Choices

By Will Atkinson

John is at a crossroad. His life has been a series of choices leading to a dead-end job, a failed marriage, and a no-win attitude. When he gets a last chance assignment to write about a mysterious new-age preacher in the Bible belt, he figures he has nothing better to do. He tracks down his old friend, Red, who has never had faith in anything, let alone people. John must choose to live or die and his choice to live depends on how. Will he choose to follow his friend into a life of drinking and loose women, or will he share the light with a crystal waving spiritual leader?

We design our lives through our choices. Will John use that power to change, or will his choices lead to a life of regret?

• Language: English
• Publisher: WRA3 PUBLISHING
• Release date: Sep 8, 2021
• ISBN: 9781737845119

Book preview

Chapter One

Things sure have a funny way of turning out. If you're a religious person, you might say it’s God’s hand that determines the outcome of things. But if you are like me, you believe life is just a never-ending series of small events that can be strung together into a consistent pattern and reflected on later.

It was Friday before Labor Day weekend, and I was still working for Channel IX in Atlanta. I was one unusable story from the unemployment line when Bobby Willis, our new program manager, sent me to do a story on a small group of new-age faith healers in Pinder County, North Carolina.

Bobby sent me off with a warning to bring back something useful for the next week, Or don’t bother coming back. It was vaguely like what my ex-girlfriend had said to me the week before. But she didn’t even consider the extra effort I made to not puke on all her clothes I threw across the back yard.

I traveled Interstate 95 on this last chance assignment, reluctantly heading toward what I was sure was some rather uninteresting religious debate about why Jesus, if he was such a great man, hadn't invented indoor plumbing or done away with insects. I was sure that I didn't care for religious contests with their fanaticism, credos, and self-righteous indignation. I was too busy carrying the self-inflicted burden of more than a few of my failed relationships. By the time I reached the outskirts of Florence, South Carolina, I was halfway through the systematic elimination of every person and everything I had ever encountered in my life. I was seriously contemplating heading into the sunset to live the rest of my shiftless excuse for a life, alone.

Some sordid sense of futility got the better of me. By the southern edge of Wilmington, I was mulling over how best to approach this less than inspiring assignment. At this point it had occurred to me that if there was a religious conflagration going on anywhere near Pinder County, Red Harper would be able to give me the low down on what was what and who was who.

My old friend Red was a real piece of work. His father had been one of those fire and brimstone traveling evangelists in the late 1960s, and Red had seen enough hypocrisy and snake oil treatments to be a true non-believer. As soon as he was old enough, Red moved to the eastern part of the state and had been fortunate enough to get himself connected to powerful religious influences in Pinder county. To be connected in Pinder County meant that even if you didn't believe all that born-again crap, you had better act like you believe. I was pretty sure that he would have to be acting as if he believed. Especially, since Red had told me back in college, The only thing really worth getting on two good knees for was a fine Cuban cigar, any kind of a religious over exaggeration, and maybe a tall glass of beer at just the right temperature.

On a fine spring day during our freshman year, I came across him lazily skipping rocks across a small pond that was on the south end of campus. As I approached, he tossed a stone and watched my reflection join with his in the rippling water. As if we were continuing some ongoing conversation that had never been interrupted by a semester of partying and an occasional class, he said, I’ve been thinking if there really is a God, he wouldn't have let so many of the poor dumb asses of Catawba County be swindled by the lowest forms of creation on this earth like my Pa.

That day I learned that Red had a personal life, a life that haunted him, a life that filled in all the gaps that I had begun to see in him and didn't understand. And, as we stared into our reflections in the water, he told me about how his dad had made good money off the poor uneducated slobs of Catawba County by selling the St. Peter elixir.

The color of the skin didn't matter to him; the money was still green. But they caught up with Pa, and they shot him and strung him up on a tree like the old days. Nobody told nothing to nobody, and I figure that Pa must have got what he deserved too. But I don’t know many folks who take kindly to having their kinfolk dangling from trees. It's a poor precedent to set that it's okay to start stringing Harpers from trees. All over some words in a stupid book. Red shook his head.

What book?

Keep Up! The New Testament, dumb ass! What a pile of crap that document turned out to be.

A couple of years later, I heard that Red had started to work for Reverend Thornton Davies, the largest, fieriest, and brimstone-iest of all the Southern Baptist ministers in North Carolina. I decided that I should call Red up and politely ask him more out of a sense of curiosity rather than any sense of true friendship, What in the hell do you think you're doing!

He laughed because he knew I knew about his lack of belief and drawled, Don't worry, boy. Red don't believe this shit any more than he used to. It's a living, and anytime I can set one of these self-righteous preachers against another of them, I do. I take perverse pleasure in them fighting over their minute differences in public but sharing a few large similarities in private.

