Last God Standing (18 page)

“You might have told us sooner.”

“I was busy.”

“And now you think we’ve worked it out?”

“Well, people don’t jump off bridges expecting God to save them to reward their faith. Otherwise you’d have millions of people doing it just to prove a point.”

“But then your Secret is wrong,” Maya said. “We’re still afraid of the dark. We need God.”

“Why?”

Maya furrowed her brow. Finally, she stood.

“I will remember,” she said. “For the children in my country who lie dying in dark hospitals. I will remember you, God of the Americans.”

Then she was gone.

“‘What a piece of work is man! How noble in reason! How infinite in faculty!’
Hamlet
(Act
Two
Scene
Two)! Oh fearful Lord of Lords. Yahweh! King of Kings!”

Moroni stood on the far side of the classroom, his borrowed body hugging the shadows. When I looked at him he flinched and fell on his face.

“You helped them. Now you call me King?”

“‘What’s in a name? That which we would call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet!’ Forgive me, Lord! I was compelled by the power of the Seraphim… compelled!”

I looked down at the old dead priest, his eyes and mouth open, accusing me of a billion crimes.

“‘Some rise by sin. And some by virtue fall’,” I said.

“
Measure for Measure
! Excellent, Lord!”

“Take me back, Moroni,” I said. “Take me home.”

I spent twenty minutes threatening Moroni before I dismissed him. I wanted him to spread the word: future angelic rebellions would be dealt with severely. I gave him free rein to describe Seraphiel’s disintegration with as much drama as he deemed necessary. I couldn’t have asked for a better pitchman for my latest edict: Moroni would have the story spread across the planet before lunch.

By the time I stepped off the bus in front of the Soupbucket, I was ready for the easy distraction of a pitch meeting. My headache had abated, allowing me a moment to collect myself. But I was still shaky as I walked into the trendy restaurant, twenty minutes late, to find Yuri and three people I didn’t recognise sitting at a table. Yuri waved me over.

He pulled me in for a bro-hug and hissed in my ear. “Dude, I thought I was gonna have to cancel. Are you OK? You look like hell.”

“I’m fine.”

“Good. I’ll kill you later.”

Yuri turned to the man on his left. “Lando this is Jeff Corroder, President of Dream Lever Entertainment.”

Corroder stood up and grasped my hand in his large right hand. He was just over six feet tall, swarthy, round-shouldered and slumping toward fat.

“Master Cooper!” Corroder boomed. “Glad you could finally join us! I was ready to send out the cavalry.”

Corroder’s voice was comically high for a man of his size, a female bodybuilder’s sexless falsetto.

“No need,” I said. “I’m ready to…”

I finished my greeting on the floor. Suddenly I was looking up at three faces staring down at me in alarm.

“Oh my god, are you OK?”

“I’m OK.”

“Somebody get some water! Do you need a doctor?”

“I’m fine!”

Somebody helped me into a seat. Somebody else set a glass of water on the table in front of me. I picked up the glass and drained it in one long gulp.

“Dude?” Yuri said, worry scrawled all over his face.

“I’m OK. Just a little dehydrated.”

“Well good!” Corroder chirped. “Can’t have our main man doing his opening monologue from the emergency room.”

Everyone laughed. Yuri and Corroder laughed the longest.

“Anyway, Lando this is my new assistant, Mitsuko Leavenworth. She’ll be taking notes while we chew the fat.”

Mitsuko Leavenworth was beautiful, a tall JapaneseAmerican, about twenty-five years old. She wore efficient black slacks and black V-neck sweater with blue pinstriped shirt underneath. At her throat rested a gold pendant shaped to resemble twin serpents entwined about the Japanese character for good luck. Each of the serpents sported tiny emeralds for eyes. Leavenworth projected an aura of exacting precision. Her long black hair had been lashed into a bun so tight that looking at it made my temples throb.

“Hello, Lando. It’s a pleasure to meet you. And I’m not exactly ‘new’, anymore, Jeff.”

Corroder smacked his forehead. “Sorry. Mitsuko worked her way up through the company. She was in Feature Development with Yuri before I dragged her into TV Purgatory. Hey, speaking of Yuri, I’ve seen so much of your stuff lately I feel like I can recite your act by heart!”

Yuri grinned. “I know talent when I see it, boss.”

