Gigantic Baby

You may not believe this.  Or, I don’t know, maybe you saw it coming all along.  But I’ve turned into a gigantic baby.  My mommy never leaves my side.  She sleeps on the floor by my bed.  She brings me glasses of water, reads to me, and combs my hair.  And my daddy checks on me every few hours.  “How’s he doing?  Has he been crying?”  My Mommy Maggie and my Daddy Carlos hover over me and whisper anxiously in the corner.  “Is he eating?  Is he sleeping?”  “How does he seem?”  After dinner they dress me up and show me off.  I toddle out on stage, chortling and waving my arms.  In front of the video camera, I scream and stomp, jibber and jabber and everyone oohs and ahhs and says how adorable.

[This post is an excerpt from Diary of a Heretic, the novel. Click here to read the first episode, or here to read the previous one.]

The RWR pumps in great gushers of money, but we’re more leveraged than Niagara Falls.  When I ask about the bottom line, red or black, Carlos pats my hand.  “Don’t worry,” Daddy says. “Let me keep the books.”

“Gee, Carlos, let me keep a shred of autonomy.”

“Go ahead.”  He swallows hard.  “Keep one.”  I shift my gaze and catch a yellow patch of tension around his mouth, a darting shadow from his averted eyes.  This past week I’ve picked up intimations, but now it’s obvious:  The Man, the Ring Master, the Big, Big Daddy is very, very afraid.  What if I quit?  Disappear?  Kill myself?  Then what will he do?

I detest this religioso stuff.  All I wanted was exactly what Maggie said we’d have if I didn’t declare myself “Spiritual Leader”  Remember?  A coffee klatch with pretensions.  That’s what she said; that’s what I wanted: and that’s all!  Except naturally, to my utter downfall, for about two minutes there, I also wanted to sit in the middle as Carlos circled the room, manipulating twin sets of iron balls in his hands.  Two minutes, two weeks, it was a blip of desire.  If only I could go back to that point—return to my old shop, the blizzard, Carlos’s sheet of damp hair. . .

But wait.  You know how if you act happy you sometimes almost feel happy?  If he wanted to, Carlos could scrounge up my old robe in a minute;  rotate the silvery chiming balls in his hands, and bound around me on his mesmerizing feet.  (And you’d do it in a minute, wouldn’t you, Carlos?  You’ll do whatever I say, whatever it takes.)

But I really not interested in your flapping robe anymore.  What I want is simple.  Nothing impossible; no going back in time.  Just find Mad Mike and his crew.  Set them up in some warehouse where I can go watch the old sots rev their saws and smoke their blunts as the boy trips over to me in his overly big boots, blue jeans slipping from his hips.  Hire them all to play it out, over and over:  the beer-bellied crew belching and farting; the beautiful boy bowing to me, doffing his hat, spilling his gorgeous curls in front of my face; the gaggle of rough drunks spitting and swearing as the boy takes my hand, asking me, do I mind?

You still need me, Carlos. You may always need me! So, why not do this:  Forget the drunks and warehouse. Just find the boy Tyler for me and give him my tidings.

Tell him who I am but don’t coerce him.  Just show him where I wait.  And when the soul of concern, of sweetness, light, peace, joy and hope appears at my side, we will blow you kisses.  We will wave to you from the balcony, Carlos, the beautiful boy and I, blowing you kisses and calling, “Ta-ta!”

(Click here to read the next episode.)