Jesus' Toolbox

JESUS’TOOLBOX

A Novel

Philip Collin

iUniverse, Inc.

New York Lincoln Shanghai

Jesus’ Toolbox

Copyright © 2006 by Philip Collin

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

ISBN-13: 978-0-595-41313-3 (pbk)

ISBN-13: 978-0-595-85667-1 (ebk)

ISBN-10: 0-595-41313-7 (pbk)

ISBN-10: 0-595-85667-5 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

Contents

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

For Ray Connolly who suggested it.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

Warm thanks are due to the incomparable Vincent Schiarelli for the Sicilian bits—R.I.P Vinnie.

To Romy deRedo for the Spanish bits, Madison Arnold for the German bits, and to Kay Tornborg for being Kay Tornborg.

CHAPTER 1

I was in this here bar in San Antonio, an’ he came right on up an’ ordered two beers. Miller Lite. An’ he looks at me an’ says ‘Hi’. Elvis. ’Course he was older then, an’ he had this belly…

No shit…

"No this is fer real, alright? An’ he had this blonde chick with him. Well, more of a lady really. Marilyn. Marilyn Monroe? Anyways we got to talkin’ an’ he explained they was hidin’ out. ‘Cos, on account of this love child they had, and JFK was real pissed at them?

She never did OD or whatever it was. She was on the lam with Elvis Presley. ’Course, this was thirtyfive-forty years ago, but you don’ fergit that sorta thing. Know what I mean?"

I think I do, yes. His thought bubble read ‘Another Elvis sighting…give me a break…lite beer, thirtyfive years ago? In San Antonio? I don’t think so.’

Well, that’s about it. End of story.

And to your certain knowledge they’re still out there, right?

Guess so. Elvis never croaked when they said he did. Guess you knew that. Everyone knows that. Right?

Well, thanks for coming to us with this…Dick…we’ll have a little snoop around and get back to you…did you fill out the disclosure form in reception?

It’s Tom. Thomas Dwayne Hicks, an’ I’m glad to know yer.

Billy Apple rose from his desk and offered his hand as a parting gesture. Thomas Dwayne kicked back and eyed him with a question—where was he going?

Er, it’s all the time I have right now, Tom…

Oh, riiiight…guess I’ll be hearing from ya, yeah?

Fifty years at home on the range had deprived him of any social graces associated with a population density of more than five per square mile. Six feet six of gun show browsing, god fearing, rib-eye chomping, Texas hayseed lumbered to its feet and shook Billy’s hand with excruciating force. Billy winced. Jesus Christ, where do they grow these people? And what’s he doing in LA? And why me? He knew all the answers, but it didn’t stop him asking. At thirty he was more than ready to throw in his laptop and, and,—that was the trouble. And what? Ten years of cub reportage, columnist and finally features editor at the GWP had bred a burnout case of Olympian class. A bronze at the very least. There had to be something else—something more meaningful…fulfilling?.. otherwise…

He watched Thomas Dwayne duck under the door and lope out to the prairies of Wilshire Boulevard.

Forty years ago Billy would have been poster boy for Brooks Brothers. A button-down, clean cut, shoo in. Today his retro persona could still be seen in the catalog pages of JR Crew and LL Bean, but not on the hip streets of Los Angeles. At least he was different, but he didn’t think so.

The Globe World Pictorial had not changed its name in sixty years. Owners, editors, hacks, page count and formats came and went but the goodwill name remained. Everyone knew it for what it was. Second only to the British weekly, The News of the World, in circulation and appeal. Of course, Screws of the World was much older—the grandfather of the tabloids—and it was over there in Jolly Olde, where they wrap their fish and chips in it the very next day.

The phone burbled. This is reception—are you ready for your two fifteen?

Thank you Eileen, wheel him, her or it in..

A giggle, then Yes, Mr. Apple. He would have to do something about her. Her and her cheeky, flirty, pert little…tits…ass…

Take a seat Mrs. (a glance at the Dataday) Glickstein? Gluckstein?

