by Doug Worgul
“Everybody seemed really happy about our news,” A.B. said.
Jen smiled and nodded. “Of course, A.B. Like you said, they’re our best friends.”
They thought about their news and their friends and about the night and the music.
“We need to quit smoking, A.B.,” said Jen. “Before the wedding.”
A.B. took a long draw on his cigarette.
“I been thinkin’ the same thing.”
He flicked the ash from the end of his cigarette out the window.
“You know that Rudy guy? The one from my mom’s funeral who came up to us outside the restaurant that one time? Well, he stopped by after work the other day and asked me again if I wanted to go with him up to one of the casinos. I didn’t really want to, but I couldn’t think of a reason why not, so I said I’d go. We’re going tomorrow night. I hope that’s okay. I didn’t really want to go, but he and my mom were together an’ all.”
Jen squeezed A.B.’s knee. “You don’t need to explain. I think it’s nice you’re going with him. Just don’t lose all your money playin’ craps.”
*
A.B. knew that his mother liked gambling on the floating casinos—the “boats”—docked along the Missouri River, but he had never been to one and was anxious about it.
“I don’t know what to wear or how much money to bring,” he told Jen. “And I don’t know how any of the machines or games work. When you think about it, I don’t really know anything at all about the whole deal.”
Jen said he didn’t need to worry about any of it. All he needed to do was to go and have fun with Rudy.
The plan was that they would meet at the Ameristar, eat dinner first at one of the casino’s restaurants, gamble a little, then maybe check out one of the bands at one of the bars. Rudy was pacing in front of the main entrance when A.B. arrived. He smiled and took A.B. by the arm and pulled him inside.
“Great to see you, A.B. I think it’s great we’re getting together like this, don’t you? I think your ma would be real pleased. I really do. Mona, she was great. I miss her all the time. I think she’d be happy we was spending time together.”
A.B. noticed that Rudy hadn’t yet let go of his arm.
“How about we go over and get us a steak there at that Great Plains Cattle place. They got good steaks. I’m tellin’ you what. It’s on me. My treat.”
A.B. said steak sounded good and they made their way down an interior mall “streetscape” of false nineteenth century-style storefronts and street lamps toward the restaurant.
A.B. had a beer and Rudy drank a double gin while they waited for their steaks. A.B. was curious about some things and figured it was as good a time as any to ask his questions.
“So, how long were you and my mom together, anyways?”
Rudy looked across the room, out toward the gaming floor. “Well, we actually was what you would call a couple for almost two years. Pretty long. It was serious. We was practically married.”
He finished his drink and ordered another.
“We knew each other a long time before we got together. We worked together at GM. And we used to run into each other sometimes at a bar up in Sugar Creek. We both had friends at a trailer park over there.”
A.B. nodded. He remembered going to a trailer park when he was little and wondered if it was the one Rudy was talking about.
“You never had kids?”
Rudy shook his head.
“No. I never did. Never worked out that way. Never got married.”
Rudy’s interest in conversation didn’t last beyond the arrival of their steaks. He ate with his head down, looking only at his plate. When the check came, A.B. offered to pay, but Rudy wouldn’t have it.
“No sir. I was the one suggested we do this. You was nice to come.”
He paid with a credit card.
They played the slots first. First nickels, then quarters. Rudy won a jackpot of fifty dollars having spent only ten.
“I’m ahead forty bucks,” he grinned. “And we haven’t even been playin’ for more than fifteen minutes.”
A few minutes later he won a jackpot of $200. He hopped around like a leprechaun.
“This is my night! I can just feel it! I think you’re bringin’ me good luck, son.”
A.B. didn’t like it that Rudy called him “son.” That’s what LaVerne sometimes called him. A.B. lost twenty dollars on the slots and considered calling it a night, but Rudy suggested they try roulette.
At first, Rudy’s luck seemed to shift in a negative direction. He lost all the money he won at the slot machines in the first few spins of the wheel. He tried laughing it off.
