A Slip of the Cog

By Randall C. Von Hartman

In a preposterous, cataclysmic journey through the bleakness of the modern day depression era, Marten Cogg (a.k.a. the Reverend Marten Medley) goes from the pulpit to the phews. Along the way, he recruits the help of an unlikely cast of friends and disenfranchised misfits, with whom he invents a yarn while pulling wool over the eyes of his followers. In an all too existent landscape of dejection and desolation, Marten might just discover the purpose for his own life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 13, 2015
• ISBN: 9781503534582

Randall C. Von Hartman

Randall C. Von Hartman has written several books, including novels, short story, and poetry collections, and is suffering a penurious existence in Belfast, Northern Ireland.

Book preview

A Slip of the Cog

A Novel

Randall C. Von Hartman

Copyright © 2015 by Randall C. Von Hartman.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2015900532

ISBN:      Softcover      978-1-5035-3457-5

                eBook             978-1-5035-3458-2

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 03/11/2015

Xlibris

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Contents

Our Main Protagonist’s Short, Brutal Prelude

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-One

Chapter Sixty-Two

Chapter Sixty-Three

Epilogue

A side from unintentionally offending those who are self appointed ‘content police’ (and are quick to be offended at virtually anything anyways), I truly hope this playful work of fiction is not found to be objectionable by the masses (not that I’m in any danger of having the masses read anything I’ve written). Some of the characters have taken to quoting other authors and well known individuals, so I made a point to hold them to giving credit to the originators of said assertions. The quotes are stated just the way I discovered them, so any variation is quite by accident and via repeated transmission, so a lot of people may have encountered these words as they are herein presented. The only difference is that the character(s) who are repeating these quotes not only give credit (citing the reference or quote), but also add dialogue of their own (separated so as not to cause any confusion to the reader).

Furthermore, any character created within this work of fiction is not intended to be a representative for any whole group. What do I mean? Well, since mankind seems to have a compulsion to categorize fellow humans into nomenclatures (with decisions being largely based on phenotype), the beast of this ridiculous action has snow-balled into something, which is apparently unstoppable, and so ubiquitous that it has permeated virtually every aspect of society. It has been this way for so long that now to suggest that the concept of race holds no scientific validity, is to be guilty of color-blind racism. So for those of you who are still hung up on race, yet still enjoy unexamined privilege, I suggest that you educate yourselves and challenge your own way of thinking. And for those of you who would be offended at the suggestion that race does not have a valid place within biological science, and have experienced substantial discrimination on the basis of race, I acknowledge that yes, though race holds no scientific merit, racism itself does indeed exist, and it rears its ugliest of heads more frequently than I can possibly account for in this forward. Yes, the privileged dominant group has given too much grief to fellow humans who have been mistreated, abused, or otherwise ‘othered’. So in the everyday social landscape race is very much a part of harsh reality; I know and try to remain mindful of that. If it gives you any sense of accomplishment or satisfaction to condemn even the individuals who are trying to be aware and trying not to be ethnocentric, then do so. I’ll be curious if you’re able to garner a multitude of friendships and progress very far in your life with such practices, but I’ll support your right to continue so all the same. Good luck.

Another notion to keep you company, is one of time expiring right before our very lives. Of the time remaining, which exists outside of performing the necessary functions such as sleeping, eating, bathing, and getting dressed, commuting, and working, etc., will any of us be doing something, which renders a sense of satisfaction or contentment? I’m certain some of us will, but so many of us are too busy merely trying to survive to give it much attention. Yet it stands as a fact that though time itself is a manufactured concept, there is only a finite amount left of it- before something significant occurs- a substantial change (perhaps a transition from this plane of existence to another, for example). Nevertheless, I hope that we all find some way to consider ourselves fulfilled when our time is done.

I certainly hope that you can find it within yourselves to enjoy the content of the pages herein as you read them. If not, I issue my apologies in advance for disappointing you. With that I leave you to delve into the consumption of this work of fiction. May peace and good health be yours.

Sincerely,

Randall C. Von Hartman (the man to blame for what you’re reading)

Our Main Protagonist’s Short, Brutal Prelude

T o say sales were down was an understatement; they were simply absent from the logs altogether. Marten didn’t receive a draw against his commissions; therefore, it mattered not how he toiled over the accounts and worked his leads, or that he polished his approach a little more each time. If he didn’t sell, he didn’t eat. This was the law of the land, and no converted bill was going to descend from the capital, or rather, his supervisor’s memo pad to save him.

So the day came when Marten was summoned to the assistant manager’s desk, like a school child being called to the principal’s office. Chip Seffner was, as usual, on the phone and not offering eye contact with anyone. His fifty dollar hairstyle hardly moved; it was like that of a presidential candidate’s, and went well with his strong jaw line. Finally, he slams the phone, lifting his face towards Marten.

Hmm..?

Uh, yeah ….you called for me? Marten said half asking.

Without speaking, Seffner pointed towards the office designated General Manager with a plate sign which hung by wire chain over its entrance and read: Mr. Harlan Drexel. Harlan Drexel was also known as ‘Mr. Dread’ by the collective staff. Marten looked back at Seffner to confirm "Y-you want me to go in there? Mr. Drexel’s office..?"

The phone rang like it always seems to, as if on cue, intentionally interrupting crucial dialogue. Seffner immediately picked it up and clapped his other hand over the receiver, fixed his face to appear sufficiently irked, and clipped: "Yes, go to Drexel’s office."

