by Pete Hautman
* * *
21
After showering and washing my entire body with some sort of insecticide shampoo my mother has been hoarding, I am once again permitted to retire to my cell. I hear my father grousing about how he lost half a day at work over this “teenage idiocy,” and my mother scouring the house for cooties with her little handheld vacuum cleaner. By noon, things have calmed down. My father leaves for his office. My mother performs another half hour of frantic cleaning, then knocks on my door to tell me she is going to her bridge club.
As soon as I hear her car roll out of the driveway, I’m on the phone to Shin, partly to find out if he’s okay, and partly because I just have to tell him about what happened.
I get the answering machine.
“Shin, it’s me. Call me.”
My next call is to Magda. Her mother answers.
“Is Magda there?”
“Who is calling, please?”
This is no time to be truthful. “This is Joe Finklemarster.”
“Joe who?”
“Uh, Frinkleman … ster.” Damn!
“I‘m sorry, but Magda is not taking any telephone calls, Mr. Finklefrinklewhatever. Good-bye.”
So much for that. I try calling Dan, but when I get the answering machine I just hang up. They’ve probably got him in a straightjacket.
I call St. Theresa’s Hospital.
“I’m calling for one of your patients—Henry Stagg?”
“Just one moment.”
I scratch my head and smell my fingers. Insecticide shampoo smells like insecticide. If I was a flea, I’d leave too.
“Hello?”
“Henry?”
“Jay-boy?”
“How are you doing?”
“Broken femur, two busted ribs, and a dislocated finger.”
“Ouch.”
“I have to crap in a pan.”
“At least you’re not dead.”
“Yeah, well, dead would be easier.”
“How long do you have to be in the hospital?”
“A few days, then I go home. They say I’ll be on crutches for a couple months. Hey, I can’t remember—did we shut that hatch?”
“I think so.”
“Good. Maybe they don’t know we were in the tank. The cops were here, but I pretended I was asleep.”
“We were all soaking wet, Henry. They know we were in there.”
“Oh well, what can they do?”
“We’re going to find out.”
“I s’pose. It was worth it, though. Wasn’t it?”
“I don’t know about that.”
“Hey, Kahunaness, no matter what they do to you, they aren’t gonna break your legs. I’m the only one paying the steep price here, and I say it was worth it.”
“I say you’re a nutcase.” Usually I wouldn’t talk to Henry like that, but I figure the broken leg and the fact that he’s ten miles away in the hospital give me a safety margin.
“Think about it, Einstein,” he says. “You live to be a hundred, you’re gonna remember it like it was yesterday. It was probably one of the great moments of your life. Sure, maybe they’ll send you to ding-dong school, take away your DVD player, whatever. That’s nothing. Who else you know that’s swum in a water tower? How long you think it’ll be before you have another night you’ll never forget? Me, a few months I’ll be healed up like nothing ever happened. But I’ll still have last night. It was like a religious experience.”
“What if you’d missed the catwalk?”
“I’d do it again in a second.”
“Henry, are you high on something?”
“They got me on some kind of IV drip. I’m not hurtin’, I can tell you that. Hey, y’know what’d be cool? We could haul some inner tubes up, about six flashlights, a boom box … get a bunch of girls up there …”
“How are you going to climb with your leg all busted up?”
“I’m planning for the future.”
Henry Stagg is, of course, certifiably insane. But I do wonder what it would sound like to crank up some Metallica or Eminem inside that enormous metal cavern. If you got it loud enough, maybe people would hear it coming out their faucets.
He’s also right about it being an unforgettable experience. I’ll never forget swimming in that tank. Of course, I’ll never forget the time I got my finger slammed in the car door when I was nine years old, and that’s not an experience I’d want to repeat.
I dial Shin’s number, but get the machine again. I look at the clock. Two P.M. That gives me two hours before my mother gets home. I decide to go for it. Nobody grounds the pope, so why should I be any different?
* * *
AND A GREAT RIFT GREW BETWEEN THE FAITHFUL AND THE PRAGMATISTS, AND HARSH WORDS FLEW LIKE ARROWS, AND THE PEOPLE OF EARTH FORMED INTO TWO GREAT TRIBES, AND THE LAND TREMBLED WITH MALICE.
* * *
22
Shin is sitting at the metal grid table on his patio writing in his sketchbook, eating Oreos, and washing them down with a big glass of water.
“Hey,” I say, coming around the side of his house.
He looks up, blinks, and closes the sketchbook. I sit down across from him and grab a cookie.
“We missed you last night,” I say, shoving the entire cookie into my mouth.
“I went home,” he says, not looking up.
Crunch, crunch, crunch, gulp. That’s about all Oreos are good for—three crunches and a gulp. Now, where’s that glass of milk?
“The height kind of got to you, huh?”
He glares at me.
I say, “I don’t think we’re going to be doing much climbing anymore.”
Shin says nothing.
“You hear what happened?”
He shakes his head.
“We got caught.”
He shrugs.
“And Henry fell off the top of the tower.”
Now I’ve got his attention.
