The Greatest Spiritual Secret of the Century (13 page)

Chapter Eleven

Rich's Revenge

When Paul entered the lobby of his apartment building on Eighth Avenue, Billy, the elderly security guard, wasn't in the lobby. It wasn't so unusual, Paul thought, reflecting on other far more unusual oddities, such as he'd experienced in the tunnel. After sharing a vegetable curry and spaghetti with the small group and what had essentially been small-talk, Jim had escorted Paul back to the larger tunnel and the grate so he could head back home and start his job-search.

Paul stopped at the rack of mailboxes near the elevator and opened his. Inside were several pieces of junk mail, a yellow slip from the Post Office informing him he had a registered letter from the building's co-op association that he needed to go sign for, and a letter from the Internal Revenue Service in a white window-envelope.

He pushed the button for the odd-floor elevator, noticing from the indicator that it was coming down. When the doors opened, Billy stepped out. When he saw Paul he looked startled and embarrassed, muttered, “Hi,” and walked by with fast, short steps while carefully keeping his attention on the floor.

Odd, Paul thought, as he stepped into the elevator and pushed the button for twenty-one. On the way up, he opened the letter from the IRS and discovered that the pleasure of his company was requested for a full audit of his returns for the past three years. It would be a nuisance, but he didn't have anything to worry about; he hadn't used any odd tax dodges or anything like the rich folks did. He just claimed the standard deduction and sent about a third of his total income, in various forms, to the government. As the elevator went up, he remembered last year's
Taxpayer Freedom Day.
It was proclaimed by some organization he couldn't remember, and some time in May they said that the average taxpayer had been working from the first of the year until that day for the government and now could begin working for themselves. He wondered how much the Roman conquerors had taxed people two thousand years ago. A tenth of their wealth? A third? Half? Three quarters?

The thought brought to mind the conversation he'd had with Jim when they were walking back to the grate.

“You gonna go back to pushing rocks up the side of the pyramid?” Jim had said.

“What do you mean?” Paul had said, as they walked down the long, empty tunnel.

“I mean like the Pharaoh. Moses set his people free. He said, ‘We're not gonna take this any more. Build your own damn pyramids.' You know what I mean?”

“I guess.”

“Like Bob Dylan said, ‘I ain't gonna work on Maggie's farm no more.' He understood. Do it my way or hit the highway. So, you gonna go back to work for the pharaoh?”

“You mean get a job?”

“Yeah. Work for somebody else. Let them run your life. You gonna?”

“Really, Jim, a regular paycheck lets me run my own life. I think if I'm going to join you guys in trying to share Joshua's message, I need that kind of support. I mean, without it, I'd have to depend on the government for welfare.”

“I don't get welfare,” Jim said, a sharp note of pride in his tone.

“And you live in a packing crate in the tunnel,” Paul said, careful to keep his tone matter-of-fact. “I'm sure it's fine for you, but I think I can do more to influence the world from an apartment up above the street. And I've gotta have money to pay for that.”

“You saying that apartment is worth trading your soul for?”

“It's not like they're taking my soul,” Paul said. “Just eight hours a day, more or less.”

“And what else is your soul? What is your life?”

“All the other stuff! My social life, friends, maybe a wife someday, kids, TV in the evening, go to the theatre, read a good book. It's all my life.”

“Are you sure?” Jim said. “I work about an hour a day. Two hours on a bad day, when there ain't many cans to be found in the trash. Get the food and money I need in an hour or two. That's about the same workload as most tribal people have, you know? The rest of the time, I spend with my friends, or reading, or thinking. Getting ready to spread the word, when Joshua says the time has come.”

“Must be nice,” Paul said, reflecting that in the past year or two he'd lost touch with all the people he'd once considered friends. Nobody had the time anymore for anything other than work, it seemed. At least among those who were climbing the ladder.

“So it's back to work for the pharaoh?” Jim said, coming back to the question as if Paul had seriously reconsidered it.

