Jonathots Daily Blog
(4049)
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Jonathots Daily Blog
(4034)
If I were to act like a congressman or senator from Washington, D.C. in my daily affairs, in no time at all I would lose all credibility with my friends and neighbors, and not have the authority to take out a car loan.
If, by some strange occurrence, I started tweeting my passing thoughts and fancies to my acquaintances in the middle of the night, I do believe that out of great love and concern, one of them would step in and make sure I was still mentally stable.
If I were in charge of an organization that had thousands of complaints about my employees molesting small children, and my response to that quandary was to move these employees to other locations and quietly pay off the offended—well, in no time at all I’d be run out of my town on a rail.
As a child I was taught that the greater the responsibility, the greater the expectation.
I know some of my friends, and even my loved ones, are tempted to imitate the madness. Matter of fact, you can focus on a moment of history when King George III was ruling in England and seemed to have lost his reasoning, and realize that because no one could do anything with him, there was an American Revolution, which stirred a French Revolution complete with guillotines, which culminated with the tyranny of Napoleon.
For some reason we portray that we’re on a party boat in the middle of the lake with an endless supply of beer and pretzels, with no intention of ever coming to the shoreline again to sober up.
If you understand what I’m talking about, you might want to consider these three things:
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Jonathots Daily Blog
(3957)
Even though it was his last name, all the folks called him Baker—mainly because he owned a little shop which sold pies, cookies, cupcakes and cinnamon rolls.
Baker was a big man. That’s what his wife said. His mother said he was just chubby. But his enemies called him downright fat.
Baker did real well as a portly man, selling sweets. But one day he woke up and realized he wanted to do some self-improvement, trim his waist and certainly improve his bottom line. He lost one hundred pounds and started trying to pass along his healthy lifestyle by inserting all sorts of new ingredients into his pastries.
His profits began to match his weight loss. Nobody was coming—especially when he came up with a way to use low-calorie cricket flour, freshly ground from dried-out crickets.
One day a friend stopped in and said, “Baker, you need to do yourself a favor. Stop selling cupcakes. Everyone’s thrilled that you’ve lost weight, but the people who want to frequent your business have no desire to hear about healthy cupcakes. You don’t believe in cupcakes anymore so stop selling them.”
Likewise, Bill was a Congressman in Washington, D.C. He’d been elected four times. He was quickly becoming a professional politician who knew the ins and outs of the system. He was fully aware that the American way of governing was more about discussing the philosophy of an issue and supporting a political party than it ever did making progress. Matter of fact, Bill never passed a bill.
It’s time for us to walk up to Bill and say, “Stop being a Congressman. You’re not good at it. Get somebody else in there who still believes something can be done.”
The Reverend just got his third doctorate in theology—this one on the Greek translation of the New Testament. He has more books on his wall than the local library. He has some of the prettiest robes to wear on Sunday morning that you’ll ever see. But when Margaret came into his office, needing a word of encouragement over a difficulty she was having, the Reverend was at a loss on what to tell her. You see, the Reverend doesn’t really believe in God anymore, which means he really doesn’t believe in people that much, either.
“Reverend. Stop preaching! Sell insurance.”
Mark writes books about relationships. He thinks he’s got a best-seller because it talks about men and women—how different they are and how it’s natural for the sexes to be at war, and that through this war we still manage to come up with a way to continue the human race. You see, Mark is a chauvinist. He really thinks men are better than women, but he believes that a man’s smartest move is to pretend a woman is superior and then do whatever the hell he wants behind her back.
Mark is an asshole. Mark needs to stop writing books about men and women. They actually need to hear about the commonality between them instead of constantly being bombarded with their differences.
“Mark, maybe you could start writing for a newspaper. Or join the Reverend in the insurance game.”
Some people need to stop doing what they’re doing because they’ve stopped believing what they’re doing has any value or has potential to make things better.
Are you one of them? Are you like Baker, Bill, the Reverend and Mark?
Do the human race a favor—don’t pursue what fails to give you hope. And if you want to go on a diet, by all means stop selling cupcakes.
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Jonathots Daily Blog
(3762)
Grateful he was.