Call me Hilda. I’ve come about my husband.

Is he with you?

That’s the point. He died ten years ago. But I still hear him. A spindly, pruny finger pushed aside a swatch of steel wool hair to reveal an imposing deaf aid. A Graham Bell prototype destined for the Smithsonian.

He comes through in the morning, wanting to know where is his coffeecake and hot chocolate?

And he’s been dead for ten years, you say? Again the thought bubble—‘Headline—40 point, page 7, ‘Hearing Aid Haunts Widow!’…Jeez, there has to be more to it than this…’

I don’t say. I KNOW. He told me I was the one that put him there.

So what do you think is going on here?

Well, it’s haunted, isn’t it? My hearing aid? The funny thing is, he never used to like coffeecake…

A long buzz. Come right in—it’s open. A panting, black cocker spaniel snuffled through the door and into the studio dragging her proud guardian. Mrs. Ferrier-Davies used be Elsie’s owner, but the attendants, pet behaviorists and veterinary surgeons at the animal clinic and the council persons of West Hollywood insisted that the possessory credit was definitely a thing of the past, and in these post politically correct times, well, the privilege of pet guardianship was a calling next to sainthood. If asked to choose, it was a fair bet that as long as the Kibbles & Bits kept coming, it was not a source of consternation to Elsie, whether Mrs. FD was owner, guardian, caretaker or midwife. Or village harlot. Her guardian’s doting attentions were all met with the sublime indifference normally attributed to her feline counterpart. But here she was and she had to admit, this studio was interesting, and smelled…mmm…a little strange.

A pyramid hoist stood center stage, in the middle of the large, high ceiling room, with a harness at the apex, suspended by and attached to a pulley system that was controlled by levers in front of a cockpit seat, to the right of the contraption. A clear, lucite splash-guard allowed the pilot a protected view of the entire floor area at the base of the pyramid. A five feet by five feet, blank, white canvas on a frame lay directly beneath the harness. Petzpix. The idea being that every pet has a masterpiece in him and for $250, together with his guardian, it can be realized in whatever colors—maximum, four—are chosen. Your pet dog, cat, porcupine is strapped into the harness. Paws are dunked in pots of selected colored paint and the creature is lovingly guided down, down and round, onto the canvas to create an exciting original one of a kind, abstract (very) piece of art that quickly dries to an image of personal triumph, it being the ultimate artistic synergy of man and pet. That’s what Annie put in the brochure, anyway.

Cerise, violet, blue and black, wasn’t it? Annie, who dreamed up the whole Petzpix concept, sole proprietress, owner and creative consultant, poured paint from gallon cans into paw sized beakers. Dressed in a one-piece jump suit, mask and goggles, she could be preparing for a decontamination session after a trip to Venus. Elsie sniffed along the entire edge of the platform blissfully unaware of her impending, suspended, dabbing, swooshing introduction to the world of Jackson Pollock.

I think so, don’t you? said Mrs. Ferrier-Davies with mounting excitement. This is such fun, isn’t it?

Make yourself comfortable in the driver’s seat and we’ll go over the controls—it’s very easy.

Elsie, now trussed in the harness, paint dripping from newly immersed paws, swooped, glided, swung and flopped around the canvas scratching and daubing haphazard points of contact in four colors with varying degrees of intensity. She whirled and splotched at the hands of her guardian who articulated the pulleys and joystick with the gusto of a driver at the wheel of a runaway train. Streaks and globs of cerise and black spattered the splash guard and surrounding ground sheets, as the main image evolved, courtesy of three more passes at low altitude and a final belly flop, left of center, that contributed an unexpected boldness and depth to the instant, abstract masterpiece.

Taking center stage, Annie removed her protective goggles and breather mask to reveal a young enthusiastic fresh face with a pretty mole exactly where ladies at the court of Louis XIV sported them. A little south of the lower lip and an inch or so to the side. She un-strapped the hapless Elsie who was a little confused and paint spattered, and quite relieved to be dunked into a bath of sweet smelling thinners and to enjoy a brisk shower and rub down.

