The Feet of God
24 - THE SPIRITUAL SIDE
Ma sipped her drink and waved
her free arm with a flourish, “This is the Karmi Sri Boomrambis Publishing
House. My empire.” After a few more sips she explained, “In the
early 80’s I’d parlayed my connections in Hollywood into a sizable stake and
decided to get out of town before anyone got wise…” she stopped ever so briefly
“…anyhow, I found this place where I could mix my spiritual side with my talent
for turning a buck.” She pointed a
finger at me. “Money isn’t the root of
all evil, they say, it’s the love of money.”
Ma slapped her side, “I just happen to like it a lot.”
With that she glided over to a stack of boxes next to the wall, flipped back
the flap on the first box and pulled out a thin, glossy covered volume. She held the book out at arm’s length and
squinted. “Living on Air by Tex
von Trimble. Damn, he was one of my
first. I published this almost thirty
years ago. Tex was a Breatharian.”
She observed the blank look on my face.
“Yeah, well, you might not have heard of them. You see, Breatharians didn’t last very
long. Tex said you could live a full and
happy life surviving on nothing but air and love. Unfortunately, he actually believed what he
preached. He starved to death. Narrowest coffin I’ve ever seen. Didn’t sell many books after that. But I got the cash up front. Always remember, the spirit may communicate
in mysterious ways, but money talks.”
She walked over to another box and read the cover, “Getting It Good with God
by Sister John Thomas. Now you must have
heard of her? The free love nun? Gave seminars all over the Midwest on
autoerotic deliverance. Then it came out
that she was merely a transsexual with bad fashion sense and the whole thing
fell apart. She moved to Fresno. I still get Christmas cards from her, but it
doesn’t change the fact that I’m stuck with all these unsold books. A sin against the trees is what I call
it. All paid for though.”
She swirled over to another box and lifted the lid, “And last and definitely
least, A Nag Ran Ham by
Anna Graham. I thought this was
a story about some horse pulling a meat wagon, if you get my drift. It goes to show, even if they pay up front,
you should at least read the damned thing before you print it. I still have no idea what this woman was
trying to sell. Some hocus-pocus about
the mystical powers in the alphabet. Who
knows? Her check cleared, and her book
got printed. That was the racket.”
She leaned forward and held up her empty glass.
I quickly refilled both our drinks.
“Look at it. Some of the strangest
peddlers of snake oil have been printed on these presses, and I made a profit
coming and going. The authors paid me to
publish, plus I took a percentage of everything sold. A real sweet deal, vanity publishing. She downed her drink in one gulp and held out
her glass again. “Ma did all right. But now I’m down to my last sixteen.”
“Sixteen what?”
“Sixteen cases. I’m down to my last
sixteen cases of scotch. This place used
to be packed to the rafters, and now look,” she gave one of her familiar grand
sweeps to take in the diminished supply of liquor. “I’ve been down before, but sixteen cases is
the lowest ever.”
The old woman swayed a bit and her mustache twitched. “Ma’s still on her feet,” she belted back her
drink. “Now come on, I got to get
upstairs before my little lambs miss me.”
She grabbed at the railing and started to float unsteady up the steps
when she stopped and said, “Better bring a couple of bottles. We’ve got a heavy meditation ahead.”