Marten shrugged his shoulders and complied. The door was shut. He looked back as if to ask should he knock or just enter, but Seffner behind a Plexiglas partition was already giving his full attention to his phone conversation. After a couple of seconds passed, Marten concluded that, though it may be perceived as aggressive (a desirable trait in a sales person), it may more likely be deemed rude to abruptly burst into an office without first knocking, even if he was directed to go there, particularly if the office in question was the general manager’s. Of course, he thought, I should knock, but I should do so aggressively, to suggest that I am a formidable presence and consequently a valuable asset, one you should hang on to, because I am so assertive, people crumble and cave to my recommendations to buy even if they would rather not! So Marten rapped his knuckles on the door, but there was no answer. The door was solid. Marten thought how it made his hand feel so puny when his fist struck the hard wood surface. He knocked a second time and again there was no answer. He looked back toward the desk of Chip Seffner, now twenty five feet away and behind the Plexiglas wall with encrypted figures representative of each sales associate’s monthly progress, and Seffner was predictably still deeply engaged in another phone call. Marten leaned his ear to the door so as to hear whether or not Mr. Drexel was telling him to enter, but his voice, boisterous as it was, might have been muffled by the thickness of the solid wood door. As he prepared to knock a third time, Mr. Drexel entered the hall off from the main floor through the managerial restroom door. He looks at Marten scornfully and asked, What’re you doing- eaves dropping?

Surprised, Marten looked up and stammered, Huh..?Uh, no, no, uh Mr. Drexel…sir, I uh, was just…

Save it for the jury, Marten…

W-what jury..?

Raising his brow Mr. Drexel said flatly, That’s an expression. Listen, I’m gonna have a word with you in the conference room down at the end of the hall, just give me a few minutes to make some call backs and I’ll be right over.

Uh, Okay…

See you soon. Drexel went in his office and shut the door. Marten felt snubbed, but went to the conference room and obediently waited for almost a half hour before Harlan Drexel came in looking disgruntled.

Marten felt compelled to address him, but wasn’t certain what he should say, especially after the misunderstanding outside his door earlier. H-hi Mr. Drexel, how are you today?

Ahh, I’ll be alright. So, let’s get this underway. Now I assume you know why I’ve sent for you.

Well sir, not really…

"No? Well have you stopped from your busy day of…whatever it is you’re doing-obviously not sales- to take notice of the board out there on the sales floor? You do know the board I’m talking about?"

Well, yes, but-

Alright then, your numbers, well, hell, what am I talking about? You don’t have any numbers! What have you got to say about that?

Um, well…it’s like everybody is having a bad go of it right now and-

Look Marten, if you’re going to go blaming your shortcomings on everybody else then I truly believe you need to reassess your life.

B-but I’m not blaming everybody else! I’m just saying-

Living in denial I see, well Marten, I’m not sure someone who lacks such integrity is right for our organization.

What..?

Having problems listening as well…hmmm, why don’t you gather your things and I’ll have Chad help you out. Harlan Drexel stated, looking away as he exited the conference room.

Oh thank you Mr. Drexel. I know all I needed was a little understanding and some help-. The door slammed shut. Marten looked up at it with astonishment.

By the time he got back to his desk Marten was greeted by Chip Seffner, who though speaking words which conveyed common courtesy, was behaving as though completely irritated by the nuisance of having to bother with the ‘Marten situation’.

Nancy from the business office just typed this for you. He handed Marten a letter unsealed in an envelope.

It read:

From: The Office of Harlan Drexel

To: Mr. Marten Cogg

Dear Mr. Cogg,

As per our meeting we are pleased to accept your voluntary resignation from Plaques and Associates effective immediately. You have been a valued member of our staff and will be missed; however, we understand that you must move on in your life journey. We here at Plaques and Associates wish you the best of luck in your future endeavors.

Sincerely, Harlan Drexel

General Manager

Plaques and Associates, Inc.

Cc: Entire management and security staff

Marten looked up at Chip Seffner, What..? Seffner nodded and stretched his mouth keeping his lips closed. B-but I thought you were going to h-help me?

"Uh, yeah…I’m going to help you ‘out’. Ah, actually I’m gonna get Phil from security to walk you from the parking lot."

W-walk me..? Look I’m not fragile…I’m not a little old lady; I don’t need to be walked across the street.

Company policy… Seffner sucked his cheek to make a clicking sound.

And after receiving his notice of discharge, sans severance package, Marten Cogg was given the so called perp- treatment via an escort off of company premises.

********

Chapter One

A fter waking up countless days sprawled on the slightly begrimed, ten dollar hide-a-way sofa (which he actually didn’t pay for, but had acquired for free from an unsuccessful yard sale after it had been left out in the rain), Marten began to recognize a despicable pattern developing and he knew he should change it, but almost just as easily could have ignored it and pretend that it just wasn’t there. And though he knew he wouldn’t be that great at deceiving himself, he seriously considered doing just that. Why? Probably because it would have been the path of least resistance; after all, this is the sort of thing he was accustomed to doing. He’d done it all his life and as a result he had avoided living a decent life of which he could honestly be proud.

But something was wrong. Not so much ‘this time’, but just wrong with the whole picture. If this was the life he was to live, then by god, or whatever thing to which people paid homage for setting the earth in a spin, he should at least enjoy it…shouldn’t he?

At this point in his life, Marten had given up on the valiant notion of starting something original from scratch, like some brilliant entrepreneur, and developing it into something big enough to raise some brows. Something, though while making him proud, he could refrain from boasting about while silently honing his humble reluctance and eventual shy acceptance of the praise others shower upon him for his extreme accomplishments. No, instead he had come to conclude those dreams were not to be realized; and he at best might be able to luck upon something already established and in motion, but certainly gaining the momentum which would launch him into the status of admirable, even enviable, sustainability.