Matthew sat quietly in his overstuffed and overpriced first-class seat on the midnight flight from Washington, D.C. to Las Vegas.
The plane was dark. It was quiet. Most of the passengers had taken their tiny element of a sleeping pill and disappeared into slumber.
That was also true of Leonora, who quickly explained that she was exhausted from the audition and needed to get some solid airplane z’s on the trip because she had a meeting the next morning with the symphony coalition, to discuss health benefits.
Her excuse, like every performance in her life, was well-rehearsed and inadequately presented.
As Matthew had gotten to know her, he liked her less and less, and so found himself burying his interest and passions into their sexual adventure.
She was opinionated. Matthew had always viewed himself as open-minded–easy to get along with–but in her presence felt defensive. He hated it when she insisted he start calling her “Leo,” because she viewed herself, in the realm of business, intellect and art, as a lioness.
“You are what you claim to be,” she mouthed.
Matthew nodded, quite certain that many claims were being made every day by mortals which made the heavens laugh.
What really troubled him was when she started calling him “M.”
Just the letter “M.”
When he asked her why she was doing that, she said, “I’m encouraging you to grow. You need to realize that you’re on a journey to fill out your name.”
Matthew didn’t know what the hell that meant, but was in no mood to have it explained further and end up with more dents in his body work. He was also afraid that if she started in trying to become his psychoanalyst, he would have to be more forthcoming and tell her that she was much less than she presumed.
Her oboe playing had never been great, but had become even less proficient as she started to complain about the fellow-members of her quintet and the unwillingness of the symphony conductor to listen to her suggestions on seating and tone.
She viewed Matthew as an ignoramus, even though he had spent many years enjoying classical music, and had a very good friend at the university who was an oboist. Matthew kept his mouth closed except when they were kissing.
It was especially difficult that day, when she met him at the airport, explaining that the audition was long, she had to wait, and then it turned out that she had some sort of microscopic, tiny split in her reed, which prohibited her from gaining the full height and depth of her range. She requested another time to audition but the committee refused. So she failed because they were inconsiderate.
Matthew listened to her rail for a solid hour–against the walls, the furniture, the paint and the chairs that surrounded her, blaming everything she possibly could for her setback–except for the fact that she was insufficient for the moment.
It was the strangest relationship of Matthew’s life. There was a deep-rooted part of him that loved her madly; an exotic jungle passion that nearly left him breathless. But as a human being, she had selected the portions of intelligence that she revered, while ignoring the virtues that make such knowledge applicable.
Matthew remained silent.
Sitting in the darkness of the airplane, glancing over at his sleeping lover, he began to cry. It actually turned into a tiny sob, which he hoped nobody else heard.
He was so embarrassed. He was ashamed–but also enraged, because here he was, with a defunct liver in his body, battling for his life, simultaneously apologizing for breathing.
How in the hell had it gotten so complicated? What was he going to do?
He reached into his pocket and pulled out his own remedy for insomnia–a tiny flask of a brandy which included a shot or two fo sherry. He downed the remainder of the contents and put his head back. Sleep still refused to come–so he cried.
Matthew finally dozed off, with tears streaming down his face.
*****
The following morning, in Washington, D.C., Soos decided to get started on her project.
She thought she had the easiest assignment of all. Michael Hinston, who had been a Congressman, wining and dining lobbyists who were salivating for his vote, now had a humble one-room efficiency at the YMCA. His marriage to the Lutheran minister had been annulled when she discovered all the trials and tribulations chasing him, threatening to destroy his life. She loved him, but she still wanted out.
So he was alone with his twin bed.
Soos called Michael and he agreed to meet with her at ten o’clock A.M., at a little diner he claimed had the best waffles and scrapple on the East Coast. Soos explained she had never eaten scrapple–avoiding it because the ingredients seemed to be the rear-end of every barnyard creature. But Michael said she would probably enjoy this batch.
Arriving at the diner, they found a booth in the back. They embraced–the kind of embrace that merged “old college friends” with some tenderness of man and woman, and a huge immersion in fellow-travelers of faith.
As Michael pulled away he had tears in his eyes.
“Why are you crying?” asked Soos.
Michael chuckled. “Because I can–and I am the luckiest man in the world to be able to cry this morning.”
