Lifestyles of the Rich and Pious

The shop is at least three times its former size.  Four tables fit in the north window now, not two.  Instead of a glass display case and Formica countertop, a mantle of burled wood curves through the room.  The kitchen is immense, and immaculate.

Upstairs six square dormitory rooms proceed off a long hallway with bathrooms at both ends. Carlos, having kept a wary distance since our last little tryst, leads the way up another flight to my quarters, which include an enormous bathroom, a balcony facing east, and a sunlit little room for study and meditation.

[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.]

It’s great. Just great. Windows everywhere, pale hardwood floors, decorative moldings. . . I tell myself not to panic. There’s an intimidating expanse of space.  A cavernous echo. And that electrical, headachy smell of plaster and paint. “Nice,” I say.  “Cheery...” and start toward the designer bathroom where two plumbers are working.

Mr. Andersen, a somber, wiry black man, of Andersen Plumbing and his young assistant in a beret—not, my fingers tingle, my eyes shut, my hair prickles, Tyler!—are installing a whirlpool in the four-can-fit, fake marble tub, or maybe it’s real—I don’t know—tub. I back away, inhale, exhale; squint, cock my head. And, okay, brave another glance at the young assistant.  In passing, from a distance, he resembles the boy Tyler. And the beret: are all the hot young guys wearing them suddenly?

But I’m fine. This is great. And to prove it, here I go, on to my lovely new balcony. A grove of trees stretches below. I turn in a circle, thinking magically: pouf, take me back!  Please Maggie! Carlos! Put everything back the way it used to be! I want my life that’s vanished returned at once. I’m going to count to ten, snap my fingers, and then— tell me it’s a joke.  A sound stage for a TV show.  “Lifestyles of the Rich and Pious.”

Ha-ha! How can I be alive when no remnant of me remains?  Where are my books and pictures, my clothes and furniture? Where in the world has my modest but real existence gone?

Maggie at least gets what’s happening, and tries to comfort me.  With her arm over my shoulder, she whispers, “Don’t worry, Malkie.  Once we decorate it, give it some of your personal style, it’s going to be great.  Look . . .”  She reaches into the pack swinging on her shoulder.  “I’ve got some catalogs here. Pottery Barn, Crate and Barrel.”

Through clenched teeth she hisses at Carlos. “Why are you just standing there? Go get him a tranquilizer or something.”

“Uh no,” I speak up.  “I don’t need a tranquilizer. All I need is a minute.” I turn away, back from the balcony, and bow my head. I need a minute to convince myself that the room, the people, the babbling voices are real. I’m Malcolm Tully standing in my new room in my new shop the first Sunday in September. Everything makes sense, everything adheres to a clear-cut grid of cause and effect. So why am I wiping my eyes? Why do I suspect I’ve actually stood here forever, snared in a terrible, unnatural ball of time?

“Hold up,” I say, “I’m all right.” And my words echo, the moment resounds:  I’ve stood here and said this before. I’ve always stood here. The rest is a fairy tale—we’re all of us trapped in the moment.  My God! Why didn’t we realize this sooner? We should pray. We should get down on our knees.

“Are you okay?” Carlos sounds genuinely concerned.  Or no—Carlos is scared!

Mr. Andersen has just finished hanging a mirror on the door. Smoothing my hair, I turn three-quarters this way and that.  Here I’m up, the star of the show, whee, whoop—and there, on the other side, I’m lamenting the sins of the world. I’m crying, confessing, atoning, then swivel and shake, I’m the nation’s biggest sensation, crowds everywhere are chanting my name. I take Maggie by the shoulders as if she’d never believe me otherwise, and say, “We should pray.”

“Okay.”

“No, I’m serious. I mean it.”

“I mean it, too,” she says. But I scoff at this. “I don’t mean praying like we’re in nursery school.”

“Oh.”

“No, no, Maggie,” I instantly repent. “I’m stupid and wrong and you’re right.  We’re supposed to pray like we’re in nursery school.  We’re supposed to be the Lord’s little lost lambs.”

Maggie shakes her head. “I think you were right the first time. It’s important to use our whole minds.”

“Absolutely,” I say. “Absolutely, that’s important, that’s as important you can get!”  I can hear myself shouting; but I can’t stop.

(Click here to read next excerpt.)