The Middle Eastern Service Station

By Josh Cade

STORY

 

A loose-cannon Catholic priest barnstorms his way across the Middle East - bent on revenge for every slight against him. Things get heavy when he mixes it up with Islamic holy men that are looking for somebody to behead - like, for instance, a boorish American cleric named Cleveland Pike. The outcome is not some kind of metaphor for the Modern Crusades. Not even close...

 

It's true that big historical stuff gets in the way of all the petty agendas in the story, but not to worry - petty agendas will win out. In one zany springtime, Clee Pike headlines an ensemble cast of misfits from Mississippi to Morocco and beyond, including the rumored site of the Garden of Eden - a landfill in the Arabian Gulf. From the mega datelines of the ancient and the modern world comes an absurd comedy that is not, as they say, ripped from the headlines.

 

A Saudi businessman collects Cadillacs, then has the bad habit of running them aground - almost as if they were ships. A Turkish government official believes that he will be as big as Elvis, so he is ready for his moment when the TV cameras point his way during an international crisis. Oh, also, there is the obligatory love story that has a Persian exile going against politics in his quest to marry an Arabian princess.

 

The Mideast tosses up Armageddon as a backdrop - like the Mediterranean decor in a Lebanese restaurant. But the really important business is everybody's insane hobby, like whether professional wrestling is real or not and whether you can run a chauffeur service for Scandinavian flight attendants under the radar of the religious police. The Middle Eastern Service Station only pumps one grade of gasoline: premium ridiculous.

 

CHARACTERS

 

The soul of the story is ambition. Everybody behaves badly, including an American Catholic priest and two holy men in the Islamic world - one from North Africa and the other from the Arabian Peninsula.

 

Ambition goes hand in hand with revenge: 1) Go for the biggest prize; 2) Get even with anyone who gets in the way.

 

That pretty much describes the world of the high-rollers who run their game in The Middle Eastern Service Station. The main character is Cleveland Pike, originally from Atlanta, Georgia. He's got some idea about the Modern Crusades, with him leading the charge of conquest.

 

Then there's a holy man from Morocco who believes that he is the anointed messiah of Islam. His quest moves across North Africa, Mecca the final destination. He's on a collision course with those who also have large ideas.

 

The second holy man is in Jeddah, where he and Cleveland Pike get involved in a road-rage incident. Their revenge plot only escalates from there. And you are right to suspect that when the stakes are high, ruthless characters play for keeps.

 

LOCATION

 

The Middle Eastern Service Station pumps what they used to call ethyl, the best of the gasoline ratings. In fact, you can count on top-notch gas mileage on the road to Armageddon! So gas up - it won't cost you but a quarter a gallon or so. Don't even bother with regular - this is high-octane stuff.

 

Armies move across the background. The characters up front tell you their tales of insanity. They aren't paying that much attention to the armies in the background because their main concern is tracking down illegal vodka, getting a State Department assignment to Paris, betting on the horses, avenging Gladys Knight and the Pips - the list goes on.

 

They tell you their stories in little bits, the pieces of an alternative history. Here is a 1987 that no one remembers. At least the geography is right.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Josh Cade
• Release date: Sep 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9781938181184

Josh Cade

Josh is a graduate of a Jesuit university. He lives on the West Coast of the U.S. Other places he has lived, and which he likes to write about, include Central Europe and the Middle East.

Book preview

1

The Drug

––––––––

The drug you're thinking of is called khat. It grows in Africa and Arabia. They chew a lot of it down in Yemen. Supposedly it makes its way north along the Red Sea coast, but you won't find it in this hookah yard. What you will find here is tobacco for the water pipes.

You also get a story. The story is true except that you won't find it in your history books. That's because history lies.

Sit back on your bench, pull your feet up. The story is getting under way and the waiter will be around shortly. They call him hajji if it's the Yemeni waiter.

~

Cleveland Loyola Pike pushed a crucifix toward his accusers. I command the devil, he said, to quit your wretched souls!

Sometimes things start out in Mississippi. Priests who are otherwise well stationed in university art departments get it in their head they are performing the rite of exorcism. They always seem to have an ax to grind in the spring of any calendar, whether here or there, whether now or then, even in a peculiar 1987.

Now see here, the chairman of the art department said. He pushed his chair back and staggered to his feet. The issue is bad taste, pure and simple. I will not have that painting in the department exhibit.

The oil painting leaned against one of the room's longer walls. The work portrayed Jesus Christ in the red trunks and tank top of a professional wrestler. From the cross, he was handing down a blue robe with white letters across the back: Nazarene Hell Raiser.

Let us not discuss art, Cleveland said. Your academic stooges are hardly capable of it.

Cleveland - red hair, red goatee - enjoyed picking a fight. Full of himself, he never needed a principle to stand on. He only needed a personal slight to set him up in a revenge plot. The committee before him had provided it.