He was aware such a thing would be as rare as a winning lottery ticket (which he fully recognized would only garner him envy from others sans any respect that would come from the hard work of proverbial bootstrap pulling). It would be even more exceptional since at present he could barely muster the gumption to get out of bed (or couch), let alone leave the house. Maybe he was anemic. He’d been leaving so much blood in his stool lately, he’d resorted to using an old box of maxi-pads, which his ex had left behind, to line his boxers so his hemorrhoids didn’t seep through them. Every time he used them he was reminded of her.

She had left after the relationship had reached an impasse. This was the one person with whom he had shared his most intimate, albeit undeveloped, dreams and experiences. They had met at a convention for people who had seen and/or experienced ‘close encounters’ with inexplicable phenomena, which was assumed to have involved extra terrestrial alien life forms.

Since his childhood, Marten held the secret inside that he had seen a UFO. He had blown it off as a standard blimp of inordinate shape, or a proverbial weather balloon. He considered the possibility that what he had seen was a top secret craft devised by the military, but he conceded that if the military had the technology to develop such a craft, it was unlikely that he witnessed the equipment during covert operations in the midst of his suburban neighborhood. His ex, Inca (which he suspected was not the name given to her at birth), swore that she had not only seen an alien space craft, but had been abducted by alien life forms who had probed her person with advanced surgical devices, which left no trace. Her tale was so farfetched that Marten assumed she was just a hoaxer with a sense of humor; though the stories of having objects surgically implanted did give him pause during the few occasions they made love. She was clearly a damaged individual, but she was comely enough to appease Marten and he, feeling so inadequate himself, possessed neither the nerve nor the confidence to pursue a woman without grossly apparent flaws.

Her combative nature finally took its toll on Marten’s psyche, and he simply refused to engage in arguments with her ever again. Because of this, Marten assumed, she left-an embittered woman who had begun to lose all respect for him. After all the time that had passed since her departure, he still found himself missing her. Now when he lined his under drawers with one of her maxi-pads, he would sink into a lonely state of melancholy. He resolved that should he ever meet another woman who was receptive to him, he would certainly not destroy it by sharing his childhood suspicions that he had ever seen a UFO.

‘Ah hell, classic symptoms of depression’ he thought, ‘better get out and maybe mingle with others if I’m ever to chance upon that windfall of having that in-place system on the cusp of exploding into the next big craze land into my unassuming lap’.

The United States economy was wallowing in its own excrement, scarcely able to crawl, let alone limp, due to its apparent state of fiscal paralysis. He knew what the world might provide for him. He knew what he could make of it if among the things provided was the opportunity and the knowledge of how to recognize it-and what things needed to be done once he did make that recognition. And, of course, the not so heavily clung to, and occasionally mentioned concept of ‘happiness’ …could he achieve it? He wasn’t terribly fussy or picky, but for the working class man, ‘choice’ seemed to be systematically destroyed; if one could do well by capitalizing on something-even if it were the act of processing raw human sewage (hardly his dream), one should do it, do it quickly, and be damn happy about being given the task to do-period.

Marten did ponder such an existence- not seriously, but the notion had seized him on an occasion. He had seen the septic pumping trucks overtake his sputtering Plymouth Turismo on the bypass and imagined what someone who held such an occupation might be like. They might be quite wealthy; however, most appeared rather blue collar. Were they happy? After a brief encounter with a few (such interface being largely driven by otherwise insatiable curiosity and the shear boredom of waiting for his Turismo to be repaired at the service station next door to what looked like a convention of septic truck drivers all vying for the privilege of connecting their hoses to the septic tank of the neighboring office building). Though one of the five impressed him as a remotely contented, intelligent, enterprising achiever, the others he summed up as crass, hardworking business people who were doing just okay-not necessarily happy mind you, but okay. They were survivors within a world, which didn’t offer options like elation and contentment to accompany mere sustenance. Marten internally summed up their existences as being miserably hellish. And such was, unfortunately, the case for just about every profession he’d either investigated on a visceral level, or actually endeavored far enough to gain employment in the past. Genuine happiness was the elusive bastard who, while hiding in seclusion almost always, keeps letting you know it had been around by having left a thumb hole in a fresh pie placed on the kitchen window sill of the mind to cool. It had begun raining on Marten’s outside and soon enough, the exterior milieu would come to match his storm damaged interior, leaving him all washed up and wadded, like a cardboard coffee cup holder left on the sooty street curb to one day dry. And he would certainly be more useless by that time than a discarded soiled condom with no life left to give and unable to serve any purpose, nor owning the pleasure or distinction of having served any necessary purpose at any point within his existence. He didn’t stick around long enough to see which septic professional garnered the prize; the mechanic was finished working on the Turismo (with the minimum repairs needed to keep it going till Mr. Cogg’s wallet was in better shape) and Marten settled up and drove home.

********

Chapter Two

U mber, red, white, lime and emerald swirls spun about his head…the bourbon emptied from the out of season, ceramic holiday cup he had purchased a month earlier for a dime at an unknown neighbor’s yard sale, and it was, for the moment, all he could do to hang on to it as he shifted and schlepped toward the brown velour, hide-a-bed couch (with a broken backboard he acquired for free at the same yard sale the following day after it had sat out in a rain storm). Only a hint of mildew lingered. It was comfortable enough, but still its scent made him grimace from time to time. This was Marten’s life, but was it his destiny? Was there recovery at this stage of his existence? Meaningful human contact, he maintained, was the first step towards obtaining employment. It’s called networking; it’s what people do. But Marten wanted to obtain employment which would amount to sustainability; although, sustaining misery would not appease. The work would have to lead to an escape hatch of some sort, which opened to a world of contentment and all that free love hippy mantra crap, minus the lack of hygiene, of course.

