Stephen Beam - Balaam, the Gray Prophet

Unlike most people, coffee wasn’t his eye opener. That only came after a drink of whiskey. He poured some whiskey into a glass. He retained enough class not to drink it straight from the bottle. His mind still addled, the visionary dreams shattered his sense of reality for hours after awakening. Balaam held his right hand before his face and examined it, then clenched it into a fist to feel the pressure of skin against skin. It seemed he was still living inside God’s dream, the Lord spontaneously creating everything he was and everything he did. Or was he merely dreaming of the Lord dreaming of him? The heaven of heavens were choreographed within the mind of God: all things were but dreams within dreams, played out inside the circle of time, bound by eternity.

“I’m made in the Lord’s image,” Balaam said aloud to himself. “I dream in my way as the Lord dreams in His; I’m but an infinitesimal nanosecond within His endless and holy dream. If I awaken within His dream, what do I become then?” He heated a tin mug of water on the hotplate and stirred in a teaspoon of instant coffee crystals. Lifting the mug with an oven mitt, he took a long sip. “YHWH never sleeps. He is perpetually awake. That’s why I can’t beat him to the punch.” More alert now, but still hungover from the Lord’s nighttime visit, it was nearly time to meet with Mickey and his associates, as he’d promised.

Dressed in his customary manner, face shadowed beneath the hood of his sweatshirt, he left his house for the field next door. “Eeayore, it’s time to go.” The donkey lifted her head from grazing and approached him, affectionately nudging her master’s shoulder with her nose. Eeayore loved Balaam the best that she could. Blessed with a higher degree of intelligence than most of her kind, she could even sense Balaam’s moods, often adjusting her gate to comfort him. Today, her master’s mood was sour.

Balaam wanted the Balak gig badly. Wanted it more than anything else in the world. Balak was a rich man with a reputation for generosity. If he employed you, and you did the job well, he was a man who was more than fair. Balaam itched to go and use his mojo for Balak. He wanted so much to curse the Sons of Israel and take the prize. He wanted the money, and wanted it badly, but knew the gig wasn’t happening. The Lord’s clear message didn’t allow him any wiggle room.

“There’s not much going on in Pethor for a man of my talents,” Balaam told Eeayore. “Around here, the best thing going’s the whiskey.” He gently mounted Eeayore and scooched around until he found the saddle’s comfort zone. Balaam gave an affectionate slap to Eeayore’s hindquarters, urging her to trot slowly towards the road. This wasn’t going to be a good day. The last thing he wanted to do was tell Mickey what the Lord had told him.

A few customers were gathered outside the Pethor Bar waiting for the door to open. Mickey and his associates arrived with the rest of the early morning crowd. The building had noticeably changed since the nanobot emergency sweep. Many of the nanobots were disabled in the EMF sterilization, but some remained. Their numbers began to multiply a few hours before the bar opened: they had reconfigured their molecular matrix to utilize solar energy. Re-energized, they went on a redecorating rampage.

“What the hell,” Mickey said when the front door opened. From the outside, the building had underwent subtle changes of color and texture. Inside, the drab barroom had totally transformed. The walls were delicately engraved slabs of gold, inlaid with vertical strips of ebony. Round mirrors were strategically embedded in the walls to reflect objects infinitely by pointing at round mirrors on the opposite wall. The floor was covered in extremely plush burgundy carpet. Fluffy white clouds floated randomly near the chrome ceiling. The table legs were tubes of corner swirl silver supporting a giant multifaceted diamond tabletop. The formerly drab Pethor Bar now resembled an elegantly cheesy brothel straining to attain heavenly notes of beauty.

“Is it safe to be in here?” Mickey asked the bartender.

The bartender said nothing. He was obviously no longer compelled to call emergency. He’d grown a beautiful pair of pastel blue wings. They fluttered as he wiped off the countertop. Along with his wings came a new attitude.

The morning customers were confused but undeterred from drinking. The threat from self coded nanobots — hearty survivors of an EMF purge — didn’t scare them from getting drunk. Mickey ordered two bottles of house whiskey for their table. He had a bad feeling while they waited for Balaam. He was almost certain what the prophet was going say, and it wasn’t what his boss wanted to hear. “Let me pour,” Mickey said as he sat down at the table. He filled everyone’s shot glass to the rim.

Eeayore trotted up to the fire hydrant in front of the bar, her passenger lost in thought. Balaam was contemplating friendships, and how friends often disagree. Everyone had their own a take on the world: viewpoints were individualized by experience, genetics, and beliefs. But with him, things were different. His best friend wasn’t human. His best friend was YHWH, creator of heaven and earth. God’s opinions were manifest as the very universe itself. God’s children had opinions about that universe. But the problem went deeper for Balaam. Balaam was hooked directly to God, and God and he had differing opinions. For Balaam, there was no choice but to give in to God’s opinion.

Balaam dismounted Eeayore and tied her to the fire hydrant. She wouldn’t actually wander off; this was just their little custom. “Like you, Eeayore, I stay tied down,” Balaam said, and patted his donkey’s side. “My life’s orbit is as confined as yours. I’ll forever remain tagged as the prophet who dispenses curses and blessings.” He walked over to the bar door, grabbed the handle and quickly let go. The handle felt warm, alive, and pulsing. He shook off the creepiness and opened the door, surprised by the extreme revamping of the interior. He’d seen the work of malfunctioning nanobots a few times before, but this was unique, an insanely inspired creation.

A low floating cloud was on a collision course with Balaam’s head. His first impulse was to duck, but as it drew near, the smell of cotton candy filled the air. He passed through the cloud unharmed on his way to Mickey’s table. A chair was pulled out and waiting for him. He sat down, hoping the hoodie hid the disappointment on his face.

“I’m assuming you received your instructions last night,” Mickey said. He quickly downed a shot of whiskey, then poured himself another. He filled a glass for Balaam and pushed it across the diamond tabletop towards him.

Balaam made no move to take the drink. He pondered what to say, but failed to come up with the right words to soften the blow. He decided to go with the easy answer, which happened to be the truth. He grabbed his shot glass and tossed the whiskey down his throat. He looked at Mickey, then quickly lowered his head. Without making eye contact with the Moabite delegation, he said, “Go back to your homeland. The Lord has refused to give me permission to go with you.”

Mickey believed there was little chance for a positive response, so the prophet’s announcement came as no surprise to him. His boss, Balak, won’t be happy about the news, but he won’t be discouraged either. He’ll think it a clever ploy to up the ante. And as far as Mickey knew, it might be. But that’s not the vibe Mickey got from Balaam. The prophet wasn’t a game player. Mickey swallowed another shot of whiskey and said, “You’re gonna make Balak work for this one, aren’t you? Sending us back empty handed while you hold all the cards. Okay then, there’s not much more to say.”