“I guess. Until I'm stable and can publish some of this stuff.”

“You could always start your own business.”

“I don't know how to do that,” Paul said.

“I got mine. 'Jim's Can Service.”' He laughed, then grew serious. “No taxes, no boss, no rules except those imposed by the real world. No bull to take from anyone, and I got friends who'll die for me. Don't got to give any of what I earn to the pharaoh, and don't got to lift stones up the side of the pyramid for him.”

“It sounds like a good life,” Paul conceded, although he was thinking about what it would be like if he'd ever tried to explain to Susan that he was living in a packing crate in a tunnel under the city. It was unimaginable.

“It's sure better than the army and better than any of the other jobs I've had over the years. I'm not saying it's easy, but it's my life, you know? Nobody else runs it but me.”

“I understand, but I don't mind the slavery, I guess.”

“Well, brother,” Jim said with a wink, “remember what the working girls say. They can buy your body, but that money don't mean they get your heart or soul.”

“I'll keep that in mind,” Paul had said as the subject ran to its end.

The elevator hit twenty-one and opened, and Paul walked to his apartment door, the mail in one hand and his keys in the other. As he put his key into the dead-bolt lock, he noticed that the metal looked shinier than it had before. Like it was a new lock, or had been scrubbed clean with steel wool.
Odd
, he thought, as he tried to turn the key.

It wouldn't move.

He jiggled the key from side to side, up and down, but nothing helped; it wouldn't open the door. He tried his other key, for the lower lock and doorknob, and found that it didn't work, either.

Paul pulled out the key and walked over to Rich's door, knocking on it in a quick rap-rap-rap imitation of Rich's knock. He heard somebody walk to the door, saw the flicker in the peephole.

“Yeah?” came Rich's voice from behind the door.

“Rich, it's me. Paul.”

“So?”

“So my key doesn't work.”

“Of course not. You're evicted.”

“What?” Paul shouted, his voice echoing down the hall. “What are you talking about?”

“I warned you,” Rich said. “But back he came, still asking if I wanted to sell my soul. So I did what I had to do.”

“You got me evicted?”

“This joke's gone way too far, buddy.”

“Rich, open the door and let me in. Let's talk about this.”

“You better go, Paul. Your stuff will be downstairs on the loading dock tomorrow at noon.”

“Rich!”

He heard footsteps shuffling away from the door, so he banged on it with his fist. There was no response, so
he banged again. “Rich, open up! This isn't a joke, and I don't have anything to do with it!”

Behind him, Paul heard the elevator door open. Billy stepped out, his rheumy eyes watching the floor as he walked over toward Paul.

“Billy, what's going on?” Paul said.

“Mister Abler,” Billy said, his right hand resting on the gun in the holster on his right hip, his eyes looking determined but a bit fearful. “I think it's time for you to go now.”

“Why?”

“I just got a call from Mister Whitehead, saying you was up here causing a disturbance. We can't have disturbances in our halls. You know that.”

“Billy, I live here!” Paul was standing on the balls of his feet, bouncing, waving his hands in the air. “That right there is my apartment!”

“Not anymore, Mister Abler. Mister Whitehead give me a court order just an hour ago to change the lock on the door, and so that's what I done. It's not your apartment any more.”

“Billy, this is nuts!” Paul shouted.

Billy shook his head slowly and stepped forward, taking Paul's in his hand with a gentle but firm grip. “Now, sir, that's just how life goes. This isn't the first time somebody's been evicted here, and it won't be the last time. Now you come along with me.”

“Where?”

“Out. Out the front door.”

“But my stuff. I've got to get into my apartment to get my things!”

“Noon tomorrow,” Billy said. “We got movers coming at noon, and it'll all be down on the dock.” His voice softened. “You be here a bit early, I'll let you help them if you want. Come around eleven.”

Paul jerked his arm back from Billy's grip and marched over to the elevator, pushed the button.