Let us discuss other things, he said. Why, for instance, is Christianity in the hands of Bolsheviks?

The president of the university took off his glasses and set them on the papers before him.

Father Pike, he said, use your time in Arabia to reflect on these matters. I am sure you will find a more repressive climate there than anything you imagine in a Jesuit university. On behalf of Stations of the Cross, I wish you well.

Cleveland stepped to the edge of the rug, where Pascagoula sunrays warmed the broadcloth of his cassock.

I should like to make further remarks, he said.

If he gets to make remarks, the chairman said, then so do I.

The president put his glasses on. Father Pike, speak your mind.

Using the toe of his shoe, Cleveland traced a flower in the Oriental rug.

I am going to step outside the realm, he said, among the infidel. I leave you to your prattling over works of art. I take aim at a hostile world, and I prophesy the return of the hero.

He dropped to his chair off the rug, nearer to the long table.

I am the modern Crusades, he said.

The third priest, the one added to the committee as an observer, smiled.

The president took up the papers. Best of luck, Father Pike.

Cleveland hustled past the painting, its oil sky a rare shade of purple. He had instructed in art history until he named the department chair as the man who killed artistic and religious freedom in Mississippi. Stalin was more enlightened, Cleveland had told the press.

He should have said, No comment. Instead, he was calling reporters in the middle of the night and making trouble. The church seemed to land on the perfect solution for the Cleveland problem. They offered him a position near his home in Atlanta. I am leaving Christendom, he told them, having located calligraphy work with the government of Saudi Arabia.

~

Sometimes things start in Morocco at about the same time they start in Mississippi. But it was 1407 according to the Islamic count of the years, and a holy man in the Atlas Mountains harbored his own ambitions about the way things ought to be. For the holy men of Morocco knew about the legend that one of them would be the messiah himself.

Abdullah al-Maghreby - gaunt, severe, religious - went to sing the call to prayer for the second time of the day. He could make it dip like the tune of the cobra charmers in Marrakech.

Marrakech might be thousands of miles from Mecca, but Abdullah knew that these things worked on rumors. And the rumors would sweep him toward Mecca, and toward the greatness that was his to claim.

A man caught up with him. May I speak with you after prayer?

Abdullah said yes, then went to the water taps at the mosque's outer wall. The ritual washing done, he climbed the minaret for the midday prayer. The fields stretched to far-off trees, and Abdullah sang the call to prayer as if the trees themselves would answer it.

When he came down from the minaret, barefoot men from the fields were already crossing the carpets scattered and layered inside the walls of the mosque. Everybody faced Mecca. Abdullah led them in prayer.

Afterwards, the man came up to him again. We must speak, Hajji Abdullah.

Abdullah stopped his walk across the thick layer of carpeting. Of course.

Not here, the man said, and he patted down three large pockets of his robe. He finally drew a pack of cigarettes from the fourth.

Jamal, Abdullah said, why are you so nervous?

Keep walking.

They got their sandals at the gate. Once they were in the open field, Jamal brought their steps to a halt.

I was in Tangier, he said. I talked to an Algerian who said he was in Mecca when the Grand Mosque was seized. He said soldiers told him what they saw from the Kaaba.

Tangier is full of travelers who tell incredible stories.

Yes, of course. Jamal clutched Abdullah's robe. They saw a picture scratched on the gold. It came from behind the Black Stone.

You must not speak of pictures on ancient gold.

Jamal's lips quivered.

It was the face of the Mahdi, he said. A long and thin face - Abdullah, it was your face. It had the mole on the right cheek.

~

Some people are just bystanders, but they know the principal actors in these dramas. Nelson knew Cleveland from way back when. His own interests in the world were simple. He had horses, and he could never see any reason for leaving the state of Georgia.

Eight horses grazed on 9 acres of land. Their last name, if horses had last names, was Jeffrey because that was Nelson's last name. A tall man even taller in a cowboy hat, he waved at Cleveland and one of the horses pulling out of the corral like a late model Cadillac.

~

Cleveland patted the auburn mare on the neck as he eased her away from the corral gate. He didn't have any special knack for talking to horses. But he liked talking to them all the same because they never interrupted his important remarks.

I shouldn't expect you to read the writing on the wall, he said, but you should note that modern theology is shoddy.

The horse's shoulder reflected sunshine like a 1987 penny.

Their motives are unclean, Cleveland said, and their reasoning habits are as sophisticated as the shouting down of opposition speakers.

He wagged an index finger at the back of the horse's head.

You are not equipped to deflect their heresies, CR. Their brand of wisdom rolls unchecked, like Grant went through Richmond.

The horse lurched. The fall of the South ended the conversation, and they turned back for the corral. Commie Red eased up when they made it to the gate, where Nelson was waiting for them.

Clee, he said, I just don't get it. I mean, you don't have to go clean across the world just because you're mad at some people in Pascagoula.

Amateurs.

