A hundred times a day I pat my pockets for credentials that don’t exist. The ground beneath me rushes up. The audience: Wait a minute! Can you believe I’m now calling them the audience? The whole point was that each person—not just me but each person—was supposed to go to the mike and say what it is that matters most. Remember? That was the primary goal!
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But two minutes into my spiel, the audience became my followers. And in less than no time, I succumbed to their applause. I looked out on what seemed like an ocean of people swaying to the sound of my voice and waving their arms.
In my mind, lavender-colored fog swirled at my feet; a profusion of lighters illuminated the darkness. And miracle never ending, tomorrow night (we’ve decided to go for Wednesdays and Saturdays) I’m scheduled to give—and to get—more of the same! Which is not to say I’ve forgotten the original idea. It’s just that, if I believe Stephanie, a hundred-some people were so spellbound that with no prompting, they tucked tens and twenties into her hands as she squeezed through the haphazard aisles of chairs. Whether they saw this as the unasked-for price of admission or a contribution to the cause, no one knows, but they did press upon her sixteen hundred and forty-five dollars!
After the crowd filed out in an excited hush, Maggie and Stephanie and Carlos and I stood still for a while in the suddenly quiet, suddenly empty shop. Maggie swept the floor. Stephanie aligned the tables. Carlos locked the doors. I shut off the lights. We drifted upstairs, drank wine and listened to Tibetan bowl music. Stephanie, as usual, couldn’t stand to ignore the obvious. She wriggled big wads of bills out of her apron pockets.
“Here,” she said, “let’s talk about this.” Swearing to stick a needle in her eye, she said “my followers” had taken it upon themselves to press money on her.
“We need to put the money into a special account,” Carlos said. “I know you don’t want to call it a religion, Malcolm. But it needs a name. For the bank. For the I.R.S.”
“What do you have in mind, Carlos?”
“It’s your call, Malcolm. You’re the prophet.”
“I’m supposed to pull it out of a hat?”
“Nothing elaborate. But come up with something now.”
“Like what? Jehovah’s Heretics? Malcolm’s Meek Seekers?”
“For the I.R.S.,” Carlos said. “Make it believable. Nothing cute.”
“What do you say,” Maggie asked, “Why not ‘Religion Without Rules’?”
Carlos said, “That’s good. RWR. That should do.”
Why not? Religion Without Rules sort of disavows real religion. No rules, no hierarchy, even if I’m the mouthpiece. That’s that—no worries. Still, Carlos satisfied looked even more nefarious than Carlos plotting.
Among Stephanie, Maggie, and Carlos, there were three bundles of money, three canvas pouches. And despite my exultation, I couldn’t look at Carlos without suspecting him of arranging special folds of fabric inside his vest. Any second I expected the scene in front of my eyes to change into a million little birds fluttering off in a million directions at once.
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