Oh Elsie, you clever dog, cooed Mrs. FD, and reached for her checkbook. Two fifty wasn’t it?

If you would like a frame, it’s an additional charge, according to your choice. I can have it delivered to you, f.o.c. tomorrow if you would like to go with a frame. Of course she would like a frame—who wouldn’t? And who wants to try and fit a thing that size into a Lexus coupe? Of course she would like it delivered—who wouldn’t? Annie pointed to a wall montage of a million sample frame ells. I think a neutral single color laminate would set it off nicely.

Amanda Ferrier-Davies stared intently at the array. Now a knock, knock, knock, followed by a furious barking barrage from Elsie.

Ssshhh! Sssshh, now don’t be rude! Mrs. FD urged.

Annie called, Come in—it’s open. The door swung wide. Nothing. Seconds passed, tension mounted, then Duffy shambled in carrying a well worn tote bag with a Harley Davidson emblem. Clearly a collectible if you live to be 120. Duffy. There’s something quite sweet and innocent and well intentioned about the man who’s pushing 50, down at heel, and at this moment, close to tottering over, his equilibrium being disturbed by a lunchtime cocktail or five. An unsteady, unmade bed.

He grinned lopsidedly, ‘lo Annie. How are you? Is that bugger Billy in residence? To be alliterative? He suddenly noticed the canvas and blinked a violent double take, Jesus Christ! What happened here? Vandals? You OK?

Perfectly. Duffy, this is Mrs. Ferrier-Davies and Elsie. He wheeled around to focus on the dog.

Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Ferrier-Davies. What nice floppy ears you have.

Duffy, would you like to lie down somewhere? You look a little pale.

Me? No, I’m fine…silly name for a dog though, don’t you think?

Annie, to Mrs. FD, Please excuse me for a moment, I’ll be right back. Gently taking Duffy by the elbow she led him into a partitioned section of office/cupboard/supplies area and sat him on a loveseat. Wait here and behave.

I only wanted to see William about an amazing sighting I had yesterday morning, He rummaged in the Harley bag.

I can well imagine.

No really. They came from outer space, or somewhere…I’ve got the photographs…they’re here somewhere…

Don’t move. And don’t touch anything.

Mrs. Ferrier-Davies couldn’t help but overhear. She wisely decided against comment. Pointing at a particularly inappropriate, ornate, ormolu sample ell, she addressed Elsie. Do you like that one? Elsiedoggles? Do you? Elsiedoggles had decided it was time to go whizwhiz and barked and sniffed at the door. Misreading the comment for enthusiasm she took the sample from the wall and placed it at the corner of the canvas. Annie reappeared to hear, This one I think.

From the back room, Found ’em!

Duffy shuffled into the studio clutching two dog-eared black and white photographs. He fixed a bead on Mrs. Ferrier-Davies, What d’you make of these, Elsie? He proffered the pics.

Annie whispered, Not now, Duffy.

If not now, when? I mean…it may already be too late. That’s why Billy has to see these…. I’m giving him an exclusive…well, selling would be a more accurate term…where is he? We may be under alien surveillance…where’s the restroom?

Elsie barked and growled at Duffy.

He stared defiantly at Mrs. FD and shouted Call off your attack dog, Elsie!

He turned to Annie and urgently requested, Are you insured if I’m savaged by Mrs. Ferrier Davies? Elsie aggressively peed against his leg. Oh Christ, that’s all I needed!