Doubtlessly, Marten would have no legacy because, as far as he knew, he had not, and at his age, probably should not have any offspring. So he reminded himself that his human contacts would be for no more purpose than networking in order to land ultimately gainful employment, initially anyways he supposed, and after the money came rolling in, then he could expand into ruling the marketplace. Newfound employment…ideally more income than his last job, but how would this transpire and where would it lead him? Well he wasn’t always in such a state; indeed once there was a brightness in his eyes…and he was an open book, eager for exciting chapters to be written. Those pages shouldn’t remain blank, nor should they be filled with drab drivel.

He would reconnect if possible with friends he knew when he was fearless and ferocious. Perhaps it would require humbling himself with a few who he may have handled a bit brashly. And maybe he could actually open up to his closest friends and reveal his current condition of (dare he say it?) joblessness. It might get him in a place to jockey for a ‘foot up’; no telling, he thought, what it could lead to!? Question was: could he be that honest? Unlikely, for his pride kept him closed off from potential opportunities throughout his life, but after so much failure, he could only fake it so far before his farce would be discovered. People who knew him knew that he wasn’t so eccentric as to drive the same Turismo that he’d complained about so often if he was really doing well.

A stroll on the downtown sidewalks to the bookstores, coffee shops and cafés might do him well, not only to give hint to his image as a decently sustained man about town, but to establish human contact as well. So he set out on foot. From the looks of it, this excursion was proving to be, as were most of his pre-ruminated forays, a disappointment…as the bookstores were patronized by older ladies in sun hats, pastel sweaters, and flower print dresses and there was sparse occupation within the first coffee shops he visited. This made it more uncomfortable for him when, upon entering, the young, metro sexual, post teenager asked May I help you, sir? as if Marten had just wandered into his apartment and it was obvious he didn’t belong (and how dare he label him an old geezer by calling him ‘sir’).

After a few awkward seconds Marten responded Oh I was just looking for somebody, but apparently I’m mistaken….I’ll keep looking, thanks. He exited immediately. ‘Ha! Well now, let the little snot chew on that!’ he thought, ‘that insolent little pustule is no doubt too preoccupied with how his salon –styled hair falls on his forehead to realize I just reduced him to a ‘nobody’! Nobody-ha! But then again, that’s kind of what I am…a nobody… (yikes!). I might do well to be a barista boy with an ultra mod sense of style and fashion. Geesh, to think about the learning of it all and the conformity, hell, if you didn’t get it right you’d be as ostracized as an unrepentant sinner at an evangelical church revival.

He proceeded hence forth, not shaken-not stirred, but merely ruffled, as he remained determined to establish meaningful and productive human contact. The next stop: a quaint dugout cleverly named Our Gang’s Common Grounds. There was a sense of reluctance that washed over him as he was on the verge of staircase descent into the semi-retro 40’s décor of the bistro. The feeling was somewhat kindred to that which he felt as a preteen contemplating entrance to the ever popular adult section of Barnett’s bookstore. He couldn’t bring himself to do it then and, consequently, had, for a few years anyway, wondered what it would have been like, but unlike then he was now glad he had overcome his anxiety and followed through with the entrance. He felt this was a place he might be proud to have started or even own, but the pride, he believed, would have come from the theme of the shop, which he thought captured perfectly the sensation one would want when lounging in a coffee shop. It must have taken arduous hours of successful brainstorming to come up with such inviting color schemes and warm, yet not overly sentimental imagery, from the late 40’s and early 50’s. Classic fiction, dictionaries and globes, of course, so that one could feel at least pseudo-intellectual, and magazines of modern philosophy and fashion tied the place together quite nicely. There were two barista’s one male, one female who in every way might pass for twins if they didn’t have distinctly different facial features (he supposed that it was a given that coffee shops, like music stores, were required to have a certain personnel to provide a face and attitude for the establishment). He was admiring the nice color patterns of brick red, cadmium yellow, cream white and light umber when his thoughts were disrupted by a female voice calling his name, Marty!

‘Who in the hell here knows me?!’-Not that it bothers me, mind you, after all I did set out for human contact – and there she was in a lime green dress, which oddly enough, blended nicely with the décor. What a long time..! ‘Yes, it had been a long time’, he thought, ‘too long to remember her name.’

Oh –heh, heh, hey..! How are you?

Come sit while you’re mulling over your order. He did so as if to obey her command and he slid into the yellow chair, which may have come from an IKEA factory had they been in business in the 1950’s.

Elaine, he was relieved after being clued in as to what letter her name began with by the monogram on her purse (He thought maybe it was Eleanor, or Elsie) but he was no longer concerned with guessing her name and getting it wrong as the barista had called out to her, holding some warm, frothy concoction of milk, sugar, chocolate, whip cream, and coffee. Oh, excuse me, that’s my latte. She went to the counter. She either frequented this place and/or was on a friendly, first name basis with the baristas. The latter part of said wonderment began to nauseate him, but he just smiled and pretended to be un-rattled by the notion as she retrieved her beverage.