“Yuri talks about you all the time too, Jeff.”

Corroder mock-winced. “All bad I’ll bet.”

“The worst,” Yuri said. “If you weren’t signing my paychecks I would have vivisected you months ago.”

This sent gales of laughter around the table.

“Yuri, you nut. Anyway, Lando, I’d like you to meet Ted McFarlane. VP of Comedy Development at Fox.”

Ted McFarlane was slightly below average in height, muscular and hirsute, dressed in dark gray slacks, light blue shirt, and brown pennyloafers. His hair was a noxious flame red, which only served to heighten the impression of violence throbbing beneath his skin. His complexion had a thoroughly spanked redness to it. Years of sun damage and Celtic inbreeding ran riot beneath an explosion of freckles: Ted McFarlane had years of melanoma treatments lurking in his very near future.

“Lando,” he said, his voice like the ultra-low rumble of a California aftershock. He took my hand and gave me a mindnumbingly complicated soulbrother handshake. “Love your stuff, homie. Caught your set at the Midtown Comedy Festival last month. Awesome: edgy, topflight observational shit.”

“You were at the Festival?”

“Bro,” McFarlane snorted. “You think I have time to hit every pisspot comedy club in Chicago? Jeff sent me the links.”

Corroder leaned in. “You’re killin’ it on YouTube!”

“YouTube? Really?”

“Dude,” McFarlane said. “False modesty only works for old British theater fags. You’re what? Twenty-four, twenty-five?”

“Twenty-nine.”

McFarlane took the correction smoothly, but I caught him looking around the table to check reactions to his reaction.

“You’re web-friendly, with a global sort of appeal. On a purely demographic level, there are lots of people in the world who look like you – Brown people, people of color… whatever. They want to see themselves represented in the media. Take that, plus a nice amount of mainstream crossover, and by ‘mainstream’ I mean white American men between the ages of eighteen and thirty-nine, slightly younger on the female flipflop, and you’re pulling about twenty to thirty thousand views per day.”

“How many…?”

“And that’s with no website. No HBO specials or Comedy Channel hype machine,” Yuri added. “Jeff and Ted think you’re on the cusp of going viral.”

“Definitely,” Corroder said. “For reasons we’re still studying… you’ve developed a following.”

“But I never downloaded any videos.”

“Uploaded,” Yuri blurted. “Videos. What Captain Luddite here means is that I’ve been posting his appearances on YouTube and YUCKS and a few other key comedy sites. Lando, Jeff thinks you could be the next Arsenio Hall!”

Corroder slapped the table. “Dude! You promised we wouldn’t use the ‘A’ word. Damn!”

“We’re living in ‘postracial America’,” McFarlane said. “Networks are interested in promoting minority perspectives in order to capture a wider share of an ever diversifying television audience. Advertisers however, still don’t want to alienate the South, the Midwest… all those shitholes where lots of conservative whites live. Nice white Christians who buy guns at Walmart. So you see my dilemma here, Lando, as a Development executive, I mean?”

“Totally. Actually… no. No I don’t.”

“Look,” McFarlane said. “We want color. American audiences are tired of old white guys telling them lame-ass old white guy jokes. Everybody’s down: Letterman’s slipped, Leno’s an abortion on ice since NBC ass-jammed his show. Even Kimmel and Conan are just buttflakes these days. People want new viewpoints, new ideas…”

“Fresh perspectives,” Corroder chimed.

“New blood!” Yuri was grinning from ear to ear. “Fresh meat!”

“Rrriiiight,” McFarlane said. “Fresh Meat. I like it. Could be a good title for the show.”

He nodded this last point over at Corroder’s assistant, who was typing furiously onto an iPad.

“What kind of show are you guys looking for?” I said. Yuri’s brows dimpled. Mitsuko Leavenwoth stopped typing and looked up at me. “I mean… I’m not really clear.”

“Commentary,” Corroder said. “Social critique, but with a comedian’s eye for the absurd.”

Yuri leaned in. “News of the day, politics, whatever’s going on in Washington and how screwed up everything is…”

“Even when things are great.”

“Something’s always screwed up in Washington.”

“Right,” Corroder said. “Everything’s fair game. Nothing’s off topic.”