Mrs.Ferrier-Davis was both flustered and embarrassed, I’m most terribly sorry, it must be all the excitement…let me pay for the cleaning…

Duffy perked up. A twenty should cover it…

Of course…I am so sorry…

The Mohave desert can be a lonely place. Particularly if you live like a packrat under a tarpaulin-camouflaged hillock of sand and scrub that looks like another bump in the landscape from anywhere beyond 20 feet. Inside the bump, a grizzled ‘Nam vet scuffled through a daily routine of doing not much in particular within a leisurely timeframe, rearranging the piles of yellowed Rolling Stone magazines and stacks of just about anything else that had come within 5 feet of him for the last 35 years. Nodding dolls of forgotten baseball players, broken pottery, ‘objets’, hub caps and the ephemera of flower power. Guitars without strings. Strings without guitars. The place could fill the Rose Bowl on any given Sunday. Madison. A small Honda generator supplied the power for a 9 inch black and white tv that illuminated the place with an eerie white incandescence. On the screen a post Mary Poppins Julie Andrews trilled, The Hills are alive with the Sound of Music as she flounced around the high Alps.

Tears rolled down Madison’s cheeks and negotiated a maze of stubble as he sat cross-legged in front of the battered set, frozen Buddha-like, bathing in the magic of the little screen and the tinny sound.

The phone burbled again. Duffy’s here.

Oh Christ, that’s all I need.

He’s wearing a very fetching pair of pants…

OK

All the staffers knew him. Over the years he had worn a furrow to Billy’s desk. He skillfully negotiated the water cooler, the industrial Xerox and Linda’s desk, arriving, Harley bag in hand, at the global hq of William B. Apple.

What are you wearing?

Don’t I get a hello?

Hello, what are you wearing?

They’re called Bermuda shorts, William. With a bold Hawaiian motif. I knew you’d approve. He screwed his face into a tight wad of deep thought and came up with, Cool when it’s hot and hot when you’re cool. That’s what the billboards say.

Yes, they go very well with the suit jacket, shirt and tie. It’s way past the cocktail hour—why are you here?

The most amazing thing, William. I sorta had a time/memory/jetlag thing. I went to the studio and you weren’t there…I’m sure it’s all connected.

Why would I be there? I work here.

Well, that’s the thing of it…

You have used ‘thing’ three times. Can you be a little more explicit?

Aha! Always the copy editor. Always on the ball! He dipped into the tote bag.

Duffy, I have a very important meeting with whoever walks through the door next…

Take a look at this.

The two black and white photos, well thumbed and evidencing quite a bit of tote bag action, suddenly appeared within three inches of his nose. He adjusted focus, turned them around and raised and eyebrow.

"They were hovering over the back yard. Just happened to have the Agfa handy and pop!

They were gone in, like, seconds after that. What d’y’ think they’re worth?"

To the Globe? Two fuzzy pics. of two trashcan lids suspended by wire, about to attack Culver City? I’d say about a million, give or take. C’mon, man, the art department can rustle these up before you can say UFO. Better. He reached in his back pocket and found a twenty. Here. Don’t give it all to the Lucky Liquor Locker.

Duffy accepted the bill with grace. Thanks, Billy. But don’t go saying I didn’t give you first crack. I guess the Post will be more receptive…

Yeah, then try the New York Times. Why are you wearing those?

You don’t wanna know. One day, William. One day we’ll get a big score…I feel it in my water.

With a large Scotch mixed in?

Low blow, William, you can do better than that. Billy regretted the cheap shot.

Sorry, Duffy…it’s been a little rough today…

Alright, son. You’re a good journo and a good man. I’ll see you soon.

Billy checked his watch. Six thirty. Thank God.

On his way out, the phone trilled on Linda’s desk. Linda Schwartz. She was earnest, intent, young, and eager to please and ambitious in a nonthreatening way. Laughed at all his jokes, covered for him whenever necessary, shared her bagel with him and remembered his birthday. Not so much a work mate—more a cheerleader in the Billy Apple for Editor in Chief spot. He weighed all of the forgoing in his decision to lift the receiver.

Linda Schwartz’ desk.

"Oh, hi—can I please talk to Linda?

This is she.

Huh? Linda? Linda Schwartz?

How can I help you?

