Steve Tem - Ubo

“People would riot over the smallest thing.” Daniel turned his head. The voice—he recognized Falstaff’s voice—had come from the corner. He could see Bogart and a few others sitting there, listening. Perhaps they’d been turned off by Lenin’s religious rhetoric. Or perhaps they simply found Falstaff’s pre- or post- apocalyptic narrative more intriguing, or in fact, more relevant. Daniel moved closer so that he was between the two groups.

“The police rarely interfered. They generally stayed away from our part of the city—I suppose they found it too dangerous, and the local residents had too little power to influence them. The fire fighters still came—there were a large number of fires in those days, but I guess there are always fires—it’s one of the ways people vent their anger while still remaining largely anonymous. But in our neighborhood people didn’t shoot at the firefighters. It was a point of pride, I think.

“But buildings still burned, and they were torn down, and everybody looted, sometimes in the middle of a fire. When you think you’re starving, and your family is starving, you’ll risk pretty much anything.”

“So why did this Malcolm come?” Gandhi was asking Lenin. “How did you hold him there?”

“We didn’t. And that’s why I didn’t kick him out when, to be honest, I used to kick people out for less—showing up intoxicated, for example, or when, say, one man’s wife divorced him for having an affair. I couldn’t abide that kind of hidden sin, that kind of hypocrisy. But Malcolm, even with all the trouble he gave us, the blasphemous interruptions of our discussions, he still came there voluntarily. No one was forcing him to come, so obviously he was desperately reaching out for our help. I just couldn’t turn my back on that. The Lord was testing me, and I wasn’t about to fail him. So I let that boy have it. Every meeting I gave him a double shotgun blast of the Lord! Winning souls to Christ, that’s what I was all about. I was even keeping a notebook listing all the souls I’d won, and I was determined to add Brother Malcolm’s name to my list.

“I’d get right up in his face. ‘God told me to tell you,’ I’d say, ‘that he wants you to be one of his soldiers! God wanted me to tell you that you’re alone no longer!’

“I’d talk to the others, and once a week I’d arrange for the group to plant a ‘lovebomb’ on him. Even the ones who hated the fellow did that for me! We’d surround him and we’d hug him, we’d pat him on the back and tell him we loved him, God loved him, everybody loved him. We were all on his side so he had nothing else to fear.

“And I tell you he began to come around, even to participate a little. He still didn’t say much in the meetings, but those blasphemous declarations pretty much stopped. I gave him little chores, little assignments, and he did them well. He proved to have some real skills with words, so when the Reverend would give me some text to go over for him, some plea for money to keep the church’s message on the radio or on TV, I’d pass it to Malcolm, and he’d almost always improve it. Of course I gave him credit for it, and the Reverend Philips was so pleased with the both of us—I won some important points for the way I handled that, I gotta tell you.

“And when we were looking for support for the new building program or the missions in Africa, he found some great pictures on the internet for us. That black child with the flies on his face? A huge increase in donations after we put that one up on the website!”

“I hadn’t had much to eat that week,” Falstaff continued. “I could say that’s why I did what I did, but I’m not going to use that as an excuse. That night I didn’t think I was risking much. It was some rich man’s food storage. The fire had been put out, the firefighters were gone, the looters were gone, I was tired and on my way to this little room I shared with eight other people. I was thinking I’d just check it out, see if they’d missed some little thing I could eat.”

Lenin, apparently aware of the distraction in the corner, raised his voice. “In no time at all Malcolm was handling some of our key initiatives—the prayer requests, the brochure for our Spring tour of the Holy Land, the special pleas for unexpected expenses, the lists recognizing the members who had contributed the most to the cause. He could have had quite a career in advertising if he only applied himself.

“But it became clear after a while, I’m afraid, that our young friend Malcolm still clung to another life, a life outside the church. I gotta admit it was the other members of the group who saw it before I did—of course, they’d always been pretty suspicious of him. I suppose I just didn’t want to lose a soul. I’d been adding up all the souls I’d saved, and I was feeling pretty good about the number.

“He started missing the Thursday night meetings. Now, they didn’t have to go to all the meetings, but it was pretty much expected. I just wanted them to attend voluntarily. So I asked Malcolm about it, and Malcolm, he said ‘I’ve been going to therapy,’ he said. ‘I still have problems, all kinds of problems. I still need help,’ he said.

“I was a little shocked. ‘You don’t need that,’ I told him. ‘Jesus will provide forall your needs.’

“‘It’s not enough,’ he said. ‘I still hear this little voice inside, telling me that things are wrong.’

“‘That’s the Devil’s voice,’ I told him. ‘The Devil’s just trying to steal you away from us, your family. We’re your family now, Malcolm. You have to trust in Jesus—he’ll take care of you. You mustn’t listen to the devils and demons trying to keep you away from faith.’

“He looked like he might hit me! ‘Don’t be angry, Malcolm,’ I said. ‘Anger is a sin. You don’t want to end up in Hell, do you, Malcolm? The angry people—they’ll all end up in Hell, burning for all of eternity.’”

In the corner, Falstaff was increasingly emotional. “But I wasn’t alone, as it turns out. I was going in just as another fellow was leaving. He had a loaf of bread and a couple of cans of tuna in his arms. I figured that must be the last of it, otherwise he’d be carrying more.

“He was a young guy, but a big guy. But he looked scared. A big muscular fellow like that, and he looked frightened. I suppose it was the stakes. He needed that food.”

Lenin, too, appeared increasingly upset. “I told Malcolm, ‘at least now you’re a part of something. But you have to do the right things if you’re going to stay part of this group. You can’t be selfish—you have to give of yourself, you have to help us meet our goals. You have to be a good example to the others. We all do. If you fail, then you leave. God sets a certain standard you have to strive to meet. It’s a job, just like any other job, and when you disappoint your boss he makes you leave, right?’

“I could tell he wanted to confess, but I’m not a priest, and besides that isn’t part of my beliefs. He didn’t say anything. I guess he thought that was the end of the conversation. Later on I heard that he was seeing other people, that there were people waiting for him a couple of blocks away, and he’d go there after the Bible meetings. So one night I followed him. A couple of blocks, then three. And I saw something that greatly disturbed me.

“In the distance there were these men, at least I thought they were men, their shapes distorted, blocky bodies and oh-so-skinny legs, and heads like what you get if you twisted up one corner of a handkerchief. He went right up to them, and then they all turned and walked away. I have to say I had no idea what to make of that.”

Falstaff had lowered his voice. Daniel had to lean in more closely in order to hear. “‘Just let me pass, okay?’ this big fellow said to me. ‘I have a wife and three small kids at home. I need this food. No trouble, just let me pass.’ He was desperate.”