Not having much in the matter of funds, he got a cup of hot water and a bag of tea (refills of water, even heated, were free). The conversation drifted to the sort of benign catching up, which included as he had anticipated, what he assumed were embellished descriptives about personal accomplishments – at least on her end (It was a given that he would embellish, exaggerate, even flat out lie about what he’d been doing with his time). He would stretch the truth about his personal status usually to females and only when asked. After all, why would anybody ask him what he did for a living, unless they plotted to humiliate him about it? It was so transparent by the way they tried to mask their disappointment when he dreamt up a doozie to deliver upon request. Sometimes he’d be in the cabinet of a senator or just landed a promotion within an energy supply company or something, which he felt certain would be safe from scrutiny, or never realized to be untrue, by making up a yarn about being part of an exclusive entity such as a research facility cloaked with secrecy with restricted access (not so cheesy as if I told you, I’d have to kill you kind of nonsense, but not miles away from it either). He would not engage in a meaningful relationship with her. That possibility was defenestrated upon lying to her. ‘But that’s what she gets’, he thought, ‘serves her right if she’s disappointed; all she wanted to do was humiliate me-just like the barista boy, that’s what they ‘re all trying to do, but I turned the tables on them! Boy did I!’

She drifted for a moment and then she turned to him and asked, Well, are you enjoying your beard?

This took him back a pace. He wished he was able to issue a snappy reply, which was engaging, humorous and conveyed evidence of severe intelligence lurking within his being, but alas, her inquiry was so quirky he couldn’t help but laugh at it and then fall dumbfounded with silence. ‘Honestly, what does one say to such a question? Why yes! Yes I am enjoying it, very much so indeed! It’s been some time since I’ve had good facial growth…how about you? Facial growth..? He thought to himself again (still sitting in dumbfounded silence) …facial growth…of what- pubic hair..? Well now that might tend to put people off from committing to ‘facial nearness’. Facial nearness, yet the term triggered a trip down memory lane…

Marten recalled being at a bar once with a long wiry haired, heavy drinking, overcoat wearing poet (rarely referred to by name, but known affectionately by the locals as just ‘Poet’), watching a Lifetime Network television movie, which just happened to be tuned in on the bar’s only set on an elevated shelf above the liquor racks. Marten was entranced by an intense scene showcasing great dramatic acting, and Poet kept haranguing. Marten ‘shushed’ him as he was embarking on yet another artistic diatribe. Being more than slightly offended by this, Poet exclaimed more loudly than he was speaking before the censure: "Hark..! Doth mine own ears deceive me? You think ‘that’s’ good acting?! That’s merely ‘facial nearness’ posing as serious drama-and don’t be confused by the less than subtle distinction my friend! and then Poet began laughing at what he had said, realizing he had spontaneously created something he felt was so funny that it merited being shared with any and everybody else at the bar. He began coming up to people who were otherwise engaged in conversation, saying: Shhhh! Quiet! Look up there on the TV, there’s ‘facial nearness’ goin’ on! and Looky, looky! ‘Facial nearness’..! Quiet everybody, there’s ‘facial nearness’ up on the TV! To which he received a mixed response from people who either chuckled or looked at him as if he was drunk or maybe just too far out for them to grasp. And then Marten was pulled back from his memory trance as Elaine prodded Well, are you?"

What…? he said maladroitly.

Your beard, she laughed playfully, are you enjoying it?

Uh, um, do people ‘enjoy’ facial hair?

She leaned forward smiling, Well, they must if they take the time to grow it, silly!

He almost shut the discourse down by stating that he had become disinterested in his grooming and was simply too lazy to bother with going to the store to purchase new razors and actually shaving the growth from his chin and lips. However, he caught himself and merely exhaled, smiled and leaned forward to meet her face, stopping just shy of the distance required to qualify as ‘facial nearness’, and unimaginatively spoke, Yes, actually I’ve been having a lot of fun with it, but I suppose it’s time in the sun is about up… He raised his brows in hopeful acceptance and looked into her eyes.

Awe… she pouted with her bottom lip protruding.

He didn’t know where to take it from there or how to interpret her response (does she like it?). Images of sitting in a reclining chair with fancy upholstery on a beach in the Caribbean, and Elaine gently combing his beard had begun to eddy in the recesses of his mind, so he shrugged and said flatly, Well, I could go another two months without shaving…

Two months..! she said with playful shock on her face, You mean it took you already two months to grow that paltry display of post pubescent, scraggly mess?! My word..! She began choking back her laughter.

He felt instantly gelded. Automatically he slumped in humiliation. He tried to smile past it, but this was a brutal blow to his now fragile ego. He glanced at his watch (which wasn’t there) and then looked up at the wall, Goodness, what time is it? I have got to tend to some accounts…

Hmmm, I see, despite your success, you’re still under someone’s thumb. Hmmm…

Just short of owning and living on a private island…ha-ha Marten made his way to the door and up the stairs and out onto the sidewalks.

This confirmed it; they really are all out to disgrace him. They were well practiced at the art, as if they’d studied long arduous hours, like the way some evangelists and their devout followers do the Bible…with the leather cover frayed and falling off from where it had been previously reattached with masking tape…ha!, he chuckled to himself, but remained guarded. There and then it struck him, like a cartoon anvil being dropped from a skyscraper: How to get rich, get notoriety, and experience the vengeance he felt he was due, and this could be achieved as he belittled others all the while! Yes, the idea was simple, at least in its initial fluffy incarnation: he could start his own church! Hell, that old science fiction author was quoted as saying something about getting filthy rich by starting your own religion and it worked for him, didn’t it? Well this won’t be as hard as all that because he was going to piggy back off the religions already in place.

It should fit like a patent leather glove; after all, Marten was no stranger to concealing truth to others, and if there was one thing he had in common with organized religion it was that. He’d seen enough movies; hell, he had even lived in Hollywood for a short time, and while there, he worked for a telephone research company where he had to make calls to an unsuspecting cross section of America and ask them about their thoughts on the plot summaries of movie scripts which were currently being considered for upcoming productions. He gathered considerable insight to the kinds of drivel people consumed. And though he didn’t identify with people, he felt certain most were idiots. Idiots typically couldn’t be sold anything of tangible value which required an above average credit rating, but they were prime targets for being scared or guilted into giving tithes and offerings that will earn them a shiny gold star in heaven. As for the rest, well…some still fell into churches and saw the tithes as a tax deductable expense- and that could be an angle he worked as well. Marten envisioned his life on the verge of changing in a very big way.