It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that Red had the drop on these boys. I figured he didn't have it too bad. It was none of my business what he chose as a profession anyway.

I didn't know how good he had it, until I called him from a service station just north of Route 421 that September afternoon on the way to my last assignment.

Where are you boy? he yelled over the phone. Now don't you move a muscle. I'll send a limo for you.

True to his word, about twenty minutes later a white stretch limousine eased into the station, prompting Bubba at the cash register of the garage to saunter out for a look. I arranged with the manager to leave my car at the station, and with a bit of excitement, I took my first ride in the back of a chauffeur driven vehicle.

It only took a few minutes to convince me that riding in a limousine is boring, especially when there is no one to talk to while riding over the circuitous route. Eventually, we came to a well landscaped campus populated with several large southern colonial styled red brick buildings adorned with thick white pillars in front of the porticos. I was driven through a large cast iron gateway and down a wide driveway lined with meticulously pruned dogwood trees. It ended in a circle in front of a large and ornate building. I received some curious glances from what appeared to be a tour group assembling to the right of a large set of white granite steps.

I ambled up the steps toward the portico where I was met by a tall young blonde dressed in a white billowy blouse and sleek black business slacks.

Mr. Profett? she asked. I had a sense from her tone that she was a person of extreme efficiency.

Yes, I said appreciatively observing her.

The tour group noisily filed into the auditorium, taking up residence in the back five rows. Being the hound dog I was, they were not able to keep my interest for long, and I anxiously turned to find my attractive guide had disappeared behind the stage curtain. I settled into a seat and watched the deliberate preparations of the stage crew that had filtered through various side doors on or below the stage. The highly mechanized army of technicians fussed over the details of lighting, checking cables, arranging chairs, setting props, determining camera distances, and running sound checks through several microphones.

It wasn’t long before my guide reappeared from behind curtain with Red and a familiar face from my channel surfing. It was none other than the number one preacher in all Southern Baptist hearts, Thornton Davies.

Davies’s arm movements made it evident he was displeased with the preparations, and he was letting Red and the statuesque blonde guide know it. Red seemed nonplussed by the preacher’s agitation. He patiently allowed the good reverend to vent his spleen, then catching my eye, he said a few words to Davies and strolled casually down the stairs to where I was sitting.

He descended the stairs and greeted me in an irritated manner. Red’s stocky build had grown more than moderately chunky around his midframe; he was balding, and it made his already large head appear to outgrow his reddish-brown hair. His face still retained much of the sharp angles of its youth, but his chin was showing the early signs of retreating into a sea of cheeks that one finds on a man who understood the virtue of a multi-course meal and several good drinks. His seductive blue eyes were convincing, even if he was caught in the act with a dead body at his feet holding a smoking gun. But to adequately describe Red one would have to witness the nuances of his face that made him unique, the upward turn of his mouth when he smirked and the raised eyebrow when something that has been said or done to provoke his interest. He had an almost indescribable way of looking down his bulbous nose at a person as if he were Socrates looking at an ant. Red was a man that at times could come across amiable and charming, but I knew he could turn on a moment’s notice. He could be cold, abrasive, condescending, and violent.

He plopped into a seat beside me with a sigh and drawled, Welcome to the circus. Have you ever seen one of these programs before? His eyes seemed hopeful that I had not.

No, can't say that I have–at least in person. I responded. I wasn't sure I wanted to see one now.

You ain't gonna believe this shit. he whispered.

Not knowing how to respond to a remark like that, I nodded. What was . . . that all about? I asked, changing the subject. I motioned toward Davies who was still giving a piece of his mind to my kowtowing guide.

Nothing. The ol' peckerwood just likes to exert his influence every now and then. Nothing to get excited about.

So, tell me about . . . I directed my nod toward the object of Davies’s present fury, which had been the dismissive wave of the hand. She scurried across the stage and began to busily rearrange the stage furniture.

Oh, Ashton. Red observed dryly.

I quickly tucked the name Ashton beside seriously hot babe in my mental black book.

That’s an unpredictable one there, Red said, keeping his voice low, I wouldn’t waste your time.

Sounds like the complaint of a wounded veteran, I teased.

No, she’s Davies’s niece. Ain’t likely that she’ll be sleeping with the hired help, if you know what I mean. And I probably should add there ain’t a real high probability that she’ll be sleeping with the hired help’s friends neither, he said while I watched her bend over to rearrange the prop Bibles on a coffee table beside a large plush gray chair.

Shame, I commented. She continued fussing around the arrangement of the stage props oblivious to anything other than her assigned tasks.

