An excerpt from my novel, Diary of a Heretic: Click here to read the previous episode, and here to start from the beginning.
By haranguing me nonstop, Carlos talked me into addressing the issue of loneliness as a spiritual goal. He convinced me “to set the tone” before handing the mike to the first comer. “I know what I’m talking about. You have to be willing to stand up and say what’s important.”
What really got to me, though, was his argument about my own fear. Because I was afraid to stand up and say what I thought, I must stand up and say it. And yet, acquiescing to him felt like glass cracking, a thin tumbler filling with too hot a liquid—splintering shards and pooling tea.
But as the café filled with people I sat in the office, staring at nothing for who knows how long. Eventually I managed to get up and enter the kitchen. No one was there! I was completely alone and so panicked about speaking, I couldn’t tell what was just me being psychotic and what might actually have gone awry. Carlos, presumably, was off on some errand, and so his assistants were smoking dope in their cars. Closing my eyes, the smells in the room—caramelized pears, chocolate and almond, vanilla cream, sweet yeasty sugar, cinnamon, orange, and cherry kirsch—invaded my being. The waves of aroma that I smell all day and so normally never notice, beckoned with unworldly potency.
Then Carlos materialized at the back door and I jumped, brushing crumbs off my face and chest. Carlos licked his thumb and rubbed a spot on my chin. “Just a smear.” My head swiveled as I did a quick inventory. Evidently I’d eaten six brownies. “Looks like—,” Carlos patted my stomach, “you put a quite dent in the almond cakes, too.” With a swoop, he pinched me, fore and aft.
“Better drink something,” Carlos said.
“No, that’s okay.” But he poured me a tumbler of rich whole milk anyway. Which I glugged without pausing for air.
“How do I look?”
“You look good. You’re ready. Don’t even think about it,” he cooed, his words both cooling and inflaming my neck. He dabbed seductively at my face again, “Go to it, man.”
Whereupon I sailed to the mike, eyes on a widening horizon. Except—Carlos immediately intervened. Waving his hands, he said, “Excuse me. Excuse me everybody.” I cast him a puzzled look and in return, he smirked. “Before we begin,” he raised an eyebrow, “I’d like to ask Malcolm—,” And he turned to me with a lascivious look, “to talk about worship.”
“Worship? We’re here to talk about loneliness. Six ways to overcome loneliness.” I sent daggers, gazing at him.
And in return, Carlos blew me a kiss. The asshole.
(Click here to read the next episode.)