Chapter Three

A t the end of a downtown bar sat a dejected looking, slightly rotund man wearing a patchwork cap and a tweed jacket with suede elbow patches. A large breasted woman behind the bar approached him.

Poet, are you going to get up and do something- go somewhere, or are you just going to stare at your empty glass?

Fairest of maidens, how is it that you cannot see fit to extend some well deserved credit my way for a tincture of this much needed tonic to sooth my distressed anxieties?

Look, I don’t mind your staying and being a patron, but we’re not having this conversation again. You pay- you stay; otherwise go test the bricks to see how firm they are since you were last on them. The barmaid said with playful sarcasm.

Poet eyed the doorway and as he did he noticed a contingent of fellow reprobates from across the far side of the street. On one hand he was inspired by the prospect of bumming a dollar or two from them, but on the other, he was disappointed that he was sober enough to see such great detail from so far away. Wish me the best of luck, my fair lady!

***

Upon returning home Marten tore open the recently delivered phone book he had swiped from the neighbor’s doorstep. Looking up the larger local churches was first on his new agenda. Somehow he had to comprise a plan of action and a list of questions, which could furtively be asked of the various pastors, ministers and reverends. How did they get started? What is the quickest, best approach to create and develop a burgeoning ministry after having heard the calling to preach the word of the lord ‘gawd’ almighty creator of the heavens and earth? He thought researching the nation’s largest operations would do him well, because if one is to dream…well, let that dream be larger than life. The library would supply background; he needed to get into this theology about which he currently knew so little. Perhaps he could create a faster track to acquiring this much needed knowledge via the internet, which could also provide a forum for him to present a tweaked and enhanced version of mainstream religion. Maybe he could develop a spin to appeal to so many people, who though not fully believing in religion, still for the most part merely paid empty lip service to it, for political reasons or in order to avoid being ostracized by the folks who were more die hard, charismatic fundamentalists in that area. Yes, Marten figured, if he could capture that audience and acquire a large enough market share along with the other ‘sheeple’ under his steeple, their willfully donated offerings ideally, but realistically not always, ten percent of their annual incomes to his newly established Church of the Divine and Conditionally Forgiving Holiness Temple of Real Believers, or some sort of something or other, well… then he just might be in business.

***

In a downtown alley lane, beneath an awning, stood a boisterous orator instilling a small gathering of downtrodden misfits on the virtues of a ‘fair barmaid who would pour a cheaper drink stronger than the likes of the same order elsewhere’.

…and I would most pleasantly direct your footsteps down the path which leads to this virtual utopia, should you provide the currency of libations for my wretchedly parched pallet.

Oh come off it, Poet! You just want us to buy you a drink! one vagabond decried.

"Yeah..! Why is it you never buy anyone else a drink?!" said another.

My good man, one mustn’t confuse the time and effort of long arduous research into these matters of landing the superior values with mere freeloading! Nay! Why do you know what kinds of funds were squandered in the pursuits of such precious knowledge? If you had any such notion, you would eagerly fight amongst yourselves as to who among you would be the first to obtain the priceless data within my cranium with the mere purchase of a simple beverage- uh, which we would drink together on celebration of your newfound membership of the prudent and wise league of patrons with discerning tastes for bargains, which are so great that for all appearances seem on the surface to share more of a kinship with thievery…. Poet explained.

The only thiefin’ goin’ on is what you’re doin’ to the poor bloke who buys your malarkey! said one listener.

Yeah..! joined in another…

Poor wayward novices…and you wonder why, at the end of the week, that your capital hath diminished to the point of essential invisibility….as you continue to waste it at ‘watering down’ establishments so unethical that your dollar goes only a fraction as far as it could toward a warm and pleasant state. Poet shook his head subtly, Will you ever learn?

Yeah every time you rip one of us off- we learn! Now take that uppity tooth of yours and stick it in a turd! One of the vagrants hollered indignantly and walked away while making an obscene gesture with his hand.

"My boy, you’ll never reach the kingdom of Goldschläger with that attitude! Poet quipped and then looked to those remaining in his small audience, Now who among this fastidious assembly is desirous of having this great knowledge bestowed upon you?"

********

Chapter Four

A fter digging around for a couple of weeks and regularly watching a number of moderately to highly successful televangelists, Marten determined that there were two things to which all the conductors of these grand orchestrations adhered: the overwhelming power of guilt and fear . What also became apparent to him, even more so than he had previously suspected was: the lack of critical thinking of their followers, the level of ignorance and sheer laziness when it came to delving into the theological history of their own religion, not to mention the numerous mythologies on which it had been based. While at the library, Marten found a series of deities who matched the archetype of ‘Jesus’ of the Christian faith. In fact, many of the deities were much older than the story of Christ, and Marten mused that the savior ‘Jesus’ might be a plagiarized version of many of the earlier worshiped demigods, saviors and deities. So many similarities existed between the savior Jesus Christ and a great and seemingly growing number of other deities whose time apparently came well before that of the renowned Jesus. There was Prometheus of Caucasus, Bali of Afghanistan, Baal of Phoenicia-along with Taut, Mithras from Persia, and Zoroaster also of Persia, the Hindu’s Krishna, the Druid’s Eros, Bremrillah, the Gaul’s Thor, Odin…Beddru of Japan, not to mention the great gods of Greece and Rome which would include Adonis, the offspring of the virgin Lo.