“This sometimes happens. Ol’ Lady Luck gives you a little bit, then she takes it away, hoping you’ll give up. But you have to stick with it. You can’t let her chase you off.”
Rudy’s persistence paid off. Soon he was up $1,000. A small crowd gathered to watch him bet. A.B. lost another $50 and quit playing. He felt hiccups coming on.
Rudy ordered drinks for the other players at the wheel. Then, with a flourish and a “Yee! Haw!” he bet all his winnings at once and lost.
He began sweating. The thick lenses of his big glasses fogged up. He looked at A.B.
“See what I told ya? She gives it to ya and then she takes it away. You just have to hang in there. I only lost what I won so far. So I’m still even. The night is still young.”
As far as A.B. was concerned this was a sign that it was a good time to go home and he suggested as much.
“I don’t think so,” Rudy said. “This is still my night. I know it. I think we just need to change tables.”
An hour later Rudy had lost $500 at craps. He turned to A.B.
“How much money did you bring? I hate to ask. But I only need a little. This is about to turn around. I’ll pay you back. This sometimes happens. But it always turns around.”
He was biting his lower lip and he didn’t look at A.B.
“I don’t know Rudy. It’s not that I don’t think you’ll pay me back. It’s just that you probably shouldn’t play anymore. Even if you do pay me back, it’s money you still lost.”
Rudy brought his eyes up to A.B.’s. “What do you care if I win or lose? It’s my goddamn money not yours. If you’re going to loan me some, then give it to me. If not, then don’t. But this night was goin’ good and I want to get it back, so I need to know.”
A.B. took out his wallet and gave Rudy ten $20 bills.
Rudy looked at the money. “I’ll pay you back, son.”
A.B. felt like he needed to go to the bathroom.
Three rolls of the dice later and the $200 was gone. Rudy went pale.
“Really, A.B., you know I’m good for it. Can you loan me a little more? How much have you got on you?”
A.B. shrugged. “I don’t have any more, Rudy. I just gave you all I have.”
“Okay, then. Well, if you don’t want to stick around than that’s fine. You said you wanted to leave anyway. I’ll come by your restaurant with your money.”
They walked back out to the main entrance. Rudy said goodbye and went back inside. A.B. wondered what Rudy was planning to do in the casino if he didn’t have any more money.
He lit a cigarette.
*
He told Jen what had happened even though he was afraid that it might result in their first argument.
“Sounds like he has a gambling problem,” she said. “I’m just glad you didn’t bring more money with you.”
“I didn’t really want to go in the first place,” A.B. said. “I don’t feel all that comfortable around him. I was just trying to be nice. Since he and my mother were together an’ all.”
He didn’t tell Jen that Rudy kept calling him “son.” He didn’t like thinking about it, and he didn’t want to say it out loud.
&nbs
p; 42
Outer Darkness
Conservative students at St. Columba Seminary of the Midwest don’t know what to make of the Rev. Ferguson Glen because, though there is not a single word or assertion of the Nicene Creed—the fundamental statement of the Christian faith—that Fr. Glen does not believe to be both true and factual, putting him squarely in the conservative camp on questions of basic orthodoxy, they deeply distrust his left-leaning political views and generally liberal interpretation of Pauline doctrine.
Liberal students are equally uneasy. They endorse his politics and his willingness to challenge traditional interpretations of Scripture, but they view his unbreakable embrace of the Creed as rigid, limiting, and unimaginative.
Ferguson makes no attempt to convert students from either group to his points of view. “I’m here to teach them to think and to write, not to validate their politics or their theology.” he told Angela in the seminary library’s break room, over Diet Cokes and Ho Hos. “They want me to take sides. They want to enlist me in their causes. But I’m done with side-taking. The older I get the less important political and theological ideologies are to me. They’re just temporary. This right here, what we’re doing right now. This is what lasts. Sharing a moment with a friend. Enjoying sodas and tubular crème-filled snack cakes coated in a waxy chocolate-like substance. That’s eternal.”
