E.Godz

by Robert Asprin

  "Of course it will," Peez muttered, still blushing.

  And so it did.

  —for a freak show, Peez thought. No, that's too harsh. For a circus, then, or an aquacade, or whatever the hell this extravaganza is. She took another pull at the loop-de- loop pink plastic straw protruding from her sacramental pina colada and took in the scene before her with a jaundiced eye.

  Services were nearly over—the drinks had been distributed when Reverend Everything called his followers to partake in the "refreshment of the soul"—but plenty was still going on. It was standing room only in the dolphin tank, for one thing.

  No, not the tank; the Immersionarium, Peez mentally corrected herself. Where the suckers go to get a real soaking.

  Less than fifteen minutes ago she had sat back and listened while the Reverend Everything told the congregation that the way to become One with the Universe was to let your soul float free. Money was the ballast holding you down on the bottom of the great Cosmic Sea where the Crabs of Crotchetyness would nibble your toes and the Remoras of Remorse stood poised to suck the good karma out of you. The people groaned and made bubbling noises with their lips on hearing this.

  Yet there was hope. Or, in the Reverend's own words, "But wait! There's more!" He then called upon his lovely assistants to bring forth those worshipers who had given up the most ballast at the previous week's service. These finny handmaidens too were dressed like rejects from a Las Vegas-based road company of Hans Christian Andersen's The Little Mermaid. Their fishtails made walking up and down the aisles a chore, so they settled for announcing the names of the favored through microphones disguised as lobsters.

  With joyous sounds last heard on episodes of Flipper, the chosen ones came forward, walking down the center aisle and up the steps to the deck surrounding the dolphin tank. One by one they were taken behind a dressing screen only to emerge shortly thereafter wearing swimsuits. Peez was impressed to see so many people mastering Reverend Everything's own talent for doing a quick change act until she noticed that the screen also concealed a picked team of additional assistants who could get the clothes off a body faster than a horny sixteen-year-old.

  As soon as a worshiper emerged from behind the screen, he or she was escorted to the edge of the dolphin tank where the Reverend Everything was waiting, crystal trident in hand. He said a few words about there being a tide in the affairs of men, going with the flow, life as a river, the fount of all knowledge, sinners being pond scum, and brooking no arguments from any outsiders who decried the methods of the Soulhaven Retreat and Starchild Immersionarium because such drips were spiritual wet blankets.

  Then he used his trident to swat the Seeker into the pool. The dolphins, aka Starchildren, swam around each new visitor happily, sometimes taking an interest, sometimes ignoring him completely. That was all right, though, because the Reverend's earlier preachings had made sure to point out that it was the Seeker's soul that the Starchildren would touch, and every person emerging from the tank insisted that he or she had been very touched indeed.

  It was all deeply moving. In fact, it moved those members of the congregation who had not been chosen this week to renew their charitable zeal and fill the collection baskets to overflowing.

  Afterwards, a fishnet curtain descended from on high, veiling the tank as the congregation made their exit while the organ played selections from Handel's Water Music over a tape recording of whale songs. These sounds mingled sweetly with the squish, squish, squish of improperly dried feet ruining costly Italian leather shoes. As the great doors of the sanctuary closed behind the departing Seekers, the Reverend Everything removed his shell tiara and fake beard. He ducked behind the dressing screen with a happy sigh whose meaning might have signified either satisfaction in a ministry well fulfilled or Thank God that's over!

  Peez had her own convictions as to which one it was.

  "That does it," she told the air. "I quit."

  "What did you say?" Reverend Everything stuck his head out from behind the screen. He looked sincerely concerned.

  "You heard me," Peez said. "I quit. This is not the right line of work for me. If the future of E. Godz, Inc. is going to depend on someone who's able to put up with watching this kind of hijinks with a big old Miss America smile on her face, I'm out. I'm leaving the field to my brother, Dov. Let him hitch a ride on the hurdy-gurdy, but I'm getting off now." She stood up and headed for the steps leading down from the tank deck.

