God's Favorites

The old soul was reeling from this latest round of spiritual malaise, or "Melville's disease," as he called it - having been accosted, literally swept off his feet by Wills and Fiona and plopped down on a park bench so as to feed pigeons and ponder calamities - or rather having resorted to feeding pigeons first, he then found himself bookended by Fiona and Wills spontaneously generating before him.  Sitting there holding his head, groaning to himself, gently rocking himself like a catatonic patient, oppressed by the warm breeze, the puffy clouds and intermittent sunshine. A few pedestrians sauntered by thinking that a mild head injury had occurred and was being attended to. Trapped within that familiar haze of melancholy which so many others falsely attributed to him as a flukey mood disorder, a temperamental pinched nerve unique to himself alone, as if to say well but, you know, it stands to reason that for every 100 residents of a small town, there has to be at least one "sad sack of a youthful malcontent with delusions of grandeur running amok...", caught up once again in the "dark cloud" that so many thinkers, observers, artists, writers, misanthropes of various stripes grapple with like people gasping for fresh air when enveloped by ceaseless plumes of smog.- What is it F.G? What is it? Fiona and Wills kept saying, but they sort of knew in advance or at least had their suspicions. The old soul looked around, but R.J. was nowhere in sight -  R.J.  the charismatic youthful svengali, ringleader and instigator of this entire mess.  Emerging from his mental daze, he found himself muttering something about Billy and Gabby - those would be "prophets" and "psychics" - the "lost souls" - as he called them - who to no one's recollection ever looked as forlorn or miserable as the old soul himself. Something about the escalation of tensions, recent incidents, quarrels and actual fights breaking out, threats of harm and prophecies of doom. Well - that was par for the course where those two "heavy thinkers" were involved. And wouldn't R.J. be right there, defending them somehow as "sensitive types" with "real potential," in need of proper "channeling." Because they had such morbidly original insights, because they had such amazingly vivid, apocalyptic dreams and visions, had made real predictions (with prodigious accuracy) about bus drivers getting fired from their jobs, about cafeteria workers fainting on hot days, about fourth-graders falling (or jumping) from trees during hide-and-seek, about missing cats being found in obscure locations,  etc. etc. - or else they had felt so deeply about matters of spiritual import, more intensely, more ambitiously than your run-of-the-mill teenager, or because they needed, so desperately needed a higher calling, a cause, a meeting of like-minded souls with which to interact, for which purpose, R.J. was more than happy to "house" them and include them in the mix. How to unpack all these thoughts bouncing around in his head! Finally the mumbling became coherent as he literally clutched at the respective shirt sleeves of his two companions.  Have you ever noticed how when people talk about God and Religion that it always boils down to God shining a light on a small random corner of the universe that happens to revolve around them...as if to say that God's plan is mapped out for their benefit alone, that everything happens for a reason, that every iota of time is calibrated toward their own self-advancement... with their every response to each new situation it's as if you can see their guardian angel nodding in the background (yea or nay) And of course God agrees with them when they choose vanilla over chocolate chip or when they approve of this movie or that video... or that God is likewise repulsed by the sordid goings on of the people down the street...or that God leads them to pursue this and avoid that, to justify every misdeed with a wink and smile, God applauds as they hop safely from one wretched moral pose to the next...God sent a judgment upon those people sitting over there while they won a sordid little prize... Always the same unseemly rationales, the smug intonations, the appalling spiritual vanity and self-absorption of these would-be prophets.  