After the Sprint Center opening, Periwinkle Brown stayed in Kansas City for another few days. There were things she wanted to see. She wanted to see the Edward Hopper paintings at the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art. She wanted to see a Kansas City Chiefs game. She wanted to see the corner of 12th Street and Vine. And she wanted to see Ferguson Glen teach a class at the seminary.
“I’m afraid, my dear, only the paintings will meet your expectations,” Ferguson said. “The rest will be disappointing.”
*
Ferguson had given the seven students in his advanced homiletic writing class the assignment of writing a poem or short piece of fiction based on Matthew 25:14-30, the Parable of the Talents. Peri sat in the back of the classroom as Ferguson’s seminarians discussed the assignment. Some questioned the message of the parable: Was Jesus saying that Heaven is the reward for those who successfully carrying out God’s commands?
Peri studied Ferguson’s face as he responded to the comments and concerns of his students — an arched eyebrow, a sad smile, a knowing nod, a delighted grin.
How did I get here? she wondered. If I were home, I’d be sorting through invoices and writing checks. Alone at my desk in the back of the restaurant. How did I get here from there?
“The conventional interpretation of this passage,” Ferguson was saying, “is that how we invest the talents God gives us determines whether we get into Heaven. After all, the first two invested well and were rewarded. But the third servant, the one who buried his talent, was thrown into outer darkness.
“Is it just me or is this completely at odds with the gospel message, that we’re saved by grace? Here’s another thing: why is getting into Heaven so often stated as the goal of our spiritual journey? Like that’s the only thing we’re in it for? The reward. The prize at the end of the race. The gold watch when you retire. Do you see how that puts the emphasis on how hard we try? On the quality of our effort?
“I don’t think this story is about earning a good return on investment. I think it’s about humility and understanding what we’ve been given, who gave it to us, and what it’s to be used for. It’s safe to say that the parable tells us we are not to use what we’ve been given for ourselves, since the story makes it clear it doesn’t really belong to us in the first place.
“Ultimately, I think, this is a parable about fearfulness, and the consequences of fearfulness. Was the fearful servant punished for not earning interest on the money he’d been given? Or for his fearfulness? And wasn’t his fearfulness its own punishment? Wasn’t he already trapped in the outer darkness of his own fear?
“The real reward comes at the end, in the invitation ‘Enter into the joy of your master.’ We are invited into an intimate relationship. No authentic loving relationship can be based on fear. Fear is the opposite of love.”
*
Peri was quiet in the car on the way to the airport. Ferguson supposed it was because she had been to an arena opening, a Chiefs game, had toured an art museum, and had to sit through one of his classes all in the space of four days. He reached over and rubbed her neck.
“Don’t be depressed. I warned you that the corner of 12th and Vine would be disappointing.”
Peri laughed. “You got that one right, Reverend. There was nothing there at all.”
She sighed. “I’m okay. I was just thinking about the parable. I think I’m wasting God’s gift. Or I will be if I don’t change things.”
She looked out the window. Ferguson felt as if he’d swallowed an ice cube.
Peri went on. “Ferguson, one of the reasons I was so willing to be so foolish and let you into my life when you showed up at my restaurant out of the blue that night, is that I had come to a place where nothing was happening. Every day was the same as the one before. Nothing was happening to me, and I wasn’t happening to anything. Or anyone. Wren has been grown and on her own for over twenty years. She’s fine. I think I over mothered her because of what happened to her eyes. And being her mother was my purpose in life. It gave me focus and meaning. Then when the grandbabies came along, that was where I put all my love and energy. Into them. But they’re getting older and Wren and Tyrell are their parents, not me. Tyrell is doing a great job with the business, and the fact is that I never chose the barbecue restaurant business. I just inherited it when my daddy died. It’s been good to me. It provided a good living for me and Wren. But I’m tired of it. And it’s not really mine anymore anyways.”
