beautiful English oak desk, flanked either side by golden drapes with pictures of the first family in the background. A beautiful crisp flag of stars and stripes stands behind his right shoulder, the blue presidential flag at his left. He looks sternly at the camera.

  “My fellow Americans. Today the World Weather Organization has officially declared Hurricane Jason a category-five hurricane. We’ve been in frequent contact with our citizens and officials on the west coast of our great nation. The hurricane is looming over the Pacific Ocean and it’s heading directly for California much quicker than first anticipated. Time is of the essence. We are marshalling the full power of the federal government and the private sector to come to the aid of the American people. This is the most aggressive hurricane that any nation has faced in modern history. One hundred million people lie in its path. I am here to give you the grave news that catastrophic damage will occur. We need to act now.

  “After consulting with our top government science professionals and with our military, I have decided to take several strong but necessary actions to protect American lives. We will be suspending all travel to California for the next ninety days. The new rules will come into effect immediately. To all those planning trips to the state of California, do not travel. These restrictions will be adjusted subject to conditions on the ground as and when they improve.

  “California has now moved into a state of emergency. It is with urgency that I call for the evacuation. As we speak, our fine military is mobilizing to assist in the evacuation effort. Through an evacuation, we can greatly reduce the threat to our citizens and we will ultimately support those in need throughout the hurricane and afterwards. As our country braces for impact, I urge you to stay calm and begin the evacuation in an orderly fashion. I repeat, begin the evacuation in an orderly fashion. We are opening up stadiums, churches and city halls as gathering places for those in need of assistance during the evacuation. More advice is to follow. No nation is more prepared or more resilient than the United States. We are all in this together. As history has proven, Americans rise to a challenge together. God bless you and God bless America.”

  The President fades out. The bar stays silent. Many look at the TVs in disbelief.

  “Well, junior, drink up. We’re gettin’ outta here now,” says one old bar buddy to another. With a deep slug of his drink, he grabs his coat and moves his ass off the stool and towards the exit, triggering an exodus.

  “Screw this weather. Sun always shines in LA, my ass! I’m staying right here and finishing my drink, no rain or President is going to tell me what I gotta do,” Stephen says out loud, looking about the vacant bar. His eyes settle on the video-gambling machine. “Cheers, Lemmy. Looks like it’s just you and me now, an honor to meet ya. Nobody I’d rather be in a hurricane with. We might as well help ourselves to another beer, it can’t hurt, right? Let’s have one for the road…”

  Several beers and almost a day later Stephen wakes up, slumped in the driver’s seat of his pickup with the sound of driving rain all around him, his windows are smeared by a wash of water from a bright blinking sky. Desperately hungover, he looks at his phone and sees a message from Larry. It’s a picture of a goofy-looking kid with a stupid smile and the words, “Went to LA for the first time – Hurricane Jason”.

  “Oh, shit. Err… better get movin’ I guess.” Stephen rubs his face and with a deep breath he starts the pickup and hits the gas. Destination: anywhere but here.

  10

  We’ll be right back…

  Against her better judgment, Hazel took Flynn’s advice and is appearing before the media. Typically, she’s called in when an expert voice is required to act as a scientific counterpoint to some political rhetoric, and this evening’s engagement is no different. At this moment, she’s sitting in a small sound-treated radio studio at KBBLBBL. Inside the studio’s dark foam walls, she peeks over a spongey yellow microphone and listens to the other guest: candidate for Governor, Patricia Bigham.

  “Recession is inevitable. You can’t have an entire state wiped out and assume everything is going to be fine for the rest of the country. And this is not just an American problem, Hurricane Jason will have global economic implications. The President had early warnings about this hurricane and what has he done to prepare the state? Nothing. Congress will need to bail out California to the tune o
f $1 trillion! The effects will ripple across the US economy for decades, and it’s all due to a lack of preparedness on the federal level.”

  The host, wearing a comfortable pair of headphones, sits at a bright control board dotted with colored LEDs. He swigs cold black coffee from a stained mug, gulping before he speaks.

  “Okay, Patricia, okay. You’re getting way ahead of yourself here. What you’re doing is irresponsible scaremongering. Frankly, only the Democrats would politicize the weather. Now isn’t the time for politics, the response to any disaster should be nonpartisan – but we all know that this whole situation is a hoax, a smokescreen that’s been designed by the dishonest, do-nothing, deep-state Democrats to undermine the President. Will they stop trying to derail this country?”

  The host holds up a hand to stop the guest and puts his lips close to the mic. “And for those tuning in, you are listening to Hurricane Jason Live on KBBLBBL. We’ll be right back after this.”

  “Vance, what the fuck was that?” Patricia Bigham says.

  The producer speaks through their studio headphones. “Look, I’m pretty sure the transmission is getting lost in the hurricane so we might as well wrap this up and get to our shelters. We are back live in three, two, one…”

  “You’re right back here with Vance Trick on KBBLBBL. I’m sorry listeners, we’re going to call this one early, but before we do, we have scientist Hazel Cox in the studio with us to explain a little about the realities of the hurricane. Hazel, perhaps controversially, you’re of the opinion that the hurricane front coming in is nothing that California hasn’t been through before?”

  In truth, the newest data shows that Hurricane Jason is growing rapidly, quicker than even Hazel anticipated. She composes herself and speaks in clear, deliberate tones.

  “We've seen it before, but not since the 1930s. I wouldn’t call it a hoax, certainly not. It’s a serious weather front, and citizens should take every precaution. With this hurricane’s lifecycle we can expect winds over one hundred miles an hour and persistent rain; typical tropical hurricane conditions. It's dangerous, but it'll be over within two to three days. So, keep calm and either stay in a safe lockdown location or evacuate, that's my advice. I’ve really no idea why the hurricane is being talked up as the reaper coming to harvest, it–”