So, what ever happen to that young makeup gal you were dating down there in Atlanta? Red asked watching me closely.

Didn’t work out, I responded casually not wanting to discuss my latest failed relationship.

Too bad, Red commented. She sure was gentle on the eyes. Would you mind if I gave her a call?

Sure, just don’t bring me up much. It was a rather messy split, I divulged.

Just about ready for the show, said Red looking at his watch. The mu-zak will commence anytime now. The words were barely out of his mouth when the lights on the stage turned on and the music and canned applause filtered in over the sound system.

Not much of an audience, Red muttered looking around disapprovingly. He reached into his coat and pulled out a cell phone and pushed a button. Yeah, better get the stiffs down here, he said into the receiver. What? Shut it down and get them in here. He snapped the phone shut.

The music stopped, the applause sign, which had just been lit, blinked off, and the canned applause ended abruptly, leaving me with the sensation that we had been in a car that had slammed on its brakes.

Excuse me for a moment, Red said, not really asking.

He hopped up and walked over to the stage where Davies was unhooking himself from his microphone and came over to the edge of the stage. They had a brief conference, and Davies looked out at the sparsely filled auditorium as if noticing it for the first time. He headed down the stairs and waved to the tour leader, who walked hesitantly up to the group like an adolescent who was being put upon to do a chore he didn't want to do.

About halfway up the aisle, Davies' demeanor changed. It was like a light switch had gone off inside of him, and he put on his most ingratiating smile. When he neared the group, he spread his arms in an inviting manner and said almost humbly, Welcome. He bowed waist high, and he paused for effect as if his magnanimous words were an honor to anyone who had heard his voice. His eyes carefully scanned the people in front of them, welcoming each of them individually with his glance. I trust that you have been treated well. We find it a great honor that you have been able to join us today in helping us to spread the glorious word of Jesus Christ, our lord and savior.

I peeked at Red, who had retaken his seat beside me and rolled his eyes.

Davies strolled into the row of open seats before the group and walking back and forth proceeded to acknowledge in a soft, warm voice the tour sponsorships, the need for spiritual interaction in the social wasteland so prevalent in today's culture. He gave a few simple directions on how to respond to the various stage cues, primarily the applause equipment.

When he was done with that, he encouraged them to contribute to any of the funds sponsored by the Coast Recovery Fund and eased back down the aisle toward the stage. About ten feet away from our group, his face returned to its previous disgruntled state.

He motioned abruptly for Red to join him. At the corner of the stage, they held another conference, and Red nodded his head several times. Afterward, he motioned to me that he would be back shortly and followed Davies behind the curtains.

A steady stream of well-dressed men and women filtered into the auditorium from the numerous entrances around the stage which all disappeared back into the wall and backdrops after dispensing their human cargo.

Then the show started again. Davies began with a short prayer quickly followed by a rather short but specific sermon. To the television audience it must have seemed that he was speaking extemporaneously, but from the angle of my seat I could see the teleprompter.

His delivery was calm, friendly, and strangely believable as if he were having a conversation with you from his chair; the type of believable in which you want to believe because he was acting like such a nice helpful guy.

Maybe I shouldn’t be so optimistic. Maybe I shouldn’t believe that God looks out for us, and cares about us, and wants to give us a chance to correct our sins. Maybe I shouldn’t believe that God’s love will be everlasting. Maybe I should believe that the world is going to hell. But I don’t. I have faith. I have faith in the human spirit. I have faith that people want to be good. I have faith that our Holy Father above will look out for his most divine creation. I have faith in Jesus Christ our Lord and Savior.

And as he talked, I allowed myself to zone out, because the talk was of a more religious nature than I liked. I tried to focus on his mannerisms and the way he talked, all of which seemed carefully coordinated to ingratiate him to his viewers. His smile was comforting, his tone congenial, his pretense of soul searching believable. His eyes sparkled as if to say, Love me.

And I felt his allure, and for a brief second it crossed my mind that it might not be a good thing to listen to a man like this, but I saw other words in his eyes, If you can’t love me, maybe you could like me. My concern melted away, and I decided I shouldn’t be so quick to judge.

Red finally slid back in the pew beside me, occasionally shaking his head in disbelief as the preacher delivered his well-scripted prose. I knew that Red wouldn’t have believed Jesus himself if he were sitting up on the stage.

Ashton was a different story. She seemed to be enthralled by her uncle, and her entire body, which I was also carefully keeping my eyes on, seemed to rise and fall emotionally with the tone of Davies’s message. I was of course unable to conceal the object of my lust from Red.

It don’t take much to know where your brain is located. Red rolled his eyes.

Davies’s words still filtered through my attempts to tune them out.