Soos took the next ten minutes to explain to Michael what had transpired with the abduction and the request made to her–to contact him, the goal being some secret discovery about his involvement, which was beyond her comprehension.
“Well, since neither one of us know what it means, or have any idea of the significance, I think it’s good that we came to eat waffles,” said Michael.
And eat they did. Soos ended up actually enjoying the scrapple, though she thought it was a little salty.
They just talked. It was a conversation that would be difficult to explain to a stranger, so filled with tenderness that it would always be remembered as priceless.
“There was a time in my life,” Michael said, “when if you had told me that some organization or guy had chosen me for special attention, I would have assumed it was just great foresight on their part. I wasn’t just arrogant–I was religious about my arrogance. I actually believed that God wanted me to be the best father in the world. The best husband. The best extra-marital lover. The best Congressman. And of course, the best cheater in Washington, D.C. Sometimes when you’re going for the best you forget that it has to begin with good. You know–good, better, best?”
Soos smiled. She had always loved Michael because he was clever. Unfortunately, cleverness could have dangerous blow-back.
Michael continued. “I almost lost everything. Let me edit my own statement. I did lose everything–but I never actually had it. I just pretended. I pretended so hard that, honest to God, I could not imagine what was happening when my first wife left me for a Lesbian and my second wife left me because I was a criminal. Everybody leaves me.”
He grinned. “And I really can’t argue with them. They’ve got really good reasons.”
“So I don’t know why anybody would want me to do anything. I did fix the radiator in my room, so when winter comes I’ll be warm. That was pretty nifty.”
Michael paused.
“Will you talk to me about Matthew?” he asked. “I don’t think I ever loved a man as much as I love Matthew. I don’t think I ever told him that. I was afraid he would make fun of me.”
Soos giggled and spit out a little bit of her coffee. “He would have.”
Michael chuckled. They sat for a moment. Soos reached over and took his hand.
“He’s dying,” she said.
Michael lifted his head, shocked.
“Not quickly,” she explained. “But his liver is shot to hell, and gradually, he’s just poisoning himself. “And he has a new girlfriend that has the personality of a prickly pear.”
Michael laughed. “What you’re saying is that she is difficult to sit down on and talk to.”
For some reason, Soos found that statement hilarious. She laughed and snorted, gaining the attention of half the diner. A dirty look from the proprietor finally made her sober up.
“I don’t want to get you kicked out of your favorite diner,” she said.
Michael waved her off. “Forget about it. I waffle on my favorite diner.”
He smiled with the innocence of a ten-year-old boy. “What can I do for Matthew?”
Soos considered and then injected, “Got a black market liver in your pocket?”
Michael crinkled his brow. “No,” he said, “but I have a liver in my body.”
“Don’t you need that?” mocked Soos.
“Yeah, but not all of it. I could give him a piece of mine.”
Soos shook her head. “That’s ridiculous, Michael. Anyway, you probably wouldn’t be a match.”
“But what if I was?” queried Michael. “What if I held the key to Matthew’s life the way Jesus held the key for mine?”
Soos groaned, a little disgusted. “So now you think you’re a savior?”
“No,” said Michael. “That job is filled. It just seems like if you could save someone, why not go ahead and do it?”
A lightbulb went off in Soos’s head.
“Oh, my God,” she said. “Is it possible that your part in this, whatever…mission…is to help Matthew and bring him to Jesus?”
Michael teared up again. He took the final bite of waffle laying on his plate, seemingly deserted. He chewed, swallowed, and looked Soos in the eye.
“My dear sister,” he said slowly, “I can’t imagine a greater calling.”
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Jonathots Daily Blog
(3713)
The city council of Sunbury, Ohio set aside a parcel of land for those who wanted to come and commemorate spiritual renewal. It became known as “Soulsbury North.”
Likewise, outside Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania, a wooded area was sanctified for similar purpose. “Soulsbury East.”
And just south of Eureka, California, people gathered, worked together and put together “Soulsbury West.”
One newspaper referred to the movement as “The New Awakening.” Historically there had been a “Great Awakening” in America in the mid-eighteenth century, but the current reformation was characterized by true questioning and a desire for humility.