“He landed on the catwalk.”
“Is he okay?”
“Yes. I mean, no. He’s in the hospital, but he’s going to be okay.”
“How did he fall?” Shin asks. He wraps his hands around his glass of water and takes a reverent sip, like a priest drinking from his chalice.
“He slipped on some water.”
“It was wet? It didn’t rain last night.”
“It got kind of wet after we went swimming.”
“You went swimming?”
I can see he doesn’t get it.
“We went swimming inside the tank.”
Shin blinks, confused.
“Inside the head of the Ten-legged One,” I say. “We went swimming. All of us.”
Shin’s mouth drops open. His eyes go to the glass of water in his hands, his hands relax, the glass falls, bounces on the table, spilling its waters across Shin’s lap, and falls off the table’s edge to shatter on the flagstones.
On the way home I stop and look up at the Ten-legged One. It stands out against the blue sky with remarkable clarity. My eyes follow the spiral ladder around and up the column to the first catwalk, then up to the second catwalk. I see the spot where Henry landed. I imagine him sliding off the tank, disappearing over the near horizon. My stomach clenches and I have to look away.
I will never forget the look on Henry’s face as he slid over the curve of the tank. “Oh, shit,” he said, and we all thought those were his last words. Even Henry must have thought so.
I wonder what my last words will be. I hope they won’t be “Oh, shit.”
I walk toward home in the bright afternoon light. One thing Henry is right about—it was a night I will never forget.
I’m afraid Shin will never forget it either.
After I told him we went swimming in the tank, he got very agitated.
“You entered the Godhead without me?” he said, standing up.
“We could hardly be with you, Shin. You weren’t there.”
“I don’t care.” Pacing back and forth, shards of shatte
red glass crunching beneath his shoes. “You should’ve waited.”
“Wait for what? You took off.”
“I’m still going up there.”
“Shin …”
“I have to go.” He gave me his most reasonable look. “I’ve received instructions from on high.”
“Look, Shin, you think maybe we’re getting too serious with this Ten-legged God business?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, fun’s fun, but if I get caught climbing that water tower again … or if you go up there and get caught … or hurt … It would be really bad.”
“I don’t think I have a choice,” Shin said.
“Sure you do.”
“No,” he said, setting his jaw. “I don’t.”
With that, he went back inside and closed the door behind him. I thought about following him and arguing some more, but when Shin puts on his stubborn face there’s no budging him. If he ever makes up his mind to walk to the moon, I have no doubt he’ll get there eventually.
I stop walking and look back at the dome of the tower rising above a horizon of trees. Someone is standing on top of the tower. Two of them. There are two people up there. I can’t see what they are doing. Probably workmen replacing the light we broke. Or members of a rival religion, making overtures to the Ten-legged One.
I turn my back on them. I have had enough of towers and gods for one day.
* * *
AND THE CORNERS OF THE EARTH WERE DIVIDED, AND THE TWO TRIBES, THE FAITHFUL AND THE PRAGMATISTS, NAMED EACH OTHER EVIL, AND THEY EACH SENT SPIES AND LIES TO PROMOTE RUINATION AND HATRED, AND SO DID THE BITTERNESS SPREAD LIKE BINDWEED ACROSS THE LAND.
* * *
23
My father is a lawyer. He thinks he can fix any problem by talking at it.
After he gets home from work, he stops by my room, where I am busy lying flat on my back counting the holes in the acoustic ceiling tiles. He perches one hip on my desk, crosses his arms, and looks me over. Sizing up the opposition.
“Why don’t you sit up, Jason. I think we need to talk.”
I sit up. I am not looking forward to this.
“I spent a good portion of my afternoon with the city attorney, Jason,” he begins. “Your actions last night have caused a lot of problems for a lot of people.”
Stage one of the assault is to soften up the enemy with an artillery barrage of guilt.
“I didn’t mean to cause anybody any trouble,” I say.
“Let me list just a few of the repercussions of your little adventure,” he says. “First, there is the matter of the city water supply. Do you realize that they had to drain and sterilize the water tower?”
I shake my head.
“A million gallons of perfectly good water down the drain. Second, there is the time and effort you have cost the city department of public works, the police, fire and rescue … not to mention your parents.
“Third, there is the trouble you have caused your friends. And don’t try to tell me that little Magda Price would have climbed that tower on her own, or that—”
“Henry would have,” I say.
He gives me a long, bland stare, as if he can’t quite believe I opened my mouth. After a few long seconds, he continues.
“—or that any of you would have broken into the tank and gone swimming in it—”
It was Henry’s idea, I want to say, but I don’t.
“—or that any of this would have happened. You have to realize, Jason, that your friends listen to what you say.”
They do? I guess they do.
“When you encourage them to do something dangerous or irresponsible, you are equally—if not more—culpable. If you tell someone to stand in front of a speeding truck, and they do it, you might just as well have killed them with a gun.”
The guilt barrage ceases. He inspects me for damage.
Now come the threats.
“You know, of course, that you kids will have to pay for the work the city has to do to clean up the tank and replace the water—more than two thousand dollars.”