  The crystal trident drove into the wooden stair tread just an inch ahead of her poised foot. She jerked her head back to stare at the Reverend Everything, who had thrown the shining weapon with such extraordinary accuracy. Her expression was one of complete surprise seasoned with grudging admiration for such speed, panache, and marksmanship. He shrugged it all away.

  "I used to work in the movies," he said.

  "Really." This was old news to Peez, who had read up on the Reverend's background on the flight to L.A. Teddy Tumtum had provided plenty of additional insights for dealing with the man, all of which now seemed silly since Peez had decided to quit dealing with him and all of the other E. Godz subsidiaries on her list altogether.

  "Yes, really," Reverend Everything said. "I know about quitting. I quit when they stopped having happy endings." He came forward and took her by the arm. "Come with me, please." It sounded like a courteous invitation, but the firmness of his grip on her wrist told her that it was more in the line of a command.

  Peez was too weary to put up a fight. Why bother? As soon as she left this temple to theatricality, she was going back to the airport to catch the next flight to New York City. When she got back to the office, she'd tell Edwina about her decision to pull out of the race. Maybe she'd even go up to Poughkeepsie and deliver the news in person, then stay on to see if there was anything helpful she could do to ease her mother's last days on earth. Surely whatever she'd find to occupy herself would have to be more helpful than this ridiculous competition with Dov.

  The Reverend Everything took her through a door leading from the tank deck to a behind-the-scenes hallway. Peez passed one office after another, all of them bustling with the noises of computers, fax machines, telephones, and cheerful people in the throes of reaching out to the spiritual Seeker. Or was that "sucker"?

  There was a small elevator at the end of the hall which took them up to the topmost floor of the building. Here was the nerve center of the Reverend Everything's empire, his private office. Peez took it all in with the practiced eye of a woman who actually adored good interior decoration but who would sooner die than admit it lest she be tarred with the counterfeminist brush. Peez was smart and sensible: She knew it was possible to want equality between the sexes and monogrammed sheets (400 count Egyptian cotton, for preference) but she also knew that there were precious few people out there willing to accept that.

  Reverend Everything settled into the tawny leather chair behind the burled oak desk and motioned for Peez to have a seat as well. The only furniture available for the purpose was a sofa of the same rich upholstery. When sat upon, it offered all the resistance and support of a toasted marshmallow. Peez found herself sinking deeper and deeper into the cushions. It was a pleasurable sensation, only marred by the revelation that she would need a winch to haul herself out of there should the need arise.

  She also realized that this choice of furnishings gave the Reverend Everything a tacit psychological advantage over all his guests. He could get out of his chair with ease and, if he so chose, come over to the sofa/quicksand pit and loom over a captive audience. Peez didn't care for the idea of being helpless—she'd already experienced the reality of it too many times, in too many different situations, including but not limited to social, financial, and childhood. She began hauling herself towards the armrest, bent on seizing hold of it and hauling herself free of the cushiony morass.

  Her exertions were not lost on the Reverend Everything. "My dear, aren't you comfortable?" he asked as if he really cared.

  "Actually, I'
m a little too comfortable," she said. She flashed him a charming smile. It packed nowhere near the power and versatility of his own toothy weapon of choice, but it was pretty good for a beginner. "I'd hate to doze off in the middle of our conversation, but who could blame me? This is such a lovely couch."

  "Comfort is a wonderful thing, isn't it?" Reverend Everything winked at her. "But it can be a snare, too. That's one principle I learned a long time ago, back when I was just starting out. People need rituals. They give us a sense of continuity, security, and dependability in a world that often offers us none of the above. On the other hand, if you do the same thing in the same way for too long, it's more than likely you'll stop paying attention to the meaning behind what you're doing and just switch to autopilot. That's why I keep changing the format of worship services—to say nothing of the decor—for my followers. Is that what's bothering you? All the, well, showmanship, for want of a better word?"

