by Kirk Alex
“Miss Betty,” he interjected. “Our wonderfully resilient, not to mention ageless, organist. Took Mildred Elizabeth here under her wing when Mildred was in her teens already and emotionally troubled. Both were in Camarillo at the time, the State facility. A well-meaning, good-hearted lady Miss Betty is. Saintly. Reminds one of Mother Theresa, truly. Mildred Elizabeth and Miss Betty have been together ever since.”
“I adore kids,” Miss Betty Rutterschmidt said. “Always wanted kids. Never had any of my own. Had to adopt. My biological clock is running out. The male bastards saw to that. Castrate every single one, I say.”
“She doesn’t mean any of it. Found them both sleeping in a doorway one night, shivering, at the corner of Wilshire and Sweetzer, their meager belongings, all that they owned, in a Safeway shopping cart. That was just about four years ago. Ninety-two years young Miss Betty is—and works that ancient church organ like a woman half her age.”
“I can see that,” Fay Crust said. “God bless.”
“Thank you, Bishop Biggs,” Miss Betty said. “And thank you, Mrs. Crust. You’re a kind one, I can tell.”
“Amen,” said Mildred Elizabeth, while poking at the wart on her chin with a toothpick from which blood had clearly begun to surface at this point.
“Please don’t do that, sweetheart,” Biggs requested gently, taking the toothpick away, as well as taking her trembling hand away from her face. Mildred Elizabeth began the nervous bit with thumb and little finger. And as Biggs was about to show the Crusts to the hallway and the Bible Room in back, Mildred swiped at him with her free hand and knocked the large Bible from his grasp. Biggs was quick to bend down and retrieve it without losing his composure.
“My mother’s. The only thing she left behind when she passed on. It was enough. The most treasured of my belongings.”
“Same way I feel about my Bible,” agreed Mrs. Crust. As they entered the other room, some of the geeks followed. Others, like Norbert Fimple, were already seated at a large table in an alcove at the far end. The Bible Room consisted of two black Naugahyde sofas, old and worn, and some other used furniture, a black-and-white tv set; a bookcase lined one side of the room loaded down with religious literature: tracts as well as Bibles and other books on Christianity.
Greta Otto was serving Norbert Fimple the jambalaya she was known for. Mr. Fimple reached in his shirt pocket for his dentures and shoved them in his mouth. Big Tex Leo Nix sat across the table from him. All were attired in dark brown robes with hoodies. Greta had her mask on.
Julian Ionesco made a wild dash at Harold Crust with his wooden spoon, and Biggs thwarted the attack in the nick of time. Held the Rumanian down, and with Marvin’s help shoved him back to the sofa.
“Ja ja. We don’t got no black kurva in my country. We got no job, no food, no money—but at least we don’t got no black kurva.”
“If I don’t make room for them, who will? Who will do it? After all, we are all God’s children. That’s the purpose to this. It may not be enough, but it is all we can manage at this time. We have plans to expand, perhaps a bigger place in another part of town. It’s a matter of funds; it’s always a matter of funds.”
“Tell me about it,” Harold Crust concurred. “Why I ain’t got automobile insurance these days. No funds. Same reason why them Beverly Hills butchers what work at that hospital out there stuck a pacemaker in my chest: liked my health insurance policy, and jumped on it. They was needin’ funds. I know about it. Sure do.”
His wife felt a need to nudge him in the side in order to keep him from talking too much.
“Anyway, allow me to introduce you to some of the other faithful followers and/or members of the board and staff.”
CHAPTER 260
Bishop motioned his head in Sassounian’s direction, who sat in a corner of the room staring off into space. He had a blond wig on, devoid of blood this time, however, the lipstick was blood-red across the upper lip, as well as what remained of the lower. There was blush-on on his cheeks. What was left of his toes (exposed in open-toe pumps) were heavily bandaged, as were the fingers: both in gauze and white medical tape.
“Experiencing a mild case of identity crises. Mr. Sassounian, Lawrence Sassounian, prefers “Laura” or “Sassy,” believes he’s ready for sexual reassignment surgery. Right now we’re trying to sway him away from it; things could be fine as they are. This type of surgery is not to be taken lightly. If we do not convince him not to go through with it, we proceed to raise the necessary funds for the procedure, so long as it makes Sassy happy. The United Christian Church of Re-Newed Hope makes every effort to bring happiness to people’s lives.”