Two thousand dollars?
“And then there is the damage you have done to yourself, to your reputation, and to your soul.”
“My soul?”
Again, he gives me that bland stare. Henry’s father would have had his belt out.
“Jason, I know all about this little water tower cult you’ve got going.” He shakes his head, calling up his reserves of patience. “I give you credit for being creative. What is it you call yourselves?”
“Chutengodians.” I wonder who spilled the secrets of the CTG. Probably Dan. They probably threatened to hit him with a ping-pong ball.
“Chutengodians, yes. Well, that’s very clever, but I think your little joke has gone far enough.” My father settles into his boring lecture voice. “During their teens, many young people question their religion. They may perceive the church as irrelevant and old-fashioned. They can’t see how it has anything to do with their lives. They think that they can worship God on their own terms.” Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I am old and experienced, while my opponent is young and foolish and irrelevant, which proves my point.
Anything I could say at this point would get me in trouble. I maintain a neutral silence.
My father mistakes my silence for interest. He goes on: “When I was young I too had my doubts. There were even a few years while I was in college that I hardly went to church at all. I looked at other religions. I even called myself an agnostic for a time.” He laughs, shaking his head at the absurdity of it. “But the fact is, Jason, God is real. God is real.” I was once young and foolish too, but now I’m old and foolish, so you should listen to me. I can say anything I want and call it a fact.
We lock eyes for a few seconds.
“Jason,” he says, clasping his hands firmly to demonstrate the unassailability of his argument, “you don’t really think that the water tower is God, do you?”
“No.”
“Then why would you do that? What on earth were you thinking? Why would you convince your friends to pretend to worship an inanimate object?”
I should really keep silent at this point, but Mr. Mouth has other ideas.
“Why not?” Mr. Mouth says. “What’s the difference? None of it’s real anyway.”
“I’m not joking, Jason.”
“Neither am I. Whatever happened to freedom of religion in this country? And what makes you so sure your god is the one?”
In a carefully measured voice he says, “Jason, I am not going to engage you in a debate over worshipping a water tower—”
“Forget the water tower. What makes being a Catholic so special? What about Buddhism, or Hinduism, or whateverism. Look, I admit it was a dumb idea to climb the tower. I’m sorry. But that doesn’t make Chutengodianism any dumber than your religion.”
He lowers his chin. “You are comparing worshipping a water tower to a two-thousand-year-old religion.”
“What’s the difference? It’s all made up anyway.”
I may have gone too far. The vein in his left temple is pulsing.
He stands up abruptly and walks out of the room. Two minutes later he is back, carrying a stack of books.
“Since you’re so interested in theology, you might want to read these.” He sets the books on my desk. “I’ll expect book reports on all five of them a week from next Friday.”
Okay, I made a couple of mistakes. Maybe I shouldn’t have let Henry open that hatch. Maybe I shouldn’t have let Henry into the CTG. Maybe we shouldn’t have left the rope ladder hanging from the stairs where the cops could see it. Maybe I shouldn’t have climbed the Ten-legged One. I don’t know. But I don’t see where it’s going to do anyone any good for me to get eyestrain from reading a bunch of Catholic propaganda, and not get my driver’s license, and spend hours shut in my room, and whatever else they’ve got cooked up. It’s persecution is what it is. Religious intolerance. A violation of the separation of church and
Jason. A trampling of my individual rights.
What would Jesus do? I ask myself. What would Martin Luther do? What would Muhammad do? What would Moses do? They would cry out, “Let my people go!”
I will gather the Chutengodians, and together we will set off across the freeways and farms. I will part the rivers with my staff. We will cross deserts, and scale mountains and we will come to a new land, a new Eden, where water towers dot the landscape, protecting us with the power of their great wet heads.
I look out the window at the dome of the Ten-legged One, and suddenly I am back inside, swimming in darkness, holding tight to Magda’s hand.
Me: Why is it that new religions always get persecuted?
Just Al: What do you mean?
Me: The Jews were persecuted by the Egyptians, the Christians were persecuted by the Romans, and the Protestants were persecuted by the Catholics. The Pilgrims came to America because everybody in England was giving them a hard time. Every time somebody starts up a new religion, the old religions get all twisted over it.
Just Al: I, uh, er …
Me: What does the pope care if some kid in St. Andrew Valley decides to worship dogs?
Just Al: Ha ha ha!
Brianna: Jason, you are so lame!
I catch Magda’s eye and wink at her, Chutengodian to Chutengodian. She looks away, flustered.
Me: This is a democracy, right? I mean, I have a right to worship dog piss if I want to.
Brianna: That is just sick.
George: Why dog piss?
Me: Why anything? Why not worship the sun? Why not worship a water tower? Isn’t it arbitrary?
Tracy: How can it be arbitrary? God isn’t a made-up thing. He’s God.
Me: Prove it.
Tracy: I don’t have to prove it. I know it.
Just Al: I have to agree with Tracy here. I know that God is real. I feel his presence in my heart.
Me: What does it feel like?
