No Preening, No Moaning

This excerpt continues the serialization of Diary of a Heretic, the novel, which portrays the rise and fall of a contemporary spiritual movement that blossoms suddenly, and briefly, around Malcolm Tully, the owner of a coffee shop/donut house across the street from a terminal of Chicago’s El tracks.

Swissôtel, 3601-3602, 3605-3607  (week 11)
Monday, July 30

Dear Diary,
Sorry I haven’t written in ten days but I’ve been so-o-o busy building a religious empire!  What with a round robin of NANM meetings and special fundraisers, and endless strategy sessions in our trés elégante suites, I just haven’t had the time or privacy, or frankly the nerve to pour my heart out.

After my little breakdown—in with the food and drink:  out with the vomit, mucus, and tears—Carlos has hired a ghost writer for the Doctrine. Justin Eagan is an ex-Jesuit, who writes spiritual newsletters.  The Doctrine by yours truly will supposedly open doors for him.  That’s what Maggie and Carlos told him.  “No, your name won’t be on it, but rest assured:  Time Will Tell, the World Will Know.”
 
Small and fox-faced, Justin Eagan has oily, honey-colored hair, and a believable laugh.  Going over the transcripts with him, Maggie finds endless excuses for squeezing his arm, patting his back, and “just forgive me a second,” brushing up, and around him.

And:  we’ve hired Tim and Janice, a sweet, humble brother and sister team, to videotape the meetings. Which, no need to tell you, Diary dear, are infomercials.

*

But okay, there’s no need to feel constantly ashamed!  Sometimes I go on stage and something mystical happens.  Sometimes it’s embarrassing and pathetic; sometimes it’s magnificent.  I stand in the wings, toss my hair, lick my lips, and bounce up and down.  The lights dim, the crowd goes silent and I hurtle through space, landing deftly in the spotlight, arms outstretched, the better to embrace the first of the evening’s many delirious ovations.  I open my mouth and say stuff like:  “It doesn’t matter what we think, we have to act.”  “We have to get out there and make life different than it ultimately is.”  “If it’s not impossible, why bother?”  “If it is impossible, why try?”

Carlos is right:  it’s easy.  I say whatever pops to mind—I walk, talk, cha-cha-cha.  Sometimes I hum a little and my words become a chant, my convictions a mantra.
 
Christ, how pretentious:  Me and my mantra.  Suffice it to say that I gesture, rave, whisper and pause, and everyone screams.  Everyone leaps in ecstasy (or so it seems). 

And—this is not good—lately I have to concentrate to keep from stroking myself!  Adulation rushes in, enlarging me three or four times my normal size.  My eyes start to roll and wings of exultation beat—This is my body, this is my blood!

(Dear God, You have to forgive me!  I did not ask for this.)

I did not ask for this but I’m at the point where even the money is starting to get to me.  Stacks and stacks of it!  More than any of us can count.  Not when you factor in the electronic transfer, which is where Carlos says the real money comes in.  Any time I think of it, I wonder, am I essentially just more alive than everyone else?  I didn’t used to be like this. But it takes real restraint not to preen, not to moan.

*

Yesterday, a full-page feature about me in the Tribune’s “Living Section” prompted my parents, en route to Puerto Vallarta, to phone from an airplane.  It took my father twenty minutes to track me down—why was I staying at the Swissôtel?  He preferred the Drake.  My mother wanted to know where I’d be playing the second week of August.  Wouldn’t it be fun if they popped in for a meeting?  “Name a day,” I said. “I’ll save you the best seats in the house.”  Of course, immediately I almost threw up—the best seats in the house.  What did I think I was doing?  Carnegie Hall?  But they said they’d rather surprise me, sneak in, in the back when I wasn’t expecting them.  “We wouldn’t want to throw you off your stride,” my father said.

Then my mother grabbed the phone.  “Oh Malcolm, I always knew you had a saintly aura about you.”

*

So you can see, can’t you, Diary Dear, why it might take an extra bit of gall to write you?  And I’ve haven’t even touched on the clairvoyant factor.  Ensconced here in the suite with nothing to do but obey my insane captors, Carlos and Maggie, I find myself anticipating every antic act occurring within my sphere.

--From Diary of a Heretic, a novel by Kathleen Maher, copyright 2007