and way too expensive now, the driver–he had introduced himself as JoJoBa–had explained to them.
“And, besides that,” he added, “… I hear that there aren’t as many immigrants arriving here anymore to fill up all of these grand projects they were planning. So I guess, like, the investment probably just went tits up.”
“Oops! Excuse me!” JoJoBa said as he ruefully glanced at Jacqueline in the rear view mirror. He was hoping for an adequate tip today and had thus worked hard at being as talkative as he could without saying terribly much.
The radio blared a song through a single rather tinny-sounding speaker mounted in the dashboard. The rattling noises of the bus effectively drowned out most of the music and left the occasional cheerful banter of the host largely unintelligible.
“And you know, there’s also all kinds of discussion right now about the subject of diversity going on …” JoJoBa tried his luck again a few moments later.
“It’s kind of a mantra here, you know? But it’s odd: we’re constantly celebrating diversity here but, if you talk to anyone here, they all tell you that they cherish conformity. So it’s like a place whose highest ideal is to fully integrate all these newcomers it keeps trying to get to come in from abroad but it’s also doing everything it can to jealously defend what people think makes up its own very unique identity. So, you know, while one portion of the population is claiming that they’re working at making immigrants resemble themselves as closely as possible–because they consider themselves to be representative of the indigenous population–the majority is shitting bricks that, like, if they become like us, then this kind of conversely means that everyone else is increasingly becoming like them, the immigrants. It’s all really kind of crazy, isn’t it?”
“I think it’s a good place,” Nik.Vee grumbled in response, somehow not exactly amused at what he was seeing and hearing.
“Yeah,” he continued as they drove, “… but don’t worry. It’s all controlled pretty well here. In fact, the level of control here is, well, maybe a bit more than you’re used to or maybe even expected. But it’s all how ya look at it, I guess.”
After having received no satisfactory response from Nik.Vee, JoJoBa–still working valiantly at earning his tip for this ride–prudently elected to change the subject.
“Hey! You folks ever heard of the architect Frank Lloyd Wright? I don’t have any idea what, er, what he built but I heard he once tore out the rear view mirror of a car he was riding in and just, ya know, chucked it out the window. Kind of psycho, you know? And ya know why he did it? Said he was only interested in seeing where he’s going to, not where he’s already been. Pretty neat, huh? I’m kind of like that, too …”
As he chattered, Jacqueline noticed a small truck-like vehicle passing them smartly in the adjoining lane. To her amazement, she saw that it was a mobile confession booth.
“Get Moto.Absolution!” proclaimed the bold red lettering on the side of the vehicle. “For Absolution on the Go, Get Your Session with mobi.Fession, the Good Conscience Specialists!”
Ch.ase noticed that the Moto.Absolution van was equipped with an impressive array of red and blue emergency lights mounted on its roof. Upon seeing this, his youthful curiosity quickly got the better of him.
“Excuse me!” he called at the top of his voice from the rear bench of the bus to get JoJoBa’s attention. “But, like, can he always just keep on going or does he need to stop at stoplights?” he asked JoJoBa, pointing as the vehicle smoothly changed lanes ahead of them and quickly disappeared into the thick stream of traffic.
ZABULON KLEISTERMAUL
The man standing at the pulpit before them was a hallowed teacher working to uphold the loftiest of principles. Just looking at him, one instinctively appreciated that he was endowed with the inner tranquility and security necessary for his calling, derived from the firm knowledge that his God has chosen him, of all people, to stand before the flock and to proclaim the truth, to articulate the message of faith and love in His name, in a voice clear and keen.
It was his calling to impart the message and the knowledge to anyone who was wise enough and also willing to open their hearts, to listen and to learn.
To those seated in the rows before him on this evening.
Ch.ase, however, was likely not, if anyone had bothered to ask him, really interested in fathoming the man standing before the congregation, next to the altar at the front of the church, nor his motives. Aside from his observing fleetingly that the Reverend reminded him of a more or less successful crossbreeding experiment involving a back-bench theology nerd and a toothpaste commercial, Ch.ase had little option except to sit still and allow the man’s lecture to go where it might. He was not here on his own volition and he therefore resolved to politely ignore him for as long as his MP3 player still had a sufficient charge.
He glanced up momentarily from his player, where he been intently adjusting the equalizer settings, and glanced toward the front section of the church. For no particular reason, it occurred to Ch.ase that the Reverend appeared to be significantly older than Fulton, his father, would have been.
He decided that he definitely needed more bass today.
The Reverend had something about him that somehow compelled Ch.ase to think of a Saint Bernhard. He was a big fellow, but not huge, and possessed a stocky but not quite athletic build upon which was situated an oddly cylindrical-looking head. What struck Ch.ase were his distinct baggy, hanging cheeks and dark brown eyes that seemed to signal that a kind of down on the farm, lazing by the fireplace type of good nature likely resided within him. Granted, his ears were considerably smaller than those of his canine counterpart and, although he did wear a collar, or was required to, it was not of the sort that sported a small flask of schnaps for late-night alpine rescue missions in raging blizzards. In Ch.ase’s modest estimation, sitting in the pews watching and listening as this man gave his rendition of a rousing sermon was probably not going to be a whole lot different than watching Lassie read the evening news on the telly.tube.
“Why doesn’t someone just give the man a soup bone and we can all go home?” Ch.ase thought to himself and smiled.
A little bit more treble now …
After all, the thought popped back into his head briefly, it was neither his idea nor his wish that he should be sitting here today.
Understanding, though, that his vote on this particular matter didn’t carry a lot of weight, he elected then to just bear with it, sitting in silence and watching detachedly with tiny loudspeakers in his ears while the man stood beaming smugly before his faithful congregation, which was still abuzz at the moment with a low murmur and a noticeable amount of shuffling to and fro. People continued to arrive, looking for and finally taking their seats, some alone and others coming in various small groups. There were nuclear families–where did anyone ever come up with such a ridiculous description? wondered Ch.ase, picturing in his mind a family resembling happily glowing Martians with atomically-altered DNA at a playground or sitting around a picnic table, antennae wiggling merrily to and fro on the children’s multiple heads. A few of the small groups of people coming in could well have been delegations representing the local bowling-alone clubs or some other organization akin to the various amalgamated rod-and-gun clubs existing to defend their historically-anchored constitutional right to bear and use automatic weapons whenever they or the common good deems it prudent or necessary. Throughout this modest hustle and bustle, the Reverend continued to stand wordlessly at his pulpit, watching carefully as the pews filled up and flashing his occasional toothy hurried smile of recognition into the crowd at odd intervals to acknowledge someone’s gesture of greeting. He clutched his manuscript for today’s proceedings, his working copy of the scriptures, firmly under his right arm.
In Ch.ase’s estimation, Reverend Kleistermaul’s Bible and sermon notes appeared to be a tad too old and frayed. But by the same token, though, Ch.ase had to admit to himself that this also lent a certain venerable air to them, giving the Reverend, by virtue of being their keeper, an indisputable degree of credibility and authority.