Nelson, in a cowboy hat, shifted on the rail. Clee - Arabia?

They wear their collars like accountants.

So what if they do?

They are philistines!

Nelson jumped down from the rail. Clee dismounted Commie Red, and all three walked along. The ground crunched beneath foot and hoof.

I sure don't understand you radical priests, Nelson said. What ever happened to suffering and redemption? What ever happened to praying the rosary?

The archdiocese of Atlanta arranged for the account of conscience. Following the meeting, the Society of Jesus formally approved Clee’s transfer to the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia - for work as a calligrapher, not as a priest, and certainly not as a crusader.

~

Being the Mahdi is a heady role to play in the world. The messiah attends to the final ordering of all things. It is a role obviously reserved for the most righteous of men, and the grand stage is Mecca in Saudi Arabia. For now, Abdullah would perform in Morocco, his native land a fair place for rehearsal.

Abdullah al-Maghreby - the right-guided one, the herald of holy war - rode out of Morocco's Atlas Mountains on an Arabian horse. His fame would spread like the wind on the backs of Arabian stallions.

Upon his arrival in Fez, he found a collection of young people dancing in the street. English music wafted out a doorway in the late afternoon.

He drew a switch of wood from a satchel, and he beat the young people near the outdoor cafe. He beat them about the legs and arms and heads until they retreated from the blows. Then he moved on.

Reddish brown dyes dripped over the terraced hills. Abdullah passed them one after another until he found the gate to the oldest mosque in Africa.

Koranic verses in green and white cut a swath of Arabic across the walls of the interior. Abdullah read to the sound of water spilling from a fountain. He crossed the yard of blue and white tile and returned to the crowd at the gate.

Islam demands submission to the will of Allah, he said. The world is temptation. I have received a sign that I will deliver the faithful.

He seized a merchant, one who was making a racket of brass coffee pots in a loud price haggle, and lashed him 100 times.

The call to prayer sounded in the minaret, and the man beaten to the ground thanked Abdullah for doing Allah's work.

The song of the minaret rolled in the old quarter, a voice near and distant singing, Allahu akbar.

~

It was all minarets on the final approach to Saudi Arabia, structures on the desert that had nothing to do with Georgia or Mississippi. But Clee did manage fairly soon to become part of the local scene.

He was sitting at his desk one evening in blue jeans, sandals, and an Atlanta Hawks T-shirt. He never wore the priestly collar. No one in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia even knew he was a priest.

Because he had declared his room part of the state of Georgia, a Confederate flag half covered the ceiling. A poster of one of Monet's haystack paintings had a wall to itself, and a smuggled crucifix hung alone on another. The radio played a familiar song, Simon and Garfunkel's Mrs. Robinson.

Clee leaned back in the chair and tapped his pencil to the music. It was the music of the English speaking world, and it took the listener far away, to places on the corners of very distant streets. As long as the song played, the room was located on a street in Houston or Shreveport, or Mobile, Alabama, or St. Louis or St. Paul.

Paul Simon's voice sang from a Jeddah radio tower.

Clee let the chair rock to the floor. Something was missing. At the next chorus, the record skipped again to avoid the word Jesus.

The FM station offered up the songs nonstop. Clee dared the radio to skip other lyrics. And it censored them to bits and pieces.

The street corner in Houston or Shreveport was once again a street corner in Jeddah.

Clee swung his hands in the air. There is no Christ or Lebanon, he said, no Mary and no Jack Daniel's. There is no...

Allah!

An amplified voice pierced the walls of the Georgia hideout and drove a wedge of Arabic deep in Clee's room. It mixed with the Arabic of the FM station, now playing another version of the call to prayer. When the call ended in the minaret, only the radio was left to fill the air with sound, and the sound was a speech, a sermonette, delivered in English.

May the curse of Allah be upon the heads of Christians and Jews.

Clee grabbed the radio like an exorcist confronting a demon.

Infidel dogs, the radio said.

He twisted the knob until the radio went dead. He hurled a pencil against a wall and paced the room in great strides. After 15 minutes of pacing, he added a postscript to the letter for Nelson Jeffrey.

The pharisees are driving me crazy, Nels. Get the word out, get the truth out! Locusts of evil descend upon us.

~

A 10-year-old shoeshine boy flipped the wood cover closed on his kit carrier.

The Mahdi is coming, he said to a tea runner.

The two of them slipped through the foot traffic of Casablanca and hid in one of the gaps around the square.

A fountain slopped water on the stones. The splashing sound grew as the knock of leather heels drew to a stop. The Mahdi was coming, and his reputation was coming with him.

He rode in slowly on a tall Arabian horse. The dark turban bobbed in the noontime sun. He stopped and looked at the businessmen in dark suits.

They looked back at the horse and the Mahdi. The sun blinded the onlookers, and they didn't make out the Mahdi's eyes - only his turban, rounded like the dome of a mosque.