“Censorship…”

“The media…”

“Race…”

“Sex…”

“War…”

“Things people care about,” Corroder finished. “Guy and Gal on the street, ‘everyday people’ issues… only with jokes…”

“Everyday People,” McFarlane mused. “Another good title.”

Mitsuko Leavenworth looked up from her iPad. “I’m pretty sure Everyday People is the title of a popular Seventies soul song.”

“I don’t think so, sweetheart,” McFarlane said. “I mean, how could it be, when I just came up with it myself?”

To her credit, Mitsuko Leavenworth kept a straight face. I noticed the look she shot Yuri, and the one he shot back at her, and suddenly understood that they were sleeping together.

“It was done by soul supergroup Sly and the Family Stone,” Yuri said. “Classic.”

“Sly Stone,” McFarlane mused. “Funky black dude, big sunglasses, crazy afro, dope problem. Maybe. The Seventies are nuclear hot right now.”

Corroder leaned in. “Could be a good choice for a sidekick/bandleader. Sign him to a contract and we get the song plus a burned out wacky celeb.”

“Sly’s a natural for the celebrity rehab circuit,” Yuri added. “
Celebrity Crackhouse
would kill to get him.”

“Yeah,” Corroder said. “Reality Rehab: Sly Stone; his loves, his hates…”

“His drugs.”

“I don’t recall any stories about drug addiction,” McFarlane said.

“Seriously?” Yuri chuckled. “Giant afro, elevator shoes and songs about peace, love and harmony: what drugs hasn’t this guy done?”

“Yeah! Sly Stone and a bunch of Seventies burnouts living in a rehab center…”

“Or a haunted mansion,” Yuri said. “Think Flava Flav meets
The Real World
meets
Survivor
… in a haunted mansion.”

“I get it,” McFarlane snapped. “Sly Stone: sidekick, bandleader… a loose cannon, say anything ethnic burnout…”

“As a compliment to Lando’s ‘Boy Next Door with an Edge’,” Yuri reminded everyone.

“Lando, we want a Funnyman of the People, someone who calls ’em the way he sees ’em: no bull, no babytalk. Just a round-the-way brother who takes the piss out of polite society and tells it like it is.”

“I get it!” I said, warming to the topic. “While subversively tackling the multi-layered hypocrisies of a rampant Military/Industrial/Entertainment Complex.”

Silence.

“But likable,” McFarlane continued. “Likability is key for advertisers. No one wants a radical screaming in their faces. I mean everybody’s pretty much gotten what they wanted right? Gays can marry, minorities…”

“What minorities?” Corroder said. “Last census shows honkies like me dwindling in the population while everybody else on the planet is having babies. A billion Indians, a billion Chinese…”

“Right,” Yuri said. “And with the web shifting the entertainment landscape underneath us, it’s wide open territory. We’re talking about a global audience.”

“At the same time… let’s face it,” McFarlane continued. “Outsiders are definitely in. We’ve got an African-American lesbian Vice President and cloned Chinese hearing impaired Afro-Native-Canadian astronauts living on the moon. We need the new face of the twenty-first century. Lando… we all think you’re it.”

Grins akimbo, they were handing me a jackpot: legitimacy, a bright, shiny career, high profile success. If the show was a hit I’d be able to buy and sell Magnus Moloke a dozen times over.

“Again, we don’t want a radical,” McFarlane said. “But we do want radical comedy. Hmmmm. Radical Comedy.”

“Got it,” Mitsuko Leavenworth said, typing away. Her eyes flashed toward Yuri. Whatever their connection was it had very little to do with comedy. Unless it was a sex comedy.

“I want to see you live,” McFarlane said. “I heart YouTube, but I want to see you in front of a crowd.”

Yuri nodded. “I told Jeff and Ted about the Up and Comers at the Ha Ha Room, Wednesday night.”

“I have to check my schedule,” McFarlane said. “I’m only in Chicago till Thursday morning. But I want to see you do your thing on the real. You feel me?”

“Roll on through,” I said. McFarlane’s corporate hiphop speak was contagious as a flesh eating virus. “Check me out. You won’t be disappointed… yo.”

Yuri beamed. “Foshizzle, my nizzles!”

“Funky fresh, homies!” Corroder tweeted. “Well, LC, you ready to reach for the stars?”

“Where do I sign up?”

