THE CELESTINE MOCKERY

A hitchhiker's guide to the fallacy...




EPISODE XI: the celestine mockery.

(If you still have no fucking clue about what's going on, I hear they have a sale at Dillard's.)

It was the crack of Noon on Sunday, and my hips ached as long and deeply as last night’s sleep, fearing only Monday—for I would wake up wronged so sweetly this morning and no other. Not a curse remained in my heart—except for sunlight, not a thought strong in my head—except “I hate that damned light,” nor did one drop of semen escape, reside or remain the long course of the night. My poetic flow remained intact, I thought—but no way had my nerves or liver survived. My conscience lived only by non-involvement in this trip.

I headed into the shabby lobby, across its dirty floors and derelicts they cradled for the evening. Constant fresh pots of greasy coffee were the sole percolated perks this dive contained. And because it was The South, an airline pocket bottle of Tabasco was nearby, nestled close to creamers copped from convenience stores, and a Big Gulp cup that held clumped sugar and the eggs of a thousand flies. The reasons for drinking my coffee black grew stronger everyday. And the reasons for my delight in leaving, despite the forever of those two hours to come, were stronger, still, than that. I felt every bit as bitter as the caffeinated black bile that likely painted my throat much in the way it had left its crude mark on my violated styrofoam cup. But then, joy does not come in the morning for me. It might arrive for someone else, but I’ve clearly never waked in time to see it.

As I began to guzzle my third cup of the motels’ “continental breakfast package,” the seedy young white punk of a desk clerk tapped my shoulder, and asked “Which one of y’all is Gabriel?”

I groaned. I turned. I swallowed first my coffee, then my pride. “That would be me, I’m afraid.”

“Well, you’ve got a message, brother-man.” Ignoring that he called me “brother-man,” I was moved deeply with selfless generosity and Christ-like loving-kindness to let him continue living until my caffeine kicked in. “Okay…” I replied in sigh, “I give. Who, what and where?”

“I dunno. It was in my tray when I got here. It’s all scribbled on a tiny little note.”

“Oh boy. My quivering mouth waters in raw, unchained anticipation. Gimme.”

The clerk put down what appeared to be some sort of B & D/S & M book with a fake-out wrap-around Gideon Bible cover. He then picked the stale, half-eaten Ding-Dong off a familiar-looking scrap of yellow notepaper, laying it atop his Bad Good Book. He handed the note to me, and said, “Is that supposed to be sarcasm?”

Retrieving the suspicious epistle in question, I nodded toward his sparse, blonde struggle for facial hair, and replied, “Is that supposed to be a goatee?”

He extended a New York one-finger wave, and wandered off. I read my little letter. Then I stared into space for awhile. Then I laughed loudly, and searched for some quiet place where I could laugh with Creation alone, and Cry for Happy until it was finally time to leave.

The note read, “Oh Ye of Little Faith, Be not afraid, for I AM with you. Be not sad, but fear God; for some have entertained angels unaware. Love, Indrid.”

Oh dear. “Yeah, buddy,” I said to myself, “I definitely fear God right about now. In fact, there may very well be a phobia in the works.”

Oh my. Oh no. I asked his name; he said he was cold. He signed the note “Indrid.” In John Keel’s The Mothman Prophecies, the weird humanoid spook from planet Lanulos was named “Indrid Cold.” He was one of those still-unexplained phantasms that seemed to exist only to boggle minds, contradict theories, and be one more Weird Thing you didn’t want to believe in.

Yeah…it was probably a coincidence—I’m building too much into it, correct?

I certainly didn’t want to believe. And I didn’t want to believe I entertained angels, though I had no doubt that many an angel had been entertained at my expense. As had every Host of Heaven, and All of Creation, in divine, twisted, holy, morbid delight.

It was time to leave, though the room was paid through Monday. With a packed bag, gorged to stretching seams with cheap beads and pricey books like…like…oh never mind. I was too burnt-out and confused for even vile metaphors. I waited by the Meat Wagon for the others.

Jesse napped in the driver’s seat. Rick remained a no-show, leaving a tacky all-American man-purse, the last one-third of his Allegra, three love-battered Barely Legal and Cheri mags, an awful pair of sandals, and several perfectly good blue clay night-masks. We wondered if he’d return in time for any of it. Jesse flipped a coin as to whether or not we took his stuff back home with us, and dumped it on his parents. I flipped a coin as whether I placed the Cheri all-anal issue or the cover-less “year in face-fucking” magazine on top for Ma and Pa. Rick lost both tosses, and I suppose so did Ma and Pa, as we left it all sitting by the mirror.

Carl came back with a stupid grin on his face that somehow stood out among all his other stupid grins. Maybe it was the delivery, or maybe it was his clever use of gingivitis; he just made it work. Grateful for his contributions on the trip, I felt I owed him some quality-time. So before we left, he helped me write “Goodbye!” on the bathroom mirror with blue clay and allergy pills.

The ride home was without incident, quiet and simple. The only notable memory was a gas station detour, after eating at some restaurant that used to be one of the larger Shoney’s in the sunny wastelands of northern Mississippi. Carl was griping about our over-usage of his gas card. He was really pitching a fit. Jesse finally agreed to pay, but made an odd face upon reaching in his pocket—as if his hand hit the wrong side of a snotty tissue. He pulled out some bent copper thing and said, “Fuck! I forgot to return the other room key!” We were halfway home, I assured him, and with yet a single difficulty. This was no big deal, I consoled. There were two keys, and I distinctly remembered giving one to Rick, earlier. I put it in his bag, by the mirror.

All Creation mocked all that was created, and all the time, at that. And sometimes, It’s grace allowed us the rare chance to chuckle, too.

* * *

I can count on one hand the times I have ever seen Rick since the trip. Through the good taste of those in my circle, and that of Fate, no one that I know is close enough to the man to ever give him refuge near my presence anytime soon. I have yet to see Jesse or Carl, ever. But this is frail solace, for this world is vast with yuppies and gimps, and more than a few, I assure you, who have rubber limbs and cadaverous vans, and are bisexual.

The Note From Beyond was curiously missing upon my return home. The Skeptic is not surprised. Frankly, there exists curiously little recollection of the two hours connecting my reception of the Note, and getting in the van. It is an utter blank. I don’t even remember the name of our motel, apart from that the sign read simply “_otel.” Perhaps the “M” was early prey to the weird Black Hole that swallowed the Note, Rick’s disposable camera, two hours of my life, and that asymmetrical, meaty lump in Jesse’s van. Well, Carl might have snagged the lump.

Seven-hundred miles and several days from the Strange Day of the Lord, I was left with the notion that God may be with us, perhaps laughing that very moment…but He was not laughing with us.


THE MOTHERFUCKING END.

Tomorrow: Epilogue & Afterthoughts!


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