Simultaneously, Jasper Carlos, who was floating on his newly found fame, turned out to be a stand-up comedian. He started touring the country and recorded a live album entitled, “We Made the Devil Do It.”
Possessing the same charismatic personality as his brother Jubal, but peppered with great jokes and antics, he was soon filling halls, sharing a message similar to his twin brother–just with lots of laughs and knee slaps.
Former Congressman Michael Hinston met a woman in Salisbury who happened to be a Lutheran minister. He fell in love, and was so careful to make sure that he wasn’t foolishly rebounding that he nearly scared her away. Fortunately, friends at the Soulsbury camp held them together, and lay wedding was in the future.
Matthew developed a severe liver infection which placed him in the hospital for nearly two weeks. The doctors weren’t certain of the origin, but Matthew was pretty sure that it must have come from some bootleg tequilla purchased in a backroom casino. Normally when people are in the hospital, they take the time to reflect on their lives. Matthew, on the other hand, used the occasion to daily expose the foolishness of the medical field. Soos flew in to be his personal nurse, and also prevent him from being justifiably poisoned by one of the nurses or hospital cafeteria staff.
Fifteen installments of the story of Jubal Carlos were aired on the NBC affiliate over the next thirty days. The nation was transfixed over the comings and goings of their new national prophet. Of course, Jubal, wearing heels, a gorgeous black wig and a great make-up job, found it easy to do the special about himself, since he was quite privy to the subject matter.
One of the surprises of the show was an interview with Jubal’s mother, Jenesca. She was not an old woman since she had the triplets very early. So not quite yet fifty years of age, she was filled with spunk and vinegar, and offered some insight on the life and times of the two remaining sons.
She offered a heart-wrenching tale of the death of Jamison. She described his loss as if stirring in the middle of the night, sensing that she’d lost all air and breath, except it happened during the day.
And meanwhile, in Washington, D. C., Thomas Kinear climbed into a black sedan with Charmaine Donaldson and headed for the Capitol building. Charmaine was an FBI agent-gone-rogue in pursuit of what she believed to be a noble cause. Thomas was a patriot–at least he deemed himself to be–and had made a decision to strike out for the cause of the American Constitution and liberty throughout the world.
Arriving at the Capitol, Charmaine knew of an entrance not normally frequented by either diplomats or the public. Thomas climbed out of the car wearing a cowboy hat and serape, and grabbed a machine gun from the trunk, tucking it under his garments as they slowly walked to the private entrance.
Charmaine stared deeply into his eyes. Thomas gazed back at her and replied, “Yes. I’m sure. Are you?”
She quickly nodded and they covered the distance to the door. Finding it locked. Charmaine reached over and opened a window, saying, “I left it open just in case.”
Thomas winked. “Professional.”
They stepped in, made their way through a small library and into the main hall, scurrying toward the rotunda.
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Jonathots Daily Blog
(3685)
The digital clock on the nightstand read 2:14 A. M. when the phone in the darkened room pierced through the silence.
Jo-Jay stirred from a contented sleep. She had taken out the motel room for the night to have some private time, away from the hustle and bustle of the tent camp at Soulsbury. She also yearned for a deep, cleansing shower in a bathroom full of steam, warm and cozy.
She sat up as the phone continued to ring. It took her a moment to recall where she was. She eased her way from under the covers, picked up the receiver and said, “Hello?”
On the other end of the line was the nighttime captain at the Salisbury police department. “Jo-Jay, this is Bob down at the police headquarters. We’ve…uh…Well, let’s say detained…this guy. And he’s asked for you to be his contact. You know–his one phone call.”
Jo-Jay had made sure to get to know all the Salisbury policemen, because they were a great aid to the cause at the Camp of Remembrance.
“Who is it?” she asked the captain, with a crackle in her voice.
“I don’t know, my dear. He just wants to talk to you.”
“What did he do?” asked Jo-Jay.
“Well,” said the captain, “I guess you would say he was suspiciously lurking around the campgrounds.”
Jo-Jay nodded her head, even though she did not understand, and told Bob that she would be right down. She threw on the easiest clothes she could find, grabbed her keys, money and purse, ran a comb through her hair and scurried out the door. The police department was only three blocks away, so in no time at all she was standing outside the building, staring through the window at a nighttime skeleton crew, drinking coffee and trying to stay awake.
