A freshly showered Brody Lassiter sat in his leather Llorente recliner, wrapped in his Alternatux silk robe, his graying hair absorbing the Chinese medicinal oils rubbed into it by his wife, staring at his phone as it fed him correspondence from several points of everyday business, such as church youth group affairs (What liabilities could be involved in sending the little farts to el Salvador?), stock concerns (How do I keep losing money on these tech outfits?), sales of his latest series of lectures on the sanctity of marriage (We haven't even covered our expenses on the last promotional tour. Make something happen!), the problems with the latest security implementations (What do you mean the city won't let us barricade the street? Don't we own that street?) and most important: Timothy Allen Teague.
What was that? He's not seeing anyone this week. Who says? His assistant, I guess, I'm not sure, whoever answered the phone. You're not sure; you're not sure who you were talking to? Sir—. Listen, you froggy little pipsqueak, first off, you don't talk to anyone over there in regards to me without knowing who you are talking to; get a fucking name. Yes, sir. Second, he will see me; he has to see me; I demand to see him! Yes, sir. Do your goddamned job, Derrick! I can find any number of faggots to do your job. Yes, sir.
Brody, dear, his wife's plasticine face appeared at the gap in the door as she tapped her knuckle against the shiny mahogany, there's a person from the LA Times on the phone asking for you. Brody sent his phone across the length of his study and it shattered into several pieces against the slick surface of the waxed hardwood floor. What the fuck is a reporter from the LA Times doing with my home number? I'll tell him you're not available, and she closed the door with a click. You ask him where he got the number and tell him never to call here again! Brody Lassiter folded an unhinged lock of black and gray hair back over his head and wiped the oily residue across his robe, sighing.
On the antique side table, under the Tiffany lamp, sat a book, its black cover old and cracked with fifty years of use, the edges rubbed to raw leather, a frayed and soiled ribbon bookmark extruding from its gilded pages, the old familiar words King James Bible speckled with what few remnants of gold paint still clung to the crevices of their embossed impression. Brody Lassiter had planted his hand against his face, peeking at the thing through his hairy fingers with one dark toast colored eye. Against the aging skin of his palm, he could hear the workings of his minted breath which in the silence of the study sounded to him like an old bellows pumping air into a kiln and the heat from that fire was feeding on the moisture in the room, leaving only a harsh gaseous trace of oxygen. He bent forward and away from the book and lifted his vision to the vaults in the ceiling where the omnitude of shadows lent to the illusion of void and vertigo rapt him until he had to look away, his eyes falling on a painting of Moses revealing the laws of God to the Israelites in the manic throes of sacrifice and sin. Brody Lassiter studied the fierce puckered brow of the robed Moses and the whiteness of his beard and his open mouth shaped to give an impression of maximum threat. Brody Lassiter jerked his attention across the tall bookshelves where he met the bleeding dying body of Jesus strung upon his wooden prop, his mother and followers weeping at his feet, radial light, the power of God, reaching through the clouds, blowing open the gates of Heaven.
He buried his face in his hands and began to speak. Dear Lord Jesus, in a soft but grizzled tone, I need your intervention. I've made errors, Lord. I have strayed. My faults are many, as you know. As only you know. And I find myself in a place of no escape, Lord Jesus. Trapped. Lonely and wandering through a dark and evil place. And I know that place is in my heart. My flesh is weak and marred by sin. I have praised you all my life, Jesus. I have sought you in every face of every person I have brought to your house. And you were once by my side, guiding me to glory but I cannot feel you now. Where have you gone? Why have you left me to my own folly and despair. I gave you everything. I gave you my life and now you have forsaken me at the moment of my most earnest need and deepest sorrow. Why do you torment me, Lord Jesus? After all the glory I have brought unto you and the Kingdom of Heaven? Why? Why now? Why won't you forgive me?
Forgive me!