Wow. Was this really the old soul talking, venting, carping against the same aimless vagabonds that he had helped to shelter and guide barely 9 months before? Even as he said these things, however, he couldn't help but consider the few remaining strands of worn counter-arguments that had kept him so faithful for so long. These zealous driven ones - were becoming so loopy, yes, so headstrong and arrogant - to the point of becoming walking parodies - but did they not share with him that moral outrage - that probity of conscience that seemed literally to be fading out of existence - and was there not something to be said for that weird puritanical streak of theirs that always inclined them to utter "No" and "Don't" and "You can't....you must not....Beware!" when others shrugged "why not?...if it floats your boat?" Because it was becoming impossible to live in a world where the sense of sacred prohibitions was disappearing - in the sense that no-one could publicly agree upon them; but on the other hand, was it possible to live in a world where fanatics and mentally unstable zealots spoke for God? Based on what she had just heard, Fiona, somewhat astonished, but also relieved, was nodding her head wildly in agreement. Wills threw up his hands and laughed out loud - as if to say, hey buddy, are you just now finding out? I can't believe it took you this long, Wills said. Never could figure out why you gave those wackos such a long leash....? - You don't understand.  R.J. had everything under control. I could never trump R.J.'s optimism with my own negativity. - Ah. R.J. that seductive spin-meister. The dreaded moment had arrived - it was time to declare himself officially "non-affiliated"-  once again set adrift, untethered, alone, disenfranchised from one of the few institutions in his brief life that had given him some measure of sustenance. There he sat, thankful for the moral support provided by these two peers - both skeptical compadres, one of whom served as part-time provocateur for the free-thinker's consortium, the other, a lively free spirit who caused the first stirrings of schism within the prophecy club. -Look. I get it. We've created this breeding ground with this supposedly innocuous prophecy club of ours...by attracting these unstable types, these miniature fanatics... making them think they have something special to offer by way of psychic powers or hidden revelations...It's very damaging really...I can't believe I've been part of it...  - We hear you, Quentin. We're with you on this... You've got a soft spot for eccentrics. We all do. But we're talking about an obnoxious strain of dimwits who are ruining it for all of us. We've had to bail as well... - You don't quite understand. I can't do what you've done.  I've got nowhere to go. I don't approve of what the other side is doing either. I'm caught in the middle... - You're doing the right thing just by expressing your discomfort. You should listen to those ridiculous "heavy thinkers" and their stupid propaganda. Don't believe everything you hear about the free-thinkers.  -After all - you're looking at one of them - said Wills. And I'm not so bad right?  -Make that two - said Fiona.  I mean on one level - I get it. I do. These poor wretched anonymous types - creeping through life in their drab grey smocks, grunting and screeching as they go - suffering terrible feelings of neglect and anonymity...but instead of channeling any of that anger and resentment in a positive way, they just have to conjure up some really nutty - completely implausible - actually impossible explanation by which they become the center of attention for the entire universe... - You need to get R.J. to listen. He is letting all this happen. He thinks he is doing these people a favor by providing them with a place to go, a group to belong to. - Oh please. I'm sick and tired of hearing about R.J. the humanitarian. R.J. - everyone's heroic elder brother.  Alas - it was true. R.J.'s eccentric maternal grandfather, who as a dean of English and comparative literature sometime in the remote past (perhaps the 1950s or 1960s) had, in the midst of some ongoing debate with a rival academician (perhaps a philosopher, perhaps an art historian), issued instructions for the founding of the prophecy club along with an endowment of 10 million dollars or some such outrageous/exorbitant  amount. As a result of this prior drama, R.J.'s one mission in life - a pre-condition for receiving and utilizing such cash - was thrust upon him by way of inheritance, namely, to keep his grandfather's pipe-dream afloat and ensure for its continued growth. It was not as if people knew of  R.J.'s wealth per se; some hint of money was evident just from his manner of speech and dress, his well-pressed shirts and occasional bow-ties, his wacky, motley, colorful socks, his continual name-dropping of people, places and hard-to-find commodities,  a sort of elan, a charisma of good breeding which seemed always to announce his entrance; more importantly the uniqueness of R.J.'s situation was epitomized by that strange, inimitable goofy cheerfulness and perpetual giggle that made light of any serious situation and posed such a foil to the old soul's gloomy gravitas....such that when the old soul tried to warn him of the danger, the instability, the irrational contagion lurking within, R.J.'s answer was always the same...relax, grasshopper, one must be subtle when dealing with acolytes  in need of guidance and structure...Allow them to think that they are in charge when really....And here R.J. would break out into his ridiculous laugh... At least they're on a mission. They have a definite purpose. Imagine what they'd be like if they didn't.