Everyone high-fived. Yuri bought a round of iced teas and produced a flask filled with bourbon to add a “little snap” to the toasting. I stuck with my iced tea, confident that I was on my way; the future was mine.

Later, lost and betrayed, I would remember that moment.

And damn myself for a fool.

“I miss you, babe. London sucks.”

Relief washed over me like a wave from a cool sea. I trembled as an adrenaline surge sent starbursts sizzling along my nerve endings. I’d spent the two days since lunch with Yuri and Corroder preparing for the Goldie Kiebler’s Up and Comers’ contest later that night, and fantasizing about what I’d say if Surabhi called. Now I couldn’t think of anything funny to say.

“I miss you too. I can’t stop thinking about last week. I’m so sorry I made such a mess of things.”

“Well, my dad was being an even bigger idiot.”

“Wow. I’m so glad you said that. I mean…”

“What did you think, Lando? That I’d let my father make up my mind for me?”

“No, of course not.”

“You’re a terrible liar, Mister Cooper.”

“I know.”

“Lando, we’ve got things to clear up before we can get on with… whatever this is.”

“I know. And you’re right. About me, I meant. I have been hiding things from you. But I want to tell you everything.”

“God, that’s scary. Now I’m all nervous.”

“Why?”

“You’re not a serial killer or anything are you?”

“Nothing so serious.”

“We’re flying back tomorrow. Mum and Dad are going on to New York. I plan to be in your arms by no later than midnight tomorrow. Being here these last few days… I’ve just really missed you. Can you forgive me for being such a mad cow?”

“I love you, Surabhi. There’s nothing to forgive.”

“Will you meet me at the airport with flowers and your most charming grin? The one I like, that curls up on one end?”

“Done. Tell your father congratulations for me?”

“How about I just say ‘Anonymous Friends from America Send Salutations Upon The Occasion of Your Imperial Recognition?’”

“Sounds very British. Email me your flight information?”

“That’s a ‘can do’ on that one, Big Poppa.”

“Hiphop, British Accent. And a little grossed out by the ‘Big Poppa’.”

“Hmmm,” Surabhi purred. “Freud would have a field day. I gotta go. Dad’s royal carriage is here: knighthood awaits. Can’t believe I’m actually wearing a dress my mother bought for me. Bare arms. Oy. I blame Michelle Obama.”

“Your arms are ten times more buffed than Michelle Obama’s.”

“I bet you say that to all the girls you want to marry. See you soon?”

“Not soon enough.”

“Remember now: full disclosure. The Real Story of Lando Cooper.”

“Followed by late dinner and violent make-up sex?”

“We’ll see. Bye, babe.”

“Bye.”

I disconnected. I entered her arrival time on a small PostIt note and stuck it to my laptop screen. Nothing short of the return of the Titans would keep me from meeting her plane on time.

It’s working, I congratulated myself. The Plan is back on schedule.

“Sometimes I can’t tell if you love Surabhi or your
all-important Plan”,
Connie piped in from my brain.

“Surabhi, of course. Where have you been?”

The air in front of my desk shimmered, and Connie stepped out of a slit in the local Fabric. She had changed again. Now she was wearing the body of a stooped, old woman with flowing, floor length white hair. It was another of her Aspects, Winter Woman, dressed in long deerskin tunic and soft moccasins. A string of beads and small shells dangled noisily from a leather string tied around her neck. She looked oddly beautiful in this, her most ancient Aspect.

“You on the warpath?”

“Funny. Save the racist jokes for your lousy TV show.”

“What’s the matter with you?”

Connie shrugged her old lady shoulders.

“Oh, I’m just preoccupied. I went to check up on that group of new followers I told you about.”

“Esmeralda Sanchez. In New Mexico.”

“Yup. She’s developing quite a movement. They’re calling it the
‘New Redemption Spritwalker Fellowship.’
It’s attracting attention from other Indian tribes across the Southwest.

“Esmeralda prayed for a Vision. The prayers were particularly powerful and I was curious. When I
visited her, I was shocked to see that she had gathered nearly two thousand people to hear her message. I slipped into the mind of one of her acolytes, her twin sister, Evelyn. I watched Esmeralda perform the ancient rites. She sang with such authority that I got all emotional. It reminded me of when my family was in charge.”

Connie sighed.