“You're not thinking of making any trouble for me are you, Mister Abler?” Billy said, walking over to stand behind Paul. “This ain't nothing personal. I need my job, too, you know. And I know you don't want what would happen if we had to call in the sheriff.”

The elevator door opened and Paul stepped in. He turned around in the doorway so Billy couldn't enter without pushing him out of the way. “Don't worry, Billy. I'll let myself out.”

Chapter Twelve

Despair

Paul stood on Eighth Avenue watching the afternoon traffic of cars, taxis, trucks, and pedestrians flow around him like a ceaseless river. He searched out faces, hoping to see Noah or Jim or Joshua among the people, but none of them appeared. He leaned against the black enamel steel fencing that bounded the small yard around the apartment building, and watched as two squirrels alternately chased each other up and down an old maple tree.

He called out softly, hoping none of the people walking by would hear, “Noah? Are you here?”

The squirrels didn't even turn to look at him. His only answer was the sounds of the street: car engines gunning and moaning, horns crying, a distant siren, a drunk at the newsstand across the avenue shouting at an attractive woman walking by.

He stepped out onto Eighth Avenue and turned right, walking downtown, unsure of where he was going or what he would do. He ran through his mind the short list of people he might be able to call for a place to spend the night and realized with a mild shock that none were what he would call true friends. They were all acquaintances: people he knew at work, people in his building, people he'd met while working on stories over the past years. The three close friends he'd come to know in college had all moved on; Thomas was in Atlanta, Mike in San Francisco, and Amanda had gone to Salt Lake City for a job and ended up married into a polygamous Mormon family living in a small town in southern Utah. His career had soaked up all his time, all his life, left no room for meaningful friendships.

The people from work would probably be embarrassed to see him, and of the people he'd met over the past year in his building, the only one he'd gotten to know well enough to visit each other's apartment was Rich. A lyric from an old Beatles tune about “all the lonely people” ran through his head as he looked around at the people on the street, wondering how many of them, like him, were essentially friendless in the big city.

At 27
^th
Street he passed the Fashion Coffee Shop and, on an impulse, walked in. It was that quiet time between lunch and dinner, and there were only three tables occupied, all by students. Mary was sitting on one of the
counter stools reading the newspaper. When he walked in, she looked up and smiled.

“Hi, Paul,” she said.

“Hi, Mary,” he replied, sitting on the stool next to her.

“This isn't your regular table.”

“I'm just going to have a cup of coffee.”

She got up and went behind the counter to the coffeepot and poured him a cup, brought it over and put it in front of him. “Be right back,” she said, then took a pitcher of water over to a table occupied by three young women and a shaved-head young man. On the way back she visited the other two occupied tables, went to the soft-drink dispenser and refilled a glass of cola, took it back to one of the tables. Paul watched her and wondered what her life was like when she wasn't moving plates and glasses around.

Mary returned to the stool and sat down. “Seven more minutes,” she said with a glance toward the kitchen.

“Seven more minutes?” Paul said.

“Yeah, assuming Diana shows up on time. I leave in seven more minutes. I'm shot.”

“Long day?”

“Fridays are always long days, because I work a full shift. Monday through Wednesdays I have classes so I only work the mornings, but I work Thursdays and Fridays
from seven in the morning ‘till four. There's supposed to be an hour's lunch break in there, but I prefer to catch it five minutes here and five minutes there.” She tilted her head to one side in a plastic-smile gesture. “So I'm on my lunch break right now.”

“What are you doing after work?” Paul said. He felt instantly embarrassed at the tired-out pickup cliché; he hadn't meant it that way. It was just a statement of curiosity. Or was it?

“Gonna walk two miles and feed my cat,” she said, giving him a look that he took as curiosity. “Why?”

He shrugged, feeling suddenly warm. “I don't know. Just curious.” He noticed that his armpits were suddenly sweaty, and wondered if he'd remembered to put on deodorant after his morning shower. The call from Rich had unnerved him; it was possible he'd overlooked parts of his normal routine.

