Walter Williams - The Rift

“The Lord gave you a good woman, there,” Garb said with a smile.

“Don’t I know it,” said Frankland.

The rear wheels of the Ford spat gravel as it wheeled out of the parking lot, horn tooting. Another auto horn answered, and Frankland saw Dr. Lucius Calhoun boom into the parking lot in his Oldsmobile, waving from the window with his left arm as he spun the wheel with his right. He was followed by a regular convoy of vehicles, and as they drove into the parking lot they all began to sound their horns, a joyous noise unto the Lord.

“Sorry to be late,” Calhoun said as he popped out of his car. He was a young man, short and vigorous, barely thirty though already bald on top, with a ginger mustache and a broad grin. He shook Frankland’s hand and Garb’s.

“We were planning on coming in the bus,” he said. “We had bus-sized banners and everything. But that ol’ fuel pump started kicking up again, so we had to convoy down.”

Dr. Calhoun seemed to spend as much time waging war with his church bus as he did fighting the Devil. Frankland had always enjoyed the stories of Calhoun’s travails.

On the other hand, the Pentecostal Church could at least afford a bus. At Frankland’s outfit, all the money went into the radio station and the bunkers of survival supplies.

“Shall we get started?” Frankland said.

Each pastor organized his own flock, handing out signs that said PORNOGRAPHY ATTACKS THE FAMILY or RAILS BLUFF FAMILY VALUES CAMPAIGN or FIRST AMENDMENT DOES NOT PROTECT FILTH.

Some of the children had signs that said PROTECT ME FROM SMUT.

Bear State Videoramics, to its disgrace, had been renting pornographic videos out of its back room. And, to the disgrace of the community, this had apparently been going on for some time.

Action was clearly required. The world would end soon, and Frankland did not wish Rails Bluff to acquire more than its necessary share of the divine wrath.

Frankland had an idea about how to deal with these sorts of situations. He could, of course, gather signatures on a petition, and lobby and persuade the county council to pass an ordinance against pornography, but then the ordinance would immediately become the subject of legal contention- the Civil Liberties Union, or other secular satanist busybodies, might intervene, and lawyers would cost the county money, and the thing could drag on for years without resolution, and in the meantime Eric Magnusson would still be peddling porn.

So quicker action was called for. A stern warning from the guardians of the community. A picket line, a public protest, and a call for a boycott.

Hit him where it hurts, Frankland thought. Right in the pocketbook. Magnusson couldn’t be making that much money as it was- nobody in Rails Bluff was making money. Magnusson couldn’t afford to lose much business.

And the best part was, even the Civil Liberties Union agreed that picket lines and civil protest were just fine. Just citizens exercising their rights to state their opinion.

“Don’t reckon you’re going to give up this foolishness anytime soon, huh?” said Magnusson.

Frankland looked up from tying a white band on the arm of one of his Sunday School class. The owner of Bear State Videoramics stood above him, red-gold hair gleaming in the setting sun, a scowl on his long Swedish face.

“I reckon not,” Frankland said.

“What’s the problem?” Magnusson said. “I’ve got a right to earn a living.”

“You’re not allowed to earn a living by poisoning the community,” Frankland said. “Somebody might pay you to put cyanide in the water, but that doesn’t mean you should take the money.”

Magnusson scowled. “I don’t sell to no kids,” he said, “so I don’t know why you got kids here. They’ll find out more about porn from you than from me.”

“They’ll know to avoid it,” Garb said. He had walked over from where he had been organizing his youth association members.

“I won’t stay in business without the back room,” Magnusson insisted. “You want another business to close in this town? What about my family?”

“The righteous,” said Garb, “eat to the satisfaction of their soul; but the belly of the wicked shall want.”

“Vileness shall meet with requital, and loud shall be the lamentations thereof,” Frankland said, his mind spitting out the quote before his tongue could put a stop to it. He had to admit he had no idea whether the verse was actually in the Bible or not, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Garb’s eyes flicker as he tried to identify the quote.

Magnusson only looked grim. He glanced over the assembling parishioners and nodded to himself. “I see some of my best customers here,” he said. “People who rent from the back room a lot. You want their names?” He looked at Frankland. “What’s that quote, from the Bible? About the beam in the eye messing up your view, or something?”

Garb seemed troubled by this revelation, but Frankland knew the answer. “They would not have sinned,” he said, “if you had not provided the means.”

“Oh yeah. It’s all my fault. Blame the lusts of the world on me.” He waved his arms. “If they don’t get the stuff from me, they’ll get it on mail order.”

He stalked back to his store. Frankland watched him go in satisfaction.

“It’s working,” he said, and smiled.

Calhoun approached, a broad grin on his face. “Shall we start with a prayer?” he said.

*

The demonstration went well. A number of people, heading into the parking lot with the obvious intention of renting a video from Bear State Videoramics, saw the demonstrators, their friends and neighbors, circling in front of the store with their signs, sometimes chanting slogans and sometimes singing hymns. The customers would usually hesitate, then shy away.

There were a few exceptions. A couple young men, obviously drunk, made an elaborate show of renting some pornographic videos, which they waved at Frankland as they got back in their Jeep and sped away. A few other adults came into the store to return videos, and a couple stayed to make other rentals, conspicuously from the family section.

But for a Friday night, Frankland figured, Magnusson’s business was lousy. The protest was really hitting him in the pocketbook.

“It’s working,” he told Dr. Calhoun as they fell into step.

“For one night, anyway,” Calhoun said. Calhoun grinned up at him and wiped sweat from his bald head. “By the way, Reverend,” he said, “I’ve been meaning to ask you about your radio address the other day. What was that term you used? ‘Rapture wimp’ was it?”

Frankland felt heat rise to his face. “I do apologize, Dr. Calhoun,” he said. “The Spirit was in me pretty strong at the time- but I should have chosen more appropriate language.”

Calhon gave a chuckle. “Well, I’d like to think I’m not a wimp. I just happen to believe that there isn’t necessarily an interval between the Rapture and the Second Coming.”

“I believe I explained my reasoning in that radio speech,” Frankland said.

“But what about the Bema Judgment?” Calhoun said.

And Calhoun and Frankland then had a pleasant time, for the next hour or so, arguing back and forth about the Tribulation, the Bema Judgment as opposed to the Krino Judgment, the Twenty-Four Elders, Christ’s Bride in Heaven, the Judgment of the Gentiles, the role of the 144,000 Jews, and other significant matters pertaining to the end of the world.

They were interrupted by the publisher of the local weekly paper, who interviewed the leaders of the protest as well as Magnusson. Frankland had a feeling the coverage would be favorable, as the publisher was a member of Dr. Calhoun’s congregation.