Steve Tem - Ubo

“I’d been in and out of jail most of my adult life. Petty theft, mostly, some drugs, and a fair amount of misbehavior following the consumption of alcohol. Sometimes I’d take somebody’s car if I needed to go someplace. I don’t mean ‘borrow,’ of course. The way I figured it, you had to survive, and I had this picture of what survival meant—food, clothing, basic supplies and an especially nice meal from time to time as a treat. Treats were important. Treats were a rudimentary human need, I figured, and part of my picture of survival. So I’d get these treats, the meals, some extra nice shoes sometimes, sometimes something electronic. I didn’t feel guilty about it, because I didn’t think I was asking for much. Just survival stuff, according to my definition, and everybody’s entitled to survive, right? Everybody’s entitled to their shot at Heaven, and my Heaven was modest—survival was Heaven, that’s all it was. And no one was going to get in the way of that.”

“No one would deny your right to survive. Many of us have had to struggle with that.” Falstaff spoke slowly, deferentially. “But everyone defines survival differently. Some people define it so broadly it becomes an excuse for doing evil.”

“Evil? Isn’t that a rather extreme term? Who are you to say such a thing?” Gandhi looked unhappy, as did many of the others. “Let him tell his story.” Daniel had noticed lately that attitudes toward Falstaff appeared to be shifting.

“Why are you the disciplinarian here?” Lenin was standing, pointing. He made a slashing motion with his other hand to add emphasis. “Why do you always seem to be the one in charge, the one who knows everything? It would seem that no one here understands the roaches better than you do.”

Falstaff stared at him. “We’re all nervous today. It’s understandable. Try to control yourself. What else am I supposed to do when there are problems?”

“We know nothing about you,” Gandhi said, “but you seem to know a great deal about us. Why is that?”

Falstaff looked at Daniel then, as if expecting him to say something in his support. But Daniel had no intention of speaking. Falstaff sighed and leaned back on his bunk, but Daniel didn’t think he was as relaxed as he seemed. “I listen well, is that a crime? We have to pay attention to the roaches if we’re to survive. I pay attention. I try to do what needs to be done. And, yes, I’ve tried to make myself an expert on the roaches, for the sake of my own survival, and yours. I’d urge you to do the same. But if my telling you more about myself will appease you, then I will oblige.

“I know no more about why I came to be here than the rest of you. The roaches may not be as methodical as we’d like to think. Although I came from a family of financial advantage I took no share in that. It was my grandfather with the money, and we didn’t get along. I went to college in the sciences and although I did well, there were no jobs to be had when I got out. It was, it was during a period of serious… shortages.”

The other residents listened quietly, respectfully, and Daniel wondered if the others were having the same problems with Falstaff’s speech he was. It all seemed so carefully—vague. What science? What shortages? There were never enough details to pin him down. Daniel had always assumed that Falstaff was taken from the same relative time period as the rest of them. But there was something about Falstaff that didn’t quite fit for the times Daniel knew.

“I was drinking a great deal in those days. I had not seen my wife in more than a year. She had left me, or she was dead. It was never a very good marriage—I suppose that was mostly my fault. I was always a man of great faults. It was difficult for me to change. I was stubborn. But you said you were trying to change,” he said to Lenin. “You said you were trying to turn your life around.”

Lenin looked eager, leaning forward. “I was tired of going to jail. Jail wasn’t Heaven, far from it. I was too old for jail, too old to survive it. I had to come up with something to keep me on the straight and narrow. But Heaven had to be part of it, you know? I had to have my perfect Heaven. So why not the old-fashioned way? The Bible, I mean. Christianity, all that? I could see it worked for some, so why couldn’t it work for me?”

“It doesn’t work for a lot ofpeople,” Gandhi interjected.

Lenin rounded on him. “Like everything else, you have to give it a chance. You have to take chances in this life, take a leap of faith, or you never get anywhere. And that’s a fact .” Gandhi looked surprised by Lenin’s vehemence and scooted back from the edge of his bunk, nodding. “So the last time I got out I started going to church. I went to church after church. I wasn’t exactly sure what I was looking for, but I was pretty sure I’d know it when I saw it. It took me awhile to find the church I felt comfortable in. Most of them, well, they were a little vanilla, a little white bread. I’m not talking race here; I’m talking boring. It was hard to sit through the sermons without falling asleep. Not much variety, not much passion. Not much sense that people actually believed what they said.

“Then one day I walked into Reverend Philip’s church. True enough, I almost walked back out again, because of the way he was dressed. Light blue suit and shiny white shoes, pink carnation in his buttonhole. Sandy-colored, slicked-back hair. He looked like a high school kid on the way to his prom. But he caught my eye as I walked in, and he grinned like he knew me, so I sat down near the back and listened. And I have to say that although he still looked like the most ridiculous man to me, he spoke with poetry and passion.

“John 14:23. I still remember the first verse I ever heard him talk about. Jesus says, ‘Anyone who loves me will obey my teaching. My Father will love them, and we will come to them and make our home with them.’ And it looked as if Philips was speaking directly to me. ‘Hebrews 13:2—Do not forget to show hospitality to strangers, for by so doing some people have shown hospitality to angels without knowing it.’ And he stepped out of the pulpit and walked down into the congregation, grasping hands and patting people on the back, and when he came to me he grabbed my hand and pulled me right out of my seat, and he said to me, ‘To be at home with the Lord is to make your home on the heights. There will be no one left to look down upon you because you’re way up there dwelling in paradise. Come, come with me, my son, because we’re on our way home today. We’re on our way to paradise.’”

Lenin was smiling broadly then, remembering. It was the most genuinesmile Daniel had seen since he had arrived. And he envied him. But if a minister had pulled Daniel out of his seat in church like that he would have been beyond uncomfortable.

“Paradise would be nice. Paradise would be great .” Falstaff’s voice boomed. And to Daniel’s surprise the emotion in it sounded genuine. “Have any of you been hungry, I mean more than for a late dinner? Perhaps you haven’t eaten in several days, certainly at least in two days. Nothing but some bad-tasting water that made you sick? My family had money—they could have saved me from that, but they didn’t.” Then he stopped, looked around, and appeared uncharacteristically unsure of himself. “But I’m interrupting. I apologize. Please continue—you were telling us about this church.”

Lenin looked only vaguely annoyed before continuing. “The Reverend made it a point to talk to me after church that day, and every Sunday thereafter, and after Wednesday night services when I started attending those. I told him I had some catching up to do where religion was concerned, but that I was eager to learn. He told me I should start a Bible study group at the church, said the church basement was available to me Monday and Thursday nights.