"There will be much starving, and dying, and it will seem like the end of the world to our brothers in California and Oregon. So let us pray for our brothers and sisters, so that they do not have to feel the pain and anguish of suffering that would accompany such an unfair catastrophe. Let us pray and send a donation, that they will not be alone in their time of need. Send us your hand-written prayers, and if you feel like helping the most desperate among us with a small personal donation, please send them to Thornton Davies, Divinity Speaks, Wilmington North Carolina, and we will ensure that your contributions reach the ones that need them most. Now it is time to turn to our regular segment Current Events and the Bible hosted by our good friend Bob Taylor."

Bob Taylor sat at his desk in the newsroom on the far right of the stage, sharing how the current news events had all been predicted in the Bible, indicating that the world just might be rapidly heading toward Armageddon or worse. This part of the act went on for about ten minutes then the lights faded out and the lights over the comfortable living room came back on. Davies talked like he was still having a pleasant conversation with whomever was watching. It was kind of like Mr. Rogers goes to divinity school.

Red smirked and whispered, What did I tell you? Is this guy a piece of work or what?

I thought Christ had died for all my sins, and he sure must have needed to do a considerable amount of dying for old Thornton Davies. But I kept that thought to myself, and then the show was over.

It was only about two o’clock, and I gave a passing thought to the article that I needed to write. Then I remembered that my beloved station manager didn’t really seem to care if I brought something back or not, much less if I made it back to Atlanta. I suppressed my urge to be responsible, and silently trailed after Red, up the stairs toward Davies, who was unclipping his microphone.

Davies appraised me carefully as we approached. You must be Red’s old buddy, the reporter, he observed coolly.

I immediately felt that my class and status in life had been assessed and categorized. His tone suggested a feeling that we were not of the same class.

That would be me, I acknowledged uncomfortably. I struggled not to react to his inference of unequal status.

So, what’d you think? The tone of his voice did not convey the sense that he really wanted an answer. His folksy mannerism was one from a proper background.

I instantly despised this man. My face must have conveyed more than I wanted because Red shot me a cautionary look. For a second, I thought about ignoring the look and sharing with Davies the particulars of my concern about televangelists and their form of religion. But I was raised to believe that discretion is the better part of valor, so I sidestepped the true nature of his inquiry. It was okay, I guess.

Davies was unrelenting. "Okay? Okay, good? Okay, bad? Or just, okay?

Okay, if you like this kind of thing.

And you don’t like this kind of thing?

It seems to serve a purpose.

Serves a purpose? Davies got red in the face.

"Seems to serve a purpose." I corrected.

Negative! Negative! he shook his finger at me, You people in the press are the most negative creatures God ever put on the face of this earth. If the Holy Father himself appeared before you, you’d probably ask him where he was educated, what his bloodlines were, and what his credentials might be. A bit of faith will go a long way, son!

And while I couldn’t argue with his assertion that I was a member of a group of people with a skeptical view on anything that wasn’t easily explained, I still didn’t care to have him shaking his finger at me in such an accusatory manner. I almost took the bait, but common sense and southern civility prevailed. I tried my best to ignore Davies’s condescending tone. He continued to make it difficult.

The thing that gripes me about you reporter types, you're so busy telling people what they should think. You never consider the impact of the news you report. Davies turned as if looking for someone.

Suddenly the newspaper person in me came out, and I shrugged and said, You sound like you have something to hide.

Red shot me a look of warning, but it was too late. Davies’s head snapped, but he flashed a grin, You know it would be real nice to be able to turn on the evening news and see something uplifting rather than hear about some shooting or another, or who’s sleeping with who, or what’s the latest designer drug.

Something like say… coyote news, I opined, glancing at Red to let him know that his boss wasn’t going to like what I was going to say next. There are people out there making money on sex, drugs, and violence, and then there are people making money on trying to stop all the sex, drugs, and violence. The only difference between the two groups is which side you’re on. It’s pretty cut and dried, you know. Who can suck it the best out of whom?

Maybe in your world it does. he responded coolly.

It’s all our world, I countered.

"And you and your types should consider what value you provide when you focus only on what is wrong in our world."

Amen, champ. You should consider the same thing. While you’re considering it, you just might consider that it is not a matter of what’s right or wrong, it is what it is.

You are a very jaded person. Life isn't just the burned-out tenements in a decaying inner-city block. It is also a clean park in suburbia and private schools.

And even though I silently agreed that life wasn't as bad as my previous description, I felt a need to keep up my end of the argument.

You don't think crap happens?

"Sure, it does, but that doesn't mean you have to report on every drop that hits the floor. Is nothing sacred anymore? What happened to plain old