Fay and Harold Crust were wincing. The unusual-looking bunch and the hard-to-take stench did it to them.
“Trouble is,” added Cecil Biggs, clearly troubled himself as he spoke, “last year he wanted to have his right leg amputated simply because he was tired of it. That was his reason. Now he’s eager to trade his penis in for a vagina. You can understand why we’re in no rush to go along.”
“Good Heavens,” said Fay Crust.
“You have a point, Bishop,” said Harold Crust. “I can see that. Yessir. Why be hasty?”
“Exactly. We saved the man’s leg, and we’re hoping to do the same for his groin—unless he’s dead-set on it. Which can only be determined in time.”
“Any man in Sassy’s situation should think twice before saying adios to his manhood.”
“Trying to make him see it our way is a bit of a challenge. But we’re up to it.”
Harold didn’t know whether to laugh or keep a straight face. He decided on the latter. It wasn’t easy. Hell, nothing was easy about this entire visit, none of it had been fun or uplifting, let alone this outrageous discussion about a man first wanting to have a perfectly good leg taken off, and now wanting to part with his Johnson. There seemed to be more to the story, too.
“Sassy is a licensed psychotherapist. Put himself through school by cleaning carpets at night, and once he received his degree he stayed with the carpets in order to be able to spend time with his two daughters, as his wife, also a therapist, had her hands full with her practice during the day. Sassy enjoyed cleaning carpets to such an extent, and as a matter of convenience, stayed with it in order to help raise their kids. But of course, once he revealed to his then spouse his true sexual bent, she promptly divested herself of the marriage and returned to her native India, taking the teens with her. To his credit, he handled it with aplomb. Epitomizes genuine resilience. We are honored to have Sassy as our resident therapist. We go to him for advice on a vast array of issues. He is never without time and patience to help resolve challenges others may be experiencing, no matter how dire or seemingly trivial. He has helped countless needy and confused parishioners and others get back on the right track on a quest to a more fulfilling life.” Biggs’s was a pregnant pause. Noticed Sassounian tear the heavy gauze off his index finger with his teeth. Bishop dreaded what was about to transpire next. “Of course, as anyone will tell you, his own demons are toughest for him to deal with.”
“You can say that again,” suggested Harold Crust, as he and his aghast wife watched Sassy Sassounian bite the entire fingernail clean off and surrounding flesh with it and chew it in his mouth and swallow it. Followed up by sucking the blood that seeped from the wound.
Fay Crust found herself wincing.
“Must he do that?”
“We try so very hard to prevent this type of unpleasant behavior. It isn’t easy. Sassy’s is a troubled existence, to put it mildly.”
Harold Crust shook his head.
“I get that. Ain’t nothing mild about eating your own flesh.”
“Autosarcophagy, I believe is what they call it, or autocannibalism.”
“Sassy don’t never havta sweat goin’ hungry,” said Marvin R. Muck. “Don’t never run out of food that way, neither. Bishop don’t mind.”
Fay Crust could not decide if she were genuinely concerned or merely repulsed at th
is point. Quite possibly both. In equal measure. “I sure do hope he don’t eat himself out of existence, Bishop Biggs.”
“It’s been known to happen.”
Harold Crust saw an opportunity to slip one of his one-liners in and could not resist. “Or else dude might try adding salt and pepper to make it go down easier.” His wife swung a hard elbow in his ribs and Harold corrected himself. “Course I’m kiddin’. Couldn’t help it. Something like that can gross a man out. Humor seems to help. Only reason I suggested salt and pepper.”
“You call it humor, Mr. Crust. To those of us who love and revere Sassy, it is nothing less than tragic. And painful. He has consumed too many of his toes, consumed other parts of his body: his entire left ear, and part of the right. When a highly intelligent individual with impeccable morals such as Sassy Sassounian resorts to devouring his own flesh . . . resorts to autocannibalism . . .” Biggs was on the verge of tears. For all intents and purposes, was in tears. “That’s one sad and troubled individual in need of care and understanding.”