How could all of these legends have been and yet never had Marten ever heard of them before now? The answer donned upon Marten almost as soon as he had pondered the question; the governing predominant faith of his culture had indeed adopted many aspects from these various entities and then casually suppressed the source material’s dissemination. If faint whispers of them ever be uttered, it was dismissed as mythological folklore of the olden days, the dark ages… B.C., when the unruly cave dwellers were so pathetically imbecilic as to worship the great ball of fire in the sky… before modern man came to his senses and accepted the reality which has blessed him with the common era: ‘the year of our Lord’.

What was almost equally as astounding was the mania of group think when it came to ideologies that could not be proven. Apparently there was a long history of delusion and insanity among communities, and, in some cases, entire civilizations, involving religious faiths, or even irrational beliefs or fears which didn’t necessarily involve religious foundations- just a lack of critical thought, and a belief system which operated independently from reality. There were congregations that followed their Shepherds to mountain tops to witness the return of the lord, instead only to see nothing more than the quizzical, moony eyed expressions on the dull faces of their fellow parishioners. Others who drank copious amounts of poisonous elixirs at the behest of their empowered pastors in the middle of some godforsaken, remote locale, only to discover once it was doubtlessly too late that they were indeed not immune to its deadly effects….The possibilities appeared to be unlimited as to what flocks of lame brained subjects could be coerced into….Was this not, after all, the nation, which had allegedly elected a man as leader based on the criteria of whether or not they would most like to consume a ‘beer’ with him?

The ground work was being laid. The steps he would take would have to initially be relatively small. But Marten envisioned the seeds taking root and blossoming into an extraordinary empire built on the backs of the fanatical fools who might just be delusional enough to swallow, or rather reach the exulted level of receptivity- and, of course, generosity coupled with the absolute devotion to tithing. But weren’t people followers by nature? Wasn’t all of human expression a redundant derivative of something which preceded it? He would simply take the already widely accepted elements of the predominant religion and tweak it just so- drawing of course, from the abundant supply of various ‘original’ source materials, which he had invested so much time researching.

Marten made a call to discover how he might be able to reserve a slot on the local public access television station. Soon all those followers of fashion and unisexual commode-heads can just lick my boot heels! Marten thought. He had the fire in his belly and the motivation for something…and that was something which, in the last few years had always seemed to elude him. There was a strange sensation, which was coming over Marten Cogg: some convoluted sense of purpose.

The individual who answered his call didn’t seem to be an individual at all; instead the same snotty type of pricks one might find at the ultra mod coffee bar….Marten could hear the pretentiousness in the voice: Yes? May I help you?

If you really wanted to help somebody, you’d drop that shit eating attitude, you faggot! Marten almost berated, but then thought better of it as he actually needed the assistance of these amoebas, initially anyways, Ah, uh, y-yes, I was hoping to acquire the use of your facilities, or equipment to produce some programming…?

"What kind of programming were you interested in producing" the conceited voice answered as if to suggest he had the power to deny Marten’s request if it didn’t meet his personal standard.

This was a crucial point, which Marten had not fully considered; how should he broach the subject? He immediately thought, surely they would allow some church organization to broadcast their service- or would that be something, which needed some kind of funding? But this was local access for crying out loud! This was supposed to be free… how to answer the inquiry, hmmmm, this could make or break the ground work…and once he got started, could it be condemned or shut down? Okay, maybe I should simply ask: "Does it make a difference? The kind of programming..?"

The person on the other end of the line scoffed, Well obviously there are certain standards that we have to follow, according to the FCC and all the other broadcast governing agencies, we can’t have profanity…any overt, racist propaganda, or pornographic material being broadcast…

Racist or pornographic material..? What the hell do you think is on TV now?!! Marten almost barked, but instead refrained and went with some vague invention: "Oh, uh, I was hoping to just do a sort of church thing…sort of a thing for my church, just a little scripture …nothing offensive…"

A deep breath of exasperation came from the other end of the call, I see. Well, we can’t have any organizations soliciting money, this is advertisement free- the only advertisers are ‘us’ and we list the community events and various church services already…

..So I can’t do a thing for my church?

"I didn’t say that. We cannot have anyone soliciting money, is what I said…now if you would listen, and not interrupt, I’ll tell you how this works…"

And so the conversation went. Turns out, the very thing Marten wanted to do (solicit monies) was prohibited; however, there was a loosely maintained little loophole: one could broadcast the name and mailing address of the organization through which he or she could solicit donations once a separate means of contact had been established. So if Marten could get people to mail him correspondence, say through a post office box, he might just be in business. After all, Marten thought, if they’re gullible enough to contact me via a PO box, then they’re gullible enough to write me a check or money order for a shred of polyester cut out of a napkin from a Chinese restaurant, and then dubbed as a ‘prayer cloth’ for them to blather over in hopes of whatever fantasy they might be experiencing at the moment…it’s worth a shot…hmmm, considering how crazy people are …maybe I should change my name….

Skid row had its vagrants and mooching bums; the back alleys and dark cellars had its pushers and low life criminals; the sleazy neighborhoods had petty larcenists, and pornographers; and now Public Access television channel 13 had a freshly clean shaven Marten Cogg, a.k.a.: Pastor Marten Medley. The initial shows were crudely done. Marten had no knowledge of the technical aspects and the access network personnel were of very little help. They were too snobbish to explain much of anything at a comprehensive level, which might permit one to acquire a sufficient conception, so Marten enhanced his own mind by attempting to become a quick study at a double-time pace. But he had no music for his opening or for any part of his show. There was poor fluorescent lighting and the sound was inconsistent; it was stark and listless and looked like just what it was: a man at his kitchen table, blathering about some contrived notations he had made about Christianity, its origins and relation to other philosophies. It was a dreadful bore, which most would never bother to view more than the few milliseconds it took to garner recognition of the amateurish, self righteous preacher bent on some low key religious niche.