  "Oh, I can think of a much better word," Peez replied. "How about phoniness? Or superficiality? That's a good one! I can swallow a certain amount of snake oil, Reverend, but I think I've finally reached my limit. It was different when I was just doing long- distance administration work, pushing buttons, crunching numbers, filling out forms. Ever since I've hit the road and seen some of Mother's clients face to face, I've learned some hard truths that make it impossible for me to go on without getting disgusted with myself."

  "As well as with us?" The Reverend Everything raised one ashy brow. "But what have you really seen of us, Ms. Godz? The flash, the spangles, the dolphins, yes, but what about the truth? Did you try to catch up to any of my congregation, to talk to them, to ask them about why they come here instead of some other house of worship?"

  "That's pretty obvious," Peez said confidently. "You're the only one who gives them a show."

  The Reverend Everything chuckled. "Remind me to take you on a tour of several churches I could name. No, Ms. Godz: If a show was all they wanted, they could get that elsewhere. For most of them, their lives are a show, their careers are all lighting tricks and special effects. What they come for here is something with a little more substance, something enduring, something that will last longer than their most recent hairstyle, or lift-and-tuck, or collagen injection, or producer's promise."

  "Faith?" Peez still sounded dubious, but there was something about the Reverend Everything's tone and expression that was convincing. Either he really meant what he was saying or he was putting on a show so convincing that he'd even persuaded himself to believe it was true.

  "If you like." He laid his hands on the desktop. "We spend our lives in the pursuit of what we call solid things, practical things: a big house, a fast car, a spouse who matches the drapes. We don't realize that these are the things we can lose most easily. The truth is, while some people say that keeping in touch with our spiritual side is frivolous, it's actually one of the most necessary things in our lives."

  He stood up and came around the desk to loom over Peez where she slumped, engulfed in the sofa. Offering her a helping hand, he pulled her to her feet and said: "I provide the fulfillment of a human need, Ms. Godz. You might not appreciate the glitzy package it comes in, but the contents are solid. A bowl of soup, a plate of sushi, a granola bar, a slab of roast beef, a slice of smoked salmon rolled into the shape of a rose, all of these can satisfy a person's hunger. What does the outer semblance matter, as long as he is fed? Will you be the one to tell him that his choice must follow only one approved form? Would you rather have him go hungry?"

  Peez shook her head. "No, of course not, but—"

  "My dear, I am the chef, but E. Godz, Inc. is the catering service. Without you, my work would never be so simple nor so effective. Many Seekers would find themselves starving, unaware that they dwell in the midst of plenty. Your mother understood this. She didn't start E. Godz, Inc. just for the money. Mind you, she never complained about the money, but still ...

  "It would be easy for me to let you go, to allow you to back out of the competition for control of the company. But I see great things in you, great possibilities. If you don't believe in my way of bringing spiritual sustenance to my followers, that's fine, but the only valid reason for you to quit is if you don't believe in yourself." He clasped one of Peez's hands between both of his and pressed it to his heart. "Is that it, Ms. Godz? Is that going to be your ... final answer?"

  * * *

  In the airport, waiting for the flight to Arizona, Teddy Tumtum said, "I know you don't think of the Reverend Everything as a big fake any more, but that doesn't make up for describing him as a"—the bear shuddered involuntarily—"game show host. Just because he chose to express himself that way doesn't mean—"

  "It wasn't what he said," Peez replied. "It was the way he insisted that I accept some lovely parting gifts." She held up a large cardboard box, shook it gently, and asked, "So how do you use a Flashmatic Abscercizer anyway?"

  "I don't know," said the bear, studying the fine print on the side of the box. "But it says that the hamster's not included."

  Chapter Twelve

  It was raining in Seattle when Dov arrived. Luckily he was able to find a place selling hot coffee to take the chill off before he made his way to Martin Agparak's studio.

  "Give me a small coffee, light and sweet," he told the girl staffing the tiny kiosk on the corner of Martin's block.

  "What kind?"