It was not unusual for the Crusts—like so many other long-married couples—to be in the habit of stating the same at the same time. This was the perfect opportunity, then, for the shaken and nervous couple to exercise said habit. “We couldn’t agree more.”
“Mrs. Sassounian moved to her native India, kids-in-tow. More than a decade ago. Sassy has yet to receive so much as a postcard. Not even a postcard.”
“I hope the dude, Sassy, can hang in there. Miracles happen. I’m livin’ proof of that. That postcard could come in one of these days. Never know. It could.”
Fay Crust shot her husband a stare: Will you knock it off? Stop it. Harold’s reaction was to shrug his shoulders, raise his brows. He was only trying to be positive.
Cecil O. Biggs was non-plussed. “Sassy is head of Public Relations. Composes the colorful flyers that are sent out to congregation members to announce special church events throughout the year. Sassy also runs our Meals-On-Wheels program that provides free meals to senior citizens and the handicapped in various parts of the Valley, retirement homes and hospitals.” He felt a need for another pregnant pause in order to allow it all to sink in. Pleased with himself. “That’s what we’re about: giving. We give as much as we can.”
Harold Crust leaned in his wife’s ear.
“Right now, wish somebody would give me some fresh air.”
“That’s our chef, Greta Otto.” Biggs pointed to the Jumper/Leaper, who had not only jumped from more than one motel/motor lodge rooftop in the San Fernando Valley, but several. She had even managed to climb to the top of the letter W (for Woman) of the Hollywood sign, before a fence had been erected around it to keep other suicide cases from making the world-famous landmark a favorite destination from which to end their lives with—and had been talked out of taking that fatal plunge. “The facial scars, self-inflicted—that I won’t go into for obvious reasons; no call to embarrass our wonderful Greta. The scars make her self-conscious, so Greta wears the mask. We love and accept her with or without it.”
CHAPTER 261
Biggs moved up. Indicated the Tall T. “This is Mr. Leo Nix, our Chief of Maintenance; a genuine cowboy from the Lone Star State. Drove a cement truck in Dallas. Got it in his head to crawl in it one day—and did. If the site foreman hadn’t been alert and noticed him tumbling around in the wet cement and hauled him out, washed him off, cleaned him up—I hate to think what would have happened.”
Big Tex looked up from his bowl. Tipped the brim of his sweat-stained, worn Stetson. “How-do. I done lost it on account he was carryin’ on with my woman behind my back. Ernesto was my best amigo.”
Norbert Fimple was getting a second portion of Greta’s stew.
Fay Crust took note. “My goodness. He sure can put it away. That’s a gentleman with an appetite.”
“Mr. Fimple? He’s a saint. God bless him. Never says much, never asks for much. A quiet man. Good with numbers, a natural. We made him our treasurer.”
“Yo. He know’ number’ all right, ’cept Number One and Number Two.”
Harold Crust had not been able to ignore the lengthy bandage on the man’s face that ran from his left ear clear down to his mouth. “Looks like your Mr. Fimple’s been through some hard times.”
Biggs nodded. “A nervous breakdown a few years back . . . that he never fully recovered from. . . .”
“Figured it had to be something like that.”
Fay Crust could not help herself, and pried for details. “What happened to the dear man, if you don’t mind my asking, Bishop Biggs?”
“Some ho dumped ol’ Norbert Pimple many a year ago. Took off wiff his kid, cleaned out the bank account, took the furniture. All she left Norbert was a can of tuna and a roll of ass-wipe in the crapper. Didn’t leave no can opener, neither, so the dude could get him some tuna.”
The expression on Fay Crust’s face indicated she was taken aback by such a display of vulgarity, in a supposed house of worship, no less. Then again, it was to be expected. Marvin Muck tended to behave in this low-class manner.
“Good heavens.”
“I must apologize for Deacon Marvin’s language. He doesn’t know any better. If he did, he’d choose his words more carefully.”
“Yo. What language, Dawg? Don’t nothin’ be wrong wiff it. You be talkin’ the same way when there don’t be nobody around.”