She was quiet again. Ferguson waited. And prayed.
“You breathed life back into me, Reverend. I feel like you’re a reminder from God that I still have a life to live. You’re my invitation to a new life. And if I don’t accept that invitation, well, then I’m wasting a gift God gave me. I’m burying it in the ground.”
Ferguson spoke softly. “What do want to do, Periwinkle Brown?”
She smiled and looked at him. “The first thing I want to do is travel around the world. With you. I want to see the world with you, Ferguson. I’ve never been anywhere but Memphis, Kansas City, and a few times to New York and Los Angeles with Wren when she went there on business. And maybe when we’re out there seeing God’s big wide world, he’ll give us an idea of what I should do—what we should do—next. How to use this gift he’s given me.”
*
LaVerne was reading the newspaper at the desk in the office when A.B. got to work that morning, which was unusual for two reasons. Mainly because A.B. was always the first one to arrive at the restaurant each morning, but also because LaVerne almost never sat at the desk and almost never read the newspaper at work, and for him to being doing both at once made A.B. anxious.
“What’s up, boss,” he said.
LaVerne didn’t look up.
“I used to get a good feeling when I read or heard about some new business or condos goin’ in near here,” he said. “Made me feel like we were part of something growin’ and maybe all that time we were down here almost all by ourselves was worth it after all. But now I just get more pissed off. Did I tell you I got a notice that they lowered our rent? The letter said that the Preservation and Restoration Company owns the whole block now. Can you believe that asshole Johansson calls his company that: the Preservation and Restoration Company?”
He sighed and stared at a bottle of LaVerne Williams’ Genuine BBQ Sauce KANSAS CITY STYLE as featured on the Morty Pavlich Show sitting atop a stack of bills and invoices.
“You know, I used to think that one day I’d leave this business to Raymond. But, well, when it was clear that he was going to go to col
lege and play ball and be a minister, that changed that. Lately, I been thinkin’ that maybe you, or you and Jen, might want it. But now I don’t know if there’ll be anything to leave to anybody. I’ve thought about what that asshole said, that maybe we should take the money and relocate somewhere, maybe in East Jack or Johnson County. Then I also wonder if I should just take the damn money and retire. I don’t feel ready yet. But, I don’t know.”
He went into the kitchen and checked on the ribs.
This got A.B.’s day off to a bad start. After the lunch rush, it got worse. Rudy Turpin showed up at the counter, but not to order barbecue.
“Oh, hi, Rudy,” A.B. said. He smiled even though he didn’t feel like it.
“Hey, A.B.,” said Rudy. “Can I talk to you a minute? Outside?”
A.B. felt like he needed to take a deep breath. “Sure, Rudy.”
Out on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant, Rudy handed A.B. an envelope.
“It’s the money I borrowed from you that night at the boats. I told you I would pay it back. It’s all there. Count it.”
Rudy didn’t look happy about paying his debt.
A.B. took the envelope, but didn’t look inside. “Gosh, Rudy. This is good. Thank you. This makes me feel better about things.”
Rudy shrugged. “So, maybe we can do it again sometime. Go to the boats that is, now that you know that I’m good for the money, like I said. Only maybe next time I’ll have better luck. I’m due.”
A.B. didn’t know what to say to be polite. He nodded and said thank you again. Rudy seemed to be expecting something more.
LaVerne came to the rescue by stepping outside to tell A.B. he was going to Bichelmeyer’s for some briskets. This was the only good news A.B. had heard all day.
“I gotta go in now, Rudy.”
“I should go, too,” Rudy said. He extended his hand to A.B. and A.B. shook it. Rudy walked away, south on Walnut.
On the other side of the street, a tall muscular man with a shaved head watched Rudy and A.B. for a moment, lit a cigarette, then turned and walked up 17th Street. A.B. noticed that the man had an odd tattoo on his neck and head. He got a shiver and walked around back by the dumpster for a smoke.
