"Hey, nice job there, Moses! Where’re the animals?" said Mr. Thomas from behind his well-manicured hedge, for about the tenth time today. After a month, the jab had lost its power to charm, which was highly limited to begin with. To top it all off, Mr. Thomas meant Noah but said Moses, which annoyed Nelson all the more. He wouldn’t dare correct him though; not with most of the pitch yet to be applied. Perhaps after the next five cubits are secured, and only maybe then. "Honey, come inside and have a wine cooler," bellowed Edith from the Florida room. She was always trying to get him inside while the pitch was being applied. Nelson knew she couldn’t stand the odor, but there was nothing he could do. He had to get at least five cubits done today or his whole schedule was shot. "In a few hours, Pookie!" he shouted back. It was quite a sight in the driveway. The neighborhood itself was a labyrinth, turning and twisting as if chased by undesirable house hunters. When turning up Barclay Lane, the houses became further spaced and the lawns were longer and greener. Hanging a right on Carpathia, you’d go around a long bend, and there, as if emerging out of the past, stood the Ark. It almost entirely obscured the two-car garage, and forced Nelson and Edith to keep both their Saab and Volvo, respectively, out on the street in the cul de sac. This caused Edith no end of worry, but Nelson couldn’t care less. He was on a divine mission. It was a Tuesday when the Lord spoke unto him, while teeing off at the Lynx Country Club. He was on his fifth hole, and having a dilly of a game, one under par, and two behind the leader, when Jehovah boomed down: NELSON! NELSON! I BESEECH THEE… DROP THY FIVE IRON! "Is that the greens keeper?" Nelson asked his caddy. "I don’t hear anything," answered the puzzled sixteen-year-old, through a mask of acne. I AM THE LORD YOUR GOD! KING OF KINGS, GOD OF GODS, NO OTHER GODS BEFORE ME…. "But…." Nelson began, unsure of just what his reply might be. "You’re not supposed to…. I mean, I’m a Protestant." I WORK IN RATHER ODD WAYS! I NEED YOU, NELSON! YOU WILL BUILD AN ARK! IT SHALL BE CONSTRUCTED OF— "If you’ll excuse me, this is all a little too much. Tell you what let’s do, I’ll just take a little time to compile, and you can let me know the particulars on the back nine. Deal?" SALIENT PLAN, NELSON! SEE YOU THEN… AND NELSON… "Yes?" THAT IRON IS TOO HEAVY FOR YOU! Since that day, Nelson was hard at work on this wooden monstrosity in the driveway with a passion his wife hadn’t seen in quite some time. In fact, Edith never missed an opportunity to tell him so, usually while he was applying the pitch. "I swear to Christ, I’ve never seen you this passionate about anything!" said Edith, in that permanently miffed way she had. "Pookie, I’m not out here for my health, I’ll have you know." "We’re supposed to meet the Torkelsons at seven!" "I’m almost done out here!" Nelson screamed back. Regaining his composure, he reassured her, "Won’t be long, Pook. Just give me a few secs, kay?" "Yeah, yeah," Edith replied disappearing back into the Florida room. Nelson applied the last layer of pitch, and wiped his beaded brow. Once inside, he showered and dressed with the speed and efficiency that first attracted Edith to him; that, and his height. Nelson was about six-foot tall, but bone skinny. He had a nose too long for his face, too long, in fact, for anyone’s face. His hair was sandy, and thinning on top, which he compensated for by growing what amounted to earmuffs of hair on either side of his head. This caused Pookie, as Nelson called her--more out of defense than anything else--to call him Captain Kangaroo when she was feeling especially cruel. Coming out of his walk-in closet, he observed today’s work clothes, ruined and lying in a bundle on the floor. His polo shirt and khaki pants were stained black with pitch, and his loafers were scuffed beyond repair, but today’s mission was accomplished. Only fifteen more cubits and he would be finished. Nelson pushed open the door, and immediately knocked over the mail on the hall table. Bills, voting reminders, and magazines scattered everywhere. He set about picking them up, when one envelope with the crest of Ridgewood Academy caught his eye. His son’s report card was inside, as he knew from experience. He ripped it open and was assaulted by a chorus of all the wrong letters. He quickly went up to his son’s door, and knocked gently. "Son…. You in there?" "I’m busy." "I wondered if I might talk to you?" "Still busy." "Please come down later to talk to me." "If I’m not busy." "I’ll talk with you later, young man." He’d talk with him later. That is, if Jonathan wasn’t busy. He was a good boy, on occasion, but given to bouts of precocious behavior. Chewing gum purposely placed in the washing machine, and other minor crimes, but no harm done. Nelson came down to get his wine cooler, and met Edith in the Florida room. "Did you know Jonathan’s report card came?" "How’d he do?" "Horrible, Pookie. I was going to have a stern talk with him, but he was indisposed." "That’s too bad. Oh, well, maybe later," Edith reasoned. "Yes, that’s what he said. We’ll straighten it out." "Nelson, those bills in the hallway…. Why did you order ten generators?" "That wasn’t me, Hon," Nelson began in earnest. "That’s a divine request." "But we’re Protestant," Edith snapped, "That’s, for all intents and purposes, a hands-off religion." "Yes, I know sweetie, but they go in the ark. It was all on the same order." "Who’s paying for all this?" "Us, right now, but I’m sure God has some sort of…." "What? Repayment plan?" jabbed Edith. "Listen to me, Nelson Charles Winston. If you think that God, as you so respectfully call him, has any respect for material gain, you’re out of what’s left of your mind. The whole damn Bible is an anti-capitalist manifesto—easier for a camel to enter the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to—look, if you want to build something, start with the goddamn tree house Jonathan’s been after you to build him for years. Maybe his grades will pick up." Edith paced the Florida room plucking dead leaves from the many ferns hanging under the skylight. "Nelson, I was happy when you started on the ark. You needed a hobby, and you’ve never been very good with your hands, and you seemed to enjoy it. But now it’s just getting silly." All through dinner with the Torkelsons, Nelson was thinking about the Ark. More to the point, he was thinking about why he, of all people, had been chosen to build it. Sure, he had the ability and, thankfully, the funds. Yet, there was something amiss here. There were Catholics who would give their eye teeth to be smitten with a divine bolt of lightening, let alone spoken to by Him. Why then did Nelson receive the calling? Nelson was half way through his pasta when he received his answer. NELSON… NELSON… HAVE YOU MADE AN END TO IT? "Good lord…." Nelson said, dumbfounded. YES? "No, I mean, well… what I want to know is… why me?" "Because you’re the closest one to the bread!" snapped Edith. "What?" Nelson said, confused. "For the tenth time, Nelson… Will you please pass the bread?" Edith replied, seething with rage. YOU ARE MY ONLY PROTESTANT… FOR NOW. "So you mean to branch out?" Nelson surmised. YES. "Didn’t you folks hear that?" Nelson pleaded. "Sure," responded Stu Torkelson, "I believe Edith wants the bread." "No," said Nelson, finally passing the bread. "I mean, didn’t you hear the voice of… um…." Nelson looked around the table, at three confused, yet fairly uninterested faces, and thought better of pressing his luck. "Pass the parmesan, will you, Stu?" AND NELSON… "Yes?" replied Nelson, under his breath. THE JEW IS USING THE BLACK AGAINST YOU. "…I knew it."
Copyright © 2001 James J. Smith.