Biggs let it ride like it didn’t matter. Fay Crust’s husband felt a need to add his two bits.
“Figured the old cat musta been through some heavy-duty thing. Left scars you can’t see.”
Then it happened; there was no way to ignore it: the metal collar on Mr. Fimple’s neck became visible as he scratched his Adam’s apple. Fay and Harold exchanged glances. What was going on?
“Got that right, Brotha. Norbert had hisself a breakdown. Mental collapse. Did nineteen years in the VA psycho ward, no shit. When he got out, bought hisself a Saturday Night Special. Tracked the ho down up in Eskimo country, shackin’ wiff a used car sellin’ dude. Done a number on his head, ’cause Norbert useta sell used car’ hisself. Mr. Pimple’s son never knowed who Norbert was. Ain’t that right, Norbert?”
Norbert ate, without responding. He didn’t care what was said about him, or any of it. Didn’t matter.
“Norbert never said nothin’ to him. Just walked away. Was throwin’ up an’ shit. Didn’t pop nobody. Walked away and had hisself a real fit. Relap’. Norbert was happy seein’ his boy all growed up —”
Evidently Norbert Fimple was not the only one with a metal collar round his neck; there appeared to be others. Greta Otto, their chef, had one of them things on, too.
Biggs thought additional details might clarify things. “Mr. Fimple never recovered. Ended up back in the institution for another ten years, and was released with no place to go. He slept on the sidewalk down on Main Street, until we took him in. He’s doing fine here with us as a valuable member of the board. He’s being healed with heaps of love and care, as are all the others who live here with the deacon and myself.”
“My heart goes out to the dear man.”
“For sure.” Harold Crust could not help it: mentioned that the metal collar on the man’s neck seemed to have loops on either side, too.
“You don’t want to be aksking.”
“Oh that. Norbert’s a sleep-walker and has to be hooked to his brass bed at night. It’s for his own safety. Otherwise he stumbles into things, stubs his toes.”
Harold Crust indicated Greta Otto and the collar on her neck. “What about your chef? She a sleepwalker, too?” Harold suspected, rightfully so, that his wife felt uncomfortable that he would probe in this manner. It wasn’t any of their business, was it?
“No. To keep her from drowning in the tub when she bathes. She has to be periodically yanked up out of the water.”
“She ain’t got enough sense to do that on her own?”
“If she did, there would be no need for others to look after her, would ther
e? She has seizures—not unlike Lloyd Dicker’s grandson across the street.”
Harold’s wife was wishing her husband wouldn’t pursue this line of questioning. Something did not seem right about it.
“She’s fine presently, so long as we see to it that she takes her medication.”
Harold and his wife were nodding their heads.
“Just like Norbert. He’s low-key these days. The meds make all the difference in the world. Hardly ever makes a fuss. Minds his own business.”
“I get it.” Harold Crust picked up on the hint. “I got no business asking. I can dig that, Bishop Biggs. Mindin’ our own business been a way of life with the missus and me; except, thing is, some folks been askin’, you know, wantin’ to get at what all the gunshots is about; firecrackers and such. Well, not so much as guns bein’ fired, more like firecrackers. Cherry bombs, maybe, too. Them firecrackers can burn down a place real quick, in no time at all. Folks is worried about their place goin’ up in smoke, is all. If your place burned down, well then, our place could, too. Ain’t nothin’ but wood and stucco. And then you got Roscoe’s place. All of them other homes on the block. Homeowners is worried. That dump what we own ain’t much, for sure, Bishop Biggs, but it’s all we got. Makin’ mortgage is tough enough as it is. You can understand, can’t you?”
“You and your wife have nothing to fear, Mr. Crust, neither do the good people of North Hollywood. Those aren’t gun shots you heard, not even firecrackers—with the exception on the 4th of July, of course, when we permit our hard-working staff to participate in what is, after all, a nationwide celebration of this great country. What sort of heartless and inconsiderate church leader would I be if I banned what is nothing more than a harmless show of patriotism?”
“Patriotism? Ain’t nothing the matter with bein’ patriotic.”
“For the most part, what you and your wonderful wife, the other neighbors in this accommodating community heard, is balloons.”