Well, ah, you said to call after the finals, and here I am calling…you sure sounded different tho’…

Who is this?

Well I’m the champ. Wasn’t then, but I sure am now!

Well, champ, since we last spoke I had some pretty serious surgery. Remind me. What are you the champ of, champ?

Oh. Sorry to hear ’bout that. I’m the champeen dwarf thrower of Clay County, Tennessee. Twenty two yards, two feet nine inches…you said to call? For an interview an’ all?

Gotcha, well listen, I’m kinda pushed for time right now, being as though we’re three hours and eight decades ahead of you. Give me your number and I’ll hook up with you in a couple of days.

I’m callin’ you long distance from this here pay phone—you want this number? I could come back if ’n you tell me a time when you’re gonna call…

"Ah let’s do this. Call me at two p.m. your time Monday and we’ll talk. OK?

Sure thing! Hope your health continues to improve, Ma’am. Click. End to another perfect day.

The drive home was 2.6 miles. Ten years ago it was ten minutes. Now, outside of Yom Kippur and Thanksgiving it was thirty minutes of triple light changes, assholes on cell phones, and folks who have a hard time with the red to green sequence. What else? Poor old Duffy. But what to do? They went back a long way. Duffy bought him his first typewriter. A two tone plastic job made by Buddy-L. The 500, and it worked fine. He was seven. Not a toy the box warned. No shit. He didn’t know Duffy before the war, but he imagined how bright and dynamic and successful he was. And came back to a changed world of dead pals, resentment and greed. A demonic, ironic payback for sex, drugs and rock & roll. And apple pie. Duffy slept rough in the summer and at the Christian Brotherhood Mission on cold nights. What was the expression? ‘There, but for the grace of God go I?’

Now he was really depressed. The Mormon Temple on Santa Monica Boulevard sat on two acres of prime West LA turf. The land was sold to the Latter day Saints by Harold Lloyd, back in the thirties. It rose like a Colossus, dwarfing vast tracts of high end real estate and could be seen from miles away to the south. Manicured lawns and towering, spotless cream masonry were conceived with a definite purpose. It was designed to awe. To humble God’s creatures and ensure the flock kept up their tithe by shining a beacon of such overpowering architectural excess that any Mormon who was feeling a bit low could look up and say with pride—‘that’s my clubhouse. I am a part of that.’ Crawling by the place in the rush hour traffic for the better part of ten years, Billy could not remember a single instance of actually seeing anyone on the church grounds or going in or out of the place. Come to think of it, he’d never even met a Mormon. Not knowingly. But he did know about their first newspaper, The Nauvoo Expositor, the shortest lived journal in history. The paper published one edition, denouncing Joe Smith, the founder of the Mormon faith as a polygamist (true), corrupt land speculator (probably) and licentious charlatan, bent on becoming the dictator of a religious state (again, probably). Smith had his militia destroy the presses & burn the papers. He was imprisoned for his crime & subsequently shot to death by angry anti Mormonites in the cause of freedom of expression. Not like Ron L. Hubbard the failed ‘B’ movie writer who originated the oft quoted line, if you want to make a fortune, start a religion. He ended his natural days quite naturally, prophetically rich, courtesy of his very own Church of Scientology. Billy had met some sci-fi’s, or Hubbardistas. They all appeared to him to be semi-robotic and deprived of sunlight. They were certainly deprived of their assets if they were to become true believers.

All this idle, freeform thought processing, courtesy of the boring stop-go drive. Suddenly a change of plan. He spun a left and drove south. He would surprise his ladylove with an office visit.