Coming through the door and walking up to the desk, she introduced herself. The captain stepped forward, greeted her and patted her shoulder. He walked her down a hallway to an interrogation room.
He stepped to the side, allowing her to go in ahead of him. Entering the room, she nearly laughed. Sitting on a chair, dressed in a dirty, wrinkled, stained navy blue suit with a powder-blue dress shirt which certainly had not been laundered in weeks, with disheveled hair and at least three days of sprouting beard, was Michael Hinston.
Jo-Jay had not seen him since the night of the kidnapping and confrontation. She felt no fear, but she also felt no tenderness.
His eyes were swollen, threatening tears. “I bet you didn’t expect to see me,” he said quietly.
The captain interrupted. “Do you know this fellow, Jo-Jay?”
She stared at Michael, wondering if she actually did know him. She absently-mindedly turned and said, “Yeah. It’s fine, Bob.”
Jo-Jay motioned for the captain to leave and sat down with Michael.
He was handcuffed to a chair. She squinted her eyes, sighed, and inquired, “What in the hell are you up to?”
“Do you want the short version or the long version?” he asked with a slight chuckle.
“Actually, I want to be on my Posturepedic mattress back at the Holiday Inn,” she replied, “but since you’ve robbed me of that, why don’t you give me the medium version, edited for television?”
Michael launched. “I’m no longer a Congressman. You might have figured that out. Here’s the story, Jo-Jay. I fell in with some bad people. And what I found out was, I was pretty comfortable with them, which of course, made me bad people, too. So even though I didn’t have anything to do with what happened to you or your friends, I heard rumblings of what might have been the story line. We can get to that later. Anyway, I was told that it was nearly my duty to take a kick-back from Caine Industrial, to subsidize my lack of living expenses. The attorney who instructed me in the ways of Washington and such graft was a guy named Milford Hays. Here’s the truth, Jo-Jay. I kept that fifty thousand dollars he gave me in an envelope for four months. Yet when it came time to consider braces for both Alisa and Bernice, my daughters, and private schools, my salary just fell short. I was tired of being noble. I was sick of being short on a dollar. I ran the check through several different methods of cashing and retrieving–trying to disassociate myself from the funds. And I didn’t think about it anymore until last month.”
Jo-Jay interrupted. “Is there an end to this story?”
Michael bowed his head a bit, sitting still, then slowly lifted his eyes and looked at Jo-Jay. “Jay…I really need someone to be nice to me right now.”
She paused, looked him in the eyes, drank in the depth of his sincerity and nodded. He continued.
“Well, you see, I didn’t realize… Well, a lot of things. But mainly I didn’t realize there was a plot by Caine Industrial to discredit and humiliate me, so they could remove me from my seat and could put in their own flunkie. They sent pictures to my wife of me cavorting around the Beltway with a prostitute. They weren’t real. But that doesn’t mean much to a devoted, aging wife with two children who felt like she gave up her dreams for mine.”
He shook his head. “So a major leak showed up in the media about me taking kickbacks, complete with evidence–accounts and witnesses. The head of the party in Ohio told me I needed to resign. Right after that phone call, I got served divorce papers from Barbara. It came with a restraining order. She was able to convince a judge that my temperament was so unpredictable that she and the children might be in danger. I wasn’t even able to go back and get my clothes. Barbara moved–took the children somewhere. She left three notes behind–one from her and one from each girl. Let me just say that they were not messages of encouragement. The words ‘devastated’ and ‘disappointed’ appeared frequently. Everything I purchased on payments suddenly came due–at least it seemed that way. I was arrested, and they gave me a choice. I could plead guilty to a misdemeanor with a ten thousand dollar fine, or go to trial and risk fifteen years in jail. I took the plea, and as I walked out, I saw the attorney, Milford Hayes, chatting with the district attorney.”
He shook his head again. “All I had was my wallet and this suit. They had picked up my rental car and they froze my bank accounts. I walked out the door of city hall, down the steps, and put out my thumb–to hitch-hike.”