As Brody Lassiter rose from his chair, he flailed his silk draped arm, clearing the table of the bible and the lamp and with a crash, the room went dark save a thin blade of light piercing the bottom of the door. He heard footsteps in the hall and saw shadows approach the door but they didn't stay there and soon even the light vanished. He knew Moses was still chastising the Israelites and that Jesus was still bleeding and still dying and his disciples still crying and God still reaching down from the gates of Heaven but the light had gone out and Brody Lassiter became lost and confused. So lost that he knew there was no way he could find the door. He knew that if he tried to traverse the darkness, he might fall. And what then?
What was that? He's not seeing anyone this week. Who says? His assistant, I guess, I'm not sure, whoever answered the phone. You're not sure; you're not sure who you were talking to? Sir—. Listen, you froggy little pipsqueak, first off, you don't talk to anyone over there in regards to me without knowing who you are talking to; get a fucking name. Yes, sir. Second, he will see me; he has to see me; I demand to see him! Yes, sir. Do your goddamned job, Derrick! I can find any number of faggots to do your job. Yes, sir.
Brody, dear, his wife's plasticine face appeared at the gap in the door as she tapped her knuckle against the shiny mahogany, there's a person from the LA Times on the phone asking for you. Brody sent his phone across the length of his study and it shattered into several pieces against the slick surface of the waxed hardwood floor. What the fuck is a reporter from the LA Times doing with my home number? I'll tell him you're not available, and she closed the door with a click. You ask him where he got the number and tell him never to call here again! Brody Lassiter folded an unhinged lock of black and gray hair back over his head and wiped the oily residue across his robe, sighing.
On the antique side table, under the Tiffany lamp, sat a book, its black cover old and cracked with fifty years of use, the edges rubbed to raw leather, a frayed and soiled ribbon bookmark extruding from its gilded pages, the old familiar words King James Bible speckled with what few remnants of gold paint still clung to the crevices of their embossed impression. Brody Lassiter had planted his hand against his face, peeking at the thing through his hairy fingers with one dark toast colored eye. Against the aging skin of his palm, he could hear the workings of his minted breath which in the silence of the study sounded to him like an old bellows pumping air into a kiln and the heat from that fire was feeding on the moisture in the room, leaving only a harsh gaseous trace of oxygen. He bent forward and away from the book and lifted his vision to the vaults in the ceiling where the omnitude of shadows lent to the illusion of void and vertigo rapt him until he had to look away, his eyes falling on a painting of Moses revealing the laws of God to the Israelites in the manic throes of sacrifice and sin. Brody Lassiter studied the fierce puckered brow of the robed Moses and the whiteness of his beard and his open mouth shaped to give an impression of maximum threat. Brody Lassiter jerked his attention across the tall bookshelves where he met the bleeding dying body of Jesus strung upon his wooden prop, his mother and followers weeping at his feet, radial light, the power of God, reaching through the clouds, blowing open the gates of Heaven.
He buried his face in his hands and began to speak. Dear Lord Jesus, in a soft but grizzled tone, I need your intervention. I've made errors, Lord. I have strayed. My faults are many, as you know. As only you know. And I find myself in a place of no escape, Lord Jesus. Trapped. Lonely and wandering through a dark and evil place. And I know that place is in my heart. My flesh is weak and marred by sin. I have praised you all my life, Jesus. I have sought you in every face of every person I have brought to your house. And you were once by my side, guiding me to glory but I cannot feel you now. Where have you gone? Why have you left me to my own folly and despair. I gave you everything. I gave you my life and now you have forsaken me at the moment of my most earnest need and deepest sorrow. Why do you torment me, Lord Jesus? After all the glory I have brought unto you and the Kingdom of Heaven? Why? Why now? Why won't you forgive me?
Forgive me!
As Brody Lassiter rose from his chair, he flailed his silk draped arm, clearing the table of the bible and the lamp and with a crash, the room went dark save a thin blade of light piercing the bottom of the door. He heard footsteps in the hall and saw shadows approach the door but they didn't stay there and soon even the light vanished. He knew Moses was still chastising the Israelites and that Jesus was still bleeding and still dying and his disciples still crying and God still reaching down from the gates of Heaven but the light had gone out and Brody Lassiter became lost and confused. So lost that he knew there was no way he could find the door. He knew that if he tried to traverse the darkness, he might fall. And what then?
Edit 12.9.2018