“I kept looking for some sign of Sun, my husband, or Shelly… that’s my sister, White Shell Woman. But neither of them could be bothered – too busy with their little casino projects for a family reunion I guess. Anyway, I missed a response to Esmeralda’s songs. That’s what drew her attention. She glanced over her shoulder at me. Then she stopped singing and fell to her knees. She
recognized
me.”

“Impossible. She couldn’t have.”

“‘Onihima
is here! She has heard our songs! Changing Woman honors us with a Visitation! The Earth Mother is with us!’
That’s what she said.”

“But that would make her…”

“Yup. A prophet.”

“But that’s…”

“A big pain in the butt.”

“There aren’t supposed to be any more prophets, Connie. Because there aren’t supposed to be any more gods – at least no confirmation of godly presences.”

“I know that. You think I don’t know that?”

“If all those people saw you that would be confirmation, Connie. Confirmation flies in the face of the Plan. They have to believe they’re on their own! This Sanchez woman could stir up all kinds of trouble! She could single-handedly set the Plan back a hundred years. If her following grows large enough she could coax your pantheon out of retirement.”

“I guess I should also tell you that my son Monster Slayer has been sniffing around for a way to regain his station.”

“What?”

“You try shaking down losers and bouncing card counters for forty years. My son used to slaughter the enemies of the gods. Now he sits on a barstool all day, staring into video monitors and eating pancakes from the All You Can Stuff Buffalo Bar.”

“What did you do, Connie?”

“Well… when she saw me… recognized me… in front of all those people…”

“No. Tell me you didn’t…”

“There were hundreds of people there, Lando…
thousands, all chanting my name.”

“Connie!”

“I figured one tiny miracle…”

“One tiny miracle? There are no ‘tiny’ miracles, Connie!”

Connie folded her flabby arms and stuck out her chin.

“Well… no one’s parting the Red Sea or anything like
that.”

“You know that was blown out of proportion.”

“And anyway… why should
your
believers be the only ones to get a little hope, a little encouragement? You realize how desperate my peoples’ situation has become?”

“Connie, we had a deal! No miracles! No confirmation!”

“Oh poop,”
she replied, waving away my objections.
“It was just a little rain.”

“You made it rain?”

“Yes. That’s why they were all gathered there. They were having this big Indian arts festival. There’s been a major drought across the Southwest for the last three years...”

“Three years?”

“Yes. Sorry…
four
years.”

“You’re killing me.”

“They were all there, the
People. Not just Navajos either. Other tribes, white folks, black folks… Japanese tourists, Mexicans… all singing Navajo songs. Esmeralda instructed them to pray for rain. They even had a Junior Rain Dancers competition. Those little buggers were so cute!”

“I’m getting a sick headache, Connie…”

“So I thought,
‘What the hell? What’s it going to hurt now?’
So when Esmeralda
recognized
me in the body of her sister, she called upon the bond between
all
sisters, reminding me of the love between me and my sister, White Shell Woman – the little slut – I guess I was feeling nostalgic for the old days, the
Old Ways.
She asked for my favor and I granted it. I called the
winds… and they answered me! It was so lovely to see them again! Then I summoned the rains and they came!”

“You’re making me meshugga, Connie.”

“Oh, you only speak Yiddish when you’re feeling intolerant. Don’t get all Old Testament on me, mister. Alright… so I got a little crazy. They sang my favorite songs and danced the ancient dances. They’re still dancing.”

“It’s still raining there?”

“Yes, Mister Poopy Paws. Look at me. Don’t I look different?”

Changing Woman was growing younger, her hair darkening toward black, the lines in her face fading away even as her back straightened and she stood taller.

“I know what you have to do,”
she said.

“Connie. I have to.”

“It was sure nice while it lasted though. Now I have to go lie down. I’m gonna be so hungover in the morning. Sorry. But not really.”

“Goodnight, Connie.”

She waved, a giggling beautiful teenager, and faded away.

“Nightie night, Grampa.”

Man, I hate it when she goes walkabout.

I felt the comforting esoteric weight of her as she settled into my brain for what I hoped would be a long nap. Then I closed my eyes and rummaged around for an Aspect. After Africa and the ersatz angelic rebellion I could no longer trust the archangels to ferry me around: who knew who else Gabriel had corrupted? I was going to have to use my own reserves to get me to New Mexico. I reached into the Eshuum and was greeted immediately by Sky Daddy.