“I live up near Central Park, in the Sixties,” she said. “It's kinda an upscale area, but the apartment is owned by a friend of my father's, so he's giving my dad a break on the rent.”

“That's nice,” he said, wondering if he'd brushed his teeth.

“I mean if you want to walk me home. It's about two miles north of here, I'd guess. Almost forty blocks. Somebody once told me that every twenty blocks is a mile.”

Paul realized from the tone of her voice that she was
nervous. He'd never heard her like this before; she was always so self-assured, so totally waitress-in-charge. And she'd just asked him if he'd proposed to walk her home.

“I'd love to walk you home,” he said, wondering how she'd react if he asked if he could sleep on her couch. “Can I take you to dinner after you feed your cat?”

She laughed. “You getting food for me? That would be a change.” She reached behind her neck, found her ponytail, pulled it over her shoulder and smoothed the hair. “Where would you like to go?”

“What's your favorite food?”

She looked at her hair for a moment as if she'd just discovered it, then tossed it back over her shoulder. “I'm vegetarian.”

“Why?”

She shrugged. “I love animals. I'm not gonna eat one unless my life depends on it.”

“What is love?” he said.

“Well, I feel like I'm one of them, you know?” she said. “I'm an animal. A human animal, but an animal. And I'd rather somebody didn't kill me for food, so I figure they feel the same way. And look how they struggle when they know you're going to kill them. They know, and they don't want to die. So I think love, at least in this context,” she looked at the floor for a moment, “is compassion.”

“What would you say if I said that God is love?”

She thought about it for a moment. “Sounds sweet enough.”

“No, I mean
really.
I mean that
God is love.
That's how we experience God.”

“I dunno,” she said. She nodded her head toward the table with the four students. “You see that girl on the end, the one with the long red hair?”

Paul glanced over. The young woman sat with two other girls and a boy: they all had that self-conscious look of college freshmen. The redhead wore skintight black leather pants and a white lacy top that was cut so low her breasts were visible. “With her hand on the guy's leg?” Paul said.

“Yeah. They've been coming in here about four months now, this is sort of like their hangout. I've seen her fall in love three times, three different guys. And I mean, she's really falling in love with them. Head over heels. She dumped the first one, the second one dumped her; she was in here crying and talking about suicide. And now this one. But I think maybe she's just really sensitive to pheromones or she wasn't nurtured enough as a child. You know what I mean?”

“Yeah, and there could be some of that in there. It's the difference between lust and love. But love is more real, deeper.”

“I love my cat,” Mary said.

“Do you see God in your cat's eyes?”

“Well,” Mary said, “When I look into my cat's eyes, I get the feeling sometimes that I'm looking into some kind of larger intelligence. But I'm also clear that I'm looking at a cat, who's looking back at me as a cat looking at a person. You know?”

“Exactly.” He nodded at the girl at the table. “And that's the difference between you and the girl over there. She looks into a guy's eyes and feels that love feeling and thinks she's looking into God's eyes, and she doesn't realize there's a guy there, too. She's leaned how to get her juice, her energy, her contact with God, by falling in love with a guy. But her mistake is she thinks that boy is the only place it is, or at least that she'll only find it by falling in love. That her only connection to God is through a boy. She doesn't realize it's inside of her, that God-ness he is making her feel. That it's God in her. She just thinks that connection to God is available through him. Of course, she wouldn't even call it a ‘connection to God,' she doesn't think in those terms, but that's what's happening. She touched God once by falling in love with a boy, and now she thinks that's the only way to touch God. And it's gonna be the tragedy of her life.”

Mary looked impressed. “That's so insightful.”

“And I'm sure it's true. It's a Truth.”

She nodded and said, “I'll look for God when I see my cat tonight.” A dark-haired middle-aged woman
came through the door and Mary's expression brightened. “There's Diana, only three minutes late for her shift. We can go now.”