Michael stopped. “Jo-Jay, did you realize that people don’t hitch-hike anymore? I had a horrible time getting anybody to take me anywhere. Finally a truck driver took me into Virginia and dropped me off at a truck stop. He said the best way to get a ride was to sit around the coffee shop and listen to where truck drivers were heading, and then negotiate a deal. It took me three days. I finally found Trucker-man Jackson–that’s what he called himself–heading to North Carolina. I jumped in. Over two days, I developed a toleration for Merle Haggard on the way to Salisbury. I never told him my story–I think if he had found out I was from Washington, D.C., Jackson would have kicked me out of his cab. But I think the filthy suit did make him wonder about my origins.”
Michael sighed. “Well, finishing this up, I arrived in town early this afternoon, and just walked around the Camp of Remembrance. Since I didn’t know anyone…you weren’t there…I didn’t get a tent. So I was hanging out next to a tree when the police came upon me. My reasons for being there were sketchy and my appearance was less than reassuring. So they brought me here.”
Jo-Jay leaped in. “And you thought of me.” She took a breath. “I want to tell you, Michael. I learned a long time ago that it’s not a good time to ask a favor unless you’ve given a favor and believe there might be one available to withdraw.”
Michael nodded his head and considered speaking, but chose silence–a profile Jo-Jay also selected for a couple of minutes.
At length, Jo-Jay asked, “So what do you want to do?”
With tears in his voice, Michael choked out, “I want you to give me the favor I don’t deserve. Vouch for me. Let me get out of these damn clothes. Wash up. Buy a pair of jogging pants, a t-shirt and tennis shoes, and I’d like to be of value to the work here.”
Jo-Jay laughed. “That’s just like everybody,” she said. “After they use up all the good shit in their lives, they suddenly want to give God the husk.”
Michael nodded his head. “Everything you’re saying is true. Everything I’m saying is theory. But everything is closed off to me…but you.”
Jo-Jay agreed to help.
For the next three weeks, Michael grew out his hair, his beard and managed to grow a heart. He actually became a favorite around the camp, because anytime anyone asked, “Can I get some help?” Michael would respond, “I was waitin’ to hear that.”
He was especially helpful with the older gentlemen, who often had more complaints than value. He turned them into a little army of workers who carried groceries and picked up trash.
Although Jo-Jay was still leery of Michael’s intentions, after three weeks, he was succeeding in gradually making a believer out of her.
Meanwhile, back in Las Vegas, Matthew and Jubal continued to hide out.
On a Thursday night, Matthew had a strange realization–he had made an initial run through all the clean prostitutes in the town. He found out, because when he asked for a new one, they sent him one he had already met.
Matthew laughed sadly. He knew this was not what he wanted. He had never envisioned himself a “carouser.” But he knew he could not stand to be a follower.
Simultaneously, on the strip Jubal Carlos had made his way backstage to the Sahara, to hook up with an old friend of his, a master at makeup. Jubal’s request was simple. He asked his friend to take makeup, latex and wigs, and turn him into the prettiest version of himself possible.
He wanted to become a woman–not because he was transgender. Just because he wanted the experience. It took four hours of intense effort and extreme electrolysis, but afterwards, a statuesque, dark-haired beauty walked out of the dressing room.
She needed a name. Jubal decided on Jennifer Carmen.
.
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Jonathots Daily Blog
(3573)
It didn’t take long.
Twenty-four hours after the announcement of Morgan’s murder, the country was ablaze with controversy, assumptions, conspiracy theories and accusations.
There were enough questions about the circumstances (and since it was well-known that Prophet had betrayed Jubal Carlos by holding interviews) it was determined that Jubal was to be brought to headquarters to answer some questions.
Unfortunately, Jubal and the band had hopped the jet, along with their merry patrons, flying to Europe for a five-city tour–which he had dubbed “The New Jesus.” London, Paris, Madrid, Berlin and Rome were about to get a healthy dose of “the gospel according to Carlos.”
It was a ten-day tour, so the authorities in Clark Country agreed to wait until Jubal’s return to hold the session.
At the same time, in Washington, Congressman Michael Hinston stepped out of the shadows, where he had been disguising his plot, and stirred up the House of Representatives and many in the Senate to demand that the Justice Department conduct a thorough investigation of the murder.