It was kind of surprising that Petzpix had so many commissions outside of office hours. And, then again, maybe not. Catering as it did to the fraternity of Ladies who Lunch, Annie’s business was active to late evening hours quite often, and popular surmise that there was nothing to do in Los Angeles after sunset (if you’re over 30) could be the reason. Those who lunch are not about to challenge their lypo suctioned, trainer trained, boob enhanced, ass trimmed bods with dinner so, creating an artwork by Foo-Foo the pet Pomeranian instead of listening to hubby’s nightly mantra of woes/lies/excuses was a very viable diversion. At $250 a pop, well worth it for Flora Thornley, whose spouse rarely crossed the threshold before 9 pm, on account of pressing business needs in the company of his secretary. By now the gallery of studies by FooFoo was extensive. Mrs. T. had remodeled a wing of the Bel Air manse to accommodate major wall space and light for the works she had created, in concert with her yapping, prancing, pampered petskiwetski. Her lunch group boasted Nieman, Warhol, Pollock, Dali & Magritte. She had a room full of FooFoo. All sizes and colors. As a measure of matrimonial bliss, the volume of doggie art on the walls was probably a better yardstick than any multiple choice 50 ways to know he’s cheating page in Cosmo.

Tonight it was blue and green. A two color combo on a three by four canvas. The smaller the picture size, the more expertise is required at the controls. Otherwise much creativity is lost to the surrounding ground sheets. Acres of FooFoo gallery wall space testified to Mrs. T’s accomplishment at the helm.

Billy could hear the yapping from the sidewalk. He slipped silently through the door and crept behind Annie who stood attentively watching Mrs. T. as she wiggled the joystick and eased the pedals to ensure confined aerobatics for FooFoo, who squawked non stop.

She was a pro. He tiptoed a pace, folded his arms around Annie and kissed her passionately on the back of her neck. She let out a little yelp, which was drowned out by FooFoo, and spun around to knee her assailant in the balls. Contact.

AAAAAAGGGHHH! Billy lurched toward the canvas area clutching his crotch. Her concentration thus interrupted, an alarmed Mrs.Thornley looked up at a hyper critical moment of creation. FooFoo was at the apex, close to the skylight, and as high as the hoist would permit, when Mrs.T suddenly relinquished all control of the harness. FooFoo plummeted to earth with extreme velocity, in a trajectory that was way off the canvas, barking a nonstop tirade of disapproving yaps. A small ‘splat’ then…silence. A deafening vacuum of an inescapable lack of audible sound, as the surprised trio held their collective breath in a freeze frame of shock and disbelief. Moments later,—it just seemed like hours, they exhaled. But not FooFoo. She had breathed her last doggie breath and was now en route to canine heaven. Up there with her Hollywood heroes, Lassie, Benjie, and Rin-Tin-Tin and Asta. She lay motionless on the mosaic floor tiling. A blue and green furry blob of…well, just a blue and green furry blob, really.

Oh my God!….Oh my Gaaaaaad! the Thornley woman shrieked.

Billy realized that he was still nursing his crotch as she leapt from the cockpit controls and swept up the acrylic glob in her arms. He was now sure that her remarks were related to Foofoo’s newly acquired condition, and not an expression of dismay at his own, obvious distress. He would later debate the rationale of sympathy for a departed pet being greater than for a physical threat to his future prospects of procreation. Furthermore, he was unprepared to jump to any instant conclusion as to any meaning he could deduce from the unblinking stare from Annie. But he did allow a flash of reflective, if somewhat academic thought. ‘Definitely not one of my better days…’

If God, in all his wisdom, had truly wanted to spread his word to 250 million media motivated, network soaked, American pagans, would he choose the roly-poly, polyester tv preacher, Earl St. John as his instrument, spokesperson and electronic apostle? To judge from the history of enormous ratings racked up by The Reverend Earl, the answer is probably, yes. God’s work was, however, a crowded field, and staying ahead of a host (sic) of media preachers, be they UHF, VHF, cable or Methodist, was a very good trick. There were two thousand televangelists out there, of whom eighty were nationally syndicated. The industry grossed a billion dollars a year. The Earl was in the latter, elite category. His particular gig entailed taped transmissions of ‘live’ appearances before an invited audience of believers who all had something wrong with them, preferably physical, at the time of entering the theater/church/studio. Four tapings a week. Fifty two weeks a year.