“Hello, Lando,” it rattled. Its voice was light for so large and diffuse an Aspect; a shriek in a wind tunnel; the howl of a hurricane rushing through a keyhole. “We’ve missed you.”

I was shrugging Sky Daddy on over my shoulders when the door to my bedroom flew open and Barbara stumbled into the room.

“Ma!”

My voice struck echoes of elemental fury from the air. I shoved Sky Daddy back into my pocket.

“Ooopsh, sorry.”

Barbara stepped out into the hall, slammed the door, waited four seconds, then knocked.

“May I come in?”

“No!”

She came in. “What are you doing? Christ, open a window. It smells like balls in here.”

“I’m busy!”

“Who were you talking to? What were those weird lights?”

“I was rehearsing for my gig tonight. Do you mind?”

“I hope I’m not pissing in my diapers the day you drop this comedy crap and get a real job.”

“That’s insulting.”

“I know. What are you doing for the next hour?”

“Rehearsing.”

And re-routing the stream of inappropriate Creation cascading across New Mexico… as soon as you leave.

“Take me to church.”

“No. I’ve got to–”

“Don’t care. I’ve got to go to church but I can’t drive myself.”

“Why not?”

“Well, I closed the Silver Fox last night. I couldn’t sleep when I got home so I popped a valium, but I had to get up early to go meet my exterminator. Rats. So I took a vitamin B shot to perk me up, but then I met Andrea Cash and the girls at the Art Museum to see that Chinese body cadaver exhibit thing and that was so boring I needed a gimlet just to keep from strangling that bitch Tawndra Wilson who speaks Cantonese better than a goddamn Chinaman, and when I got back home I was so tired because I hadn’t slept, but I still had too much excitement coursing through my veins, so I took a vicodin and a muscle relaxer but they mixed badly with the cranberry margueritas and now I have to go meet Owen, and me operating heavy machinery constitutes a threat to national security…”

“People coming to my gig tonight. Important people.”

“I mean it, Lando. I’ll slaughter a dozen people…”

Barbara batted her eyelids and spoke in her “ubsywubsy” voice, the voice she used when she wanted me to think she liked me.

“Can my big strong son dwive his sick old mama to her bible study cwass? Pweeeease?”

“You’re embarrassing yourself.”

“I said pweeeease…”

“Ma!”

“Pwetty pweeease?”

“Let’s go.”

Human continuity may have been endangered, but I would have destroyed New Jersey to stop her from doing that voice.

Barbara smiled. “Good. And comb your hair. You look like a goddamn bushbaby.”

“I think Owen is falling in love with me.”

Barbara was applying a fresh coat of make-up, studying herself in the passengerside visor’s mirror, alternately smoking, sucking in her cheeks and pouting.

“You two seemed pretty chummy the other night. How did you meet him anyway?”

“He came into Barb’s six months ago.”

“He didn’t strike me as a drinking man.”

“Oh, Owen drinks. He likes scotch, like your father used to before he met Crouching Tiger, Hide Your Wallet.”

Herb’s obsession with clean living was a source of constant aggravation for Barbara, who had drunk Old Fashioneds since her thirteenth birthday.

“Why does his commitment to staying in shape bother you so much?”

“Please. If some people are too lazy to move their fat asses enough to keep trim without running like freed slaves, they deserve every disease they get. I’ve maintained the same weight since high school.”

“You smoke.”

“Occasionally.”

“Barbara, you collect cigarettes the way white separatists hoard baked beans. I’ve seen hummingbirds put more food in their mouths. Remember Atticus’ Christmas party? While the rest of us ate, you smoked, drank and insulted his children.”

“I happen to have a ladylike appetite, smartass. Anyway, back in December Owen came in with one of my regulars. They took the back table near the rear exit. That’s usually where people go when they’re having affairs: it’s dark and it attracts whores. Lindvall, my customer, was crying. Owen was pouring booze down his gullet while he cried and cried. I thought they were fags. Then somebody told me they were having an intervention. I grabbed my taser and went over there. But when Owen looked at me…”

Barbara settled back into the passenger seat, her eyes dreamily focused in the distance out the front windshield.