Marten did include his PO Box number, neatly written with a black sharpie marker pen on a rectangular flap of cardboard, which he would clumsily wave and place in front of him during his broadcast. At the end he would have the camera zoom in to get a close up of it just before signing off the air. And despite the lackluster, slipshod production, he actually received some correspondence. One was from a man desirous of inviting Marten to a sexual tryst with himself and some aardvark; the thought of which made him view people in a whole new light. And another was a novella sized packet from a man who wanted to correct every single misstatement made by Pastor Medley, using thoroughly annotated scripture, at the end of which he called into question the authenticity of Marten’s credentials. Marten wasn’t certain, which of the correspondences offended him the most. He wondered if other televangelists received letters of this nature.

In a nearby city, a gravely disappointed, elderly couple had just received yet another letter eloquently informing them that there was no foreseeable slot in the schedule wherein their organization would have occasion to conduct a tent revival in their fair city.

Eunice, it seems as though these servants of the Lord are not inclined to save Lady Lake from the destruction of corrupt modernity and temptation.

What about that new show we saw the other day?

Let’s watch it when it comes on again.

Somebody’s got to come through for us.

I know dear, I’ve already got the papers ready to go.

********

Chapter Five

A fter some lengthy cogitation, Marten decided to go on a marathon binge of watching the most notable televangelists he could tune in on his decrepit television set. As he did so he would be feverishly taking notes on every aspect of the production that he could think to notice. Unfortunately, he was not the most observant person; if there was no one else present to offer commentary, so much of a production would go unappreciated as Marten’s eyes would glaze over and he started listening to the message of the speaker’s sermon and became oblivious to the professional segues of one camera angle to another, the cues for the strategic organ music, or the flashing of the telephone numbers for the prayer lines, or the elaborate set design, which served as mere backdrop- not to mention the ultra sheik Armani suit adorning the body of the televangelist, who by the way, sported a high end hairstyle costing about 175 US dollars (a far cry from the six dollar haircuts Marten sprang for only when it was absolutely necessary).

One thing, which did not escape Marten’s dull vision, was when one of the numerous preachers, named Purvis Dandelion performed what he called faith healing. The charismatic, fire and brimstone bible thumper got the studio audience jumping up and down and running in the isles whilst he performed some alleged miracle healing of a few infirmed followers by slapping their foreheads with the palm of his sweaty hands and yelling in some indiscernible language, which the dapper reverend referred to as: speaking in tongues. Marten with his mouth gaping became utterly mesmerized.

Purvis Dandelion would lift his face and raise his brow, Byron… and then give an ever so subtle nod to the music conductor. The organ music began as Pastor Dandelion began his altar call and then shifted his eyes to the side and raised his brows again; magically, a number appeared at the bottom of the screen in bold white letters. This was the number to the ‘prayer line’, which viewers at home could call and speak to a representative of the Dandelion Ministries about whatever troubled their hearts- perhaps it was a need to lighten the load they carried. Pastor Dandelion was the man to aid in the lifting of that burdensome weight- particularly when it was measured in the same increments as denominations of US currency.

And as people approached from the pews heading towards the floral enshrouded altar covered with gaudy, raspberry, shag carpeting, lit by the garish and intense fluorescent lights above, Purvis Dandelion came out from behind the podium to meet them one by one in a line. By some inexplicable means, he knew their names and what ailed them. He would smack the palm of his hand across the forehead of each subject and walk away bellowing Halleluiah, in the name of the lord, halleluiah!!! as they collapsed and fell to the floor, trembling and crying.

Wow… said Marten as he sat stupefied in front of the television, what a show…this guy is amazing!

Alas, in his next shows, Marten would not so much as approach the grandeur of the awe inspiring brain child ministry birthed from the frighteningly charismatic mind of the Reverend Purvis Dandelion. Marten sat and mentally reviewed what he had just witnessed, and though he was inspired, he was at a loss as to how to emulate such magnificence. He thought to ask the technicians at the access office, but they were so damned condescending- even audibly supercilious behind his back that he just threw his hands up and thought to lounge at the university library under the guise as a student, who had lost his ID card, with books on the subject of media arts and television production sprawled out over two full sized tables (normally reserved for group study). When students came by looking longingly at the table space, Marten would dream up something to dissuade their intentions.

Uh, yeah, my ‘group’ went to the bathroom; they’ll be right back…

All at once..? One distraught kid, with wide eyes asked.

Uh, yeah…I guess… Marten looked at the two giant tables and thought better of his fabrication, umm, maybe some of them went to get more books…

The boy walked away disappointed. And Marten forced himself to delve deeper into the study of material, which was largely comprised of information both over his level of adequate comprehension and of very little use for what he was looking to accomplish. Much of the material he encountered dealt with concepts such as ‘pre-production’, ‘production’, and ‘post-production’. These involved things like accounting issues and working within a balancing of accounts, which were all much larger than Marten even remotely approached. Other areas with which he was not familiar were the ‘principle photography’ and ‘sound recording’, and ‘studio sets’. He was of the ‘on location’ production, which actually would entail even more skill sets, which he had yet to acquire. However, the model of filming in blocks, which meant doing several shoots of episodes at one fell swoop, definitely appealed to him and