  "Regular. I could use the caffeine." He shifted his umbrella slightly and gave her one of his pocket-pack-tissue smiles: clean, cheap, disposable, and plenty more where that came from.

  "Single, double, or triple?"

  "What?"

  "Caffeine. Or you want that espresso?" To his surprise, she did not pronounce it "ex- presso."

  "Um, okay, sure, espresso, why not? Single," he clarified.

  "What kind?" she asked again.

  "I told you, a single espresso, light and— Oh, wait, if it's espresso I don't want it light, but I still want it—"

  "Beans. What kind of beans do you want? This is just a little stand so we don't have the selection you'd find in one of our shops. If it turns out that we don't stock your favorite, I'm sorry. Anyway, we do have Sumatran, Brazilian, Columbian, Nicaraguan, Costa Rican, Ecuadorean, Madagascar, Jamaican ..."

  Dov felt as if he were trapped on an endless voyage through the now-defunct Small World ride at DisneyWorld, only with all of the happy, prancing international puppets high on caffeine and armed to the eyebrows with coffee grinders. The girl was still rattling off the options when he cut in and said, "What would you recommend?"

  "Oh, the Jamaican, definitely."

  "Fine. I'll have that."

  "What kind?"

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "From what part of the island? I mean, obviously you want the highlands, but do you prefer the northern, southern, eastern, or western face of the mountains?"

  "Eep," said Dov. "Uh ... you have anything from the middle? I don't like to play favorites."

  Clearly this was not the choice of those in the know. The girl gave him a look as if he'd farted in church, but then remembered that she was a businesswoman, not an educator of woefully untrained taste buds. "What roasting process?" she asked.

  "I don't care. Whatever they used on Joan of Arc. Look, all I wanted was a lousy cup of coffee, light and sweet, not the Spanish Inquisition!"

  "Spanish roast process?" The girl frowned, then ducked down behind the counter. She popped up an instant later, like a gopher on springs, with a plastic scoop full of coffee beans. "Okay, but it kills the secondary bouquet. You sure? I mean, the customer is always right, but I don't want you to come back complaining to me when your soft palate doesn't get the full effect."

  "Why don't we leave my soft palate to follow its own damn bliss and just give me the freaking coffee?!"

  A strong hand fell on Dov's shoulder and spun him around, putting him face to smiling face with the very man he'd come to Seattle to see.

  "Dov Godz?" Martin A
gparak inquired casually. Dov could only nod. "Thought so. I got your message on my answering machine. I've been expecting you. Come into my studio and I'll give you that ... freaking coffee."

  Embarrassed, Dov let himself be led away like a little lamb. Behind him he heard the coffee kiosk girl calling, "If he still wants the Spanish-process Jamaican, Marty, make sure you use distilled water, not spring. It's the only thing that can save him!"

  * * *

  Rain pattered down on the tarps covering the workspace where Martin Agaparak created his customized totem poles. Dov sat on a stump that had been sculpted into the shape of Regis Philbin's head and sipped his coffee. Martin had very kindly given him a towel to blot up all the rainwater that his umbrella had failed to deflect, and now Dov wore it slung around his neck like a chubby ascot.

  "I'll be with you just as soon as I put the finishing touches on this," the sculptor said, suiting up for work. On went the goggles and the earphones, up came the chainsaw. Its full-throated, hungry roar was louder than Dov had expected. He shifted his seat to the head of Alex Trebek, over in the corner nearest the door back inside.

  Agparak noticed the move. He turned off the chainsaw, took off the earphones and goggles, and said, "Sorry. I kind of forget how rough this can be on someone who's not used to it. I'll tell you what: How about we talk first, then I'll get back to work after you've gone, okay?"

  Dov became suspicious. "You make it sound like you're going to give me the Uh-Huh treatment."

  "What's that?"

  "You know, pretend you'll listen to what I've got to say, nod your head, go 'Uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh' the whole time I'm talking so that if I'm dumb enough, I just might believe you're really paying attention, then get rid of me as soon you can do it without looking like a rude jerk."