Normally such a request was ignored, but the Catholic Church and the Southern Baptists added their “yeas and amens” to the demand. Since these two institutions were not known to agree on much of anything, the investigation was sanctioned and set in motion.
With Prophet Morgan dead and Jubal in Europe, the work in America was left in the hands of Sister Rolinda. She had been taken out of the spotlight and placed, as Jubal called it, “backstage” ever since she had ruffled the robes of the Pope in Rome. But now, since there was no one to take over the work in Las Vegas, she was called forth and put in authority, with the assumption, “What harm could she do?”
Matthew checked out.
He refused to take calls, only allowing his two old friends, Jack Daniels and Jim Beam, into his sanctuary. It was all so crazy. All he had ever wanted in his life was to make money without hurting anyone, with his name in the paper every once in a while. Now he wasn’t making money, it seemed like people were getting hurt (if you counted a murder) and his name was in the paper with slanderous overtones.
He also received an accounting from his financial advisors on how much money had been spent of the 250 million dollars. $31,285,652.38. It was a staggering sum. Yet truthfully, in the world of advertising, the amount of publicity that had been received was worth ten times that much. Still, what did they have to show for it? Matthew mulled as he communed with Jack and Jim.
The press arrived for the first night after the announcement of the murder at the Las Vegas “warehouse-turned-church,” to see what would transpire. There was a large crowd, and since the band was overseas, Sister Rolinda had decided to invite a black choir from Los Angeles. They sang the place happy, they chorused the room sad.
At length, as the entire gathering fell silent, Sister Rolinda took the stage, wearing a little nun hat, a gingham dress and an apron.
She clumsily grabbed the microphone and began to speak. “I’ve lost my friend, Morgan. I hurt so badly I can’t breathe. He was not perfect. I suppose some of you wouldn’t even think he was good. He was arrogant–in a humble way. He was loving–with a spiteful streak. And he was a human, searching for his humanity.
“I saw him literally give the coat on his back to a stranger. I was with him when white supremacists beat him up because he condemned their ignorant bigotry. Did you know he was abused himself? But considering that, he tried very hard not to be an abuser.
“I loved him. Did you? Or did you find yourself judging something about him? Maybe it was his funny, overstated hair. Maybe it was because he was so young, he still had pimples. Maybe it was because he dressed like a 1950s backwoods evangelist.
“We feel very powerful when we can criticize. We think voicing our opinion is our God-given right. We have only one God-given right: ‘love your neighbor as yourself.'”
Suddenly Rolinda raised her voice to a scream. “Did you hear me? Love your goddamn neighbor as yourself!”
The building fell more silent than the silence it already possessed. Rolinda continued, softly.
“I am not a speaker. I am not glib. I am not full of wisdom. When I became a nun, I asked God to fill me with only one thing–compassion. That’s it.
“Tonight we need to rid ourselves of revenge, attitude, discussions of foul play and just general stupidity. We don’t need to celebrate Prophet Morgan. He would tear his shirt off in horror if he knew we were doing that. We need to acknowledge the Jesus who Prophet loved, and the best way to do that is to love one another.
“So since the press has shown up tonight, I am going to take this time to answer any questions they may have, to the best of my ability.”
Sister Rolinda paused, lifting a finger, ready to point in the direction of anyone who might want to pose an inquiry. But perhaps for the first time in the history of press conferences, no one had anything to say. There was nothing to ask.
Rolinda took a deep breath, and suddenly tears began to stream down her face. More and more she cried, until she was squalling. Buckling at the knees, she nearly fell on her face, catching herself with her hands, until members of the audience rushed forward to lift her and comfort her.
As if on cue, everyone else who remained turned to each other and embraced, then quietly moved toward the exit.
Meanwhile … Jubal and the band performed in front of ten thousand screaming, hollering Germans, sharing bratwurst and beer.
Meanwhile … Michael Hinston perused a private email from the CLO which applauded his efforts to instigate an investigation.
Meanwhile … the decomposing, chopped-up body of Prophet Morgan lay very dead in the morgue.
And meanwhile … Matthew just drank.
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A voice writing in the wilderness
Jonathots Daily Blog 
