The Feet of God

11 - THERE WAS NONE LIKE MOSES

“O lambs,” Ma addressed her ragtag listeners, “always be mindful of the serpents living amongst us.”

“I hate snakes,” an anonymous Seeker loudly grumbled from the back.

“Yeah, me too,” another Seeker shouted.

“I didn’t literally mean actual serpents,” Ma’s patience seemed to grow testy.  “I meant there are snakes who would betray us.  Rats who would stab us in the back.  Wolves who are disguised in sheep’s clothing, that sort of thing.  There are those who want to poison the well from which our communion freely drinks.”  She sounded so wise and prophetic.  “As the Loud Enlightened One taught us, this shit’s been going on forever.”

The gathered Seekers swayed and rocked to-and-fro.  Honest.  Every person in the room closed their eyes and squeezed themselves together and let out a collective wail.  Bob, Rufus, and about two dozen other youthful congregants joined Ma in a Krishna Merman moment.

“O lambs, the dark storm clouds will gather, and we’re still a few bullets short of a full clip,” she proclaimed to her following.

Rufus knelt beside the old lady’s chair, “What does that mean, Ma?  What are you trying to tell us?”  He clamped down hard on the old lady’s hand that held her glass, until Ma pried herself free.  “Dammit, you’re gonna spill everything,” she warned Rufus.  But her composure held steady as she lit another one of them clove cigarettes.

“O lambs, your Ma will be fabulous, just fabulous!  So don’t you worry about me.  It’s you, my young flock, I worry about.”  She ruffled Rufus’ tangled mop of hair.  “O young Seekers, know that there are dangerous highways and perilous roads ahead for those of us who follow The Path of Krishna Merman.”

With that, Ma abruptly ended her services.  “Thank you very much.  You’ve been a terrific audience.  A really great crowd.”

Apparently this was the cue for the younger Seekers to disperse.  They gathered up their grungy backpacks and worn blankets, skateboards, pitbulls and other assorted personal belongings, and begun to file out the parlor room to head to their tents outdoors.

“Sleep tight, don’t let the bedbugs bite,” Ma waved goodnight.

While the contingent of kids shuffled off, Ma replenished her beverage.  A few senior Seekers and assorted other pluckers remained behind, including Bob and me.  Ma instructed a pimply faced boy named Simon to fetch her television set and turn on the local news.  A vintage, portable color television set appeared and was placed on a table directly in front of her.  It was plugged in, turned on and tuned in to the proper channel.  A TV newsman’s snowy image flickered while ending this news story…

“…and again, proving themselves to be less than true patriotic Americans by raising the price of Thin Mints this year.  Now back to you, Sara.”

“Thank you Adolf.  Earlier today I had the privilege to speak with retired actor, superstar and all-around swell guy, Moses Remington, about his latest involvement in the right kind of American politics, and he had this to say.”

Despite the poor picture quality, the face of the ruggedly handsome and handsomely rugged Moses Remington filled the small screen in larger-than-life pockmarked detail.

“Why yes, Sara, with the kind of people we have in charge of government today, and you know who I mean, those people, them, well some fellow patriots and I have banded together to form a separatist group we call Taxpayers Ignoring Tax Slavery.  This is about as American as you can get.”

The former B-List movie star straightened his red tunic and adjusted his hairpiece.

“Our organization is set to aid white males between the ages of 21 and passing away who don’t like what those people in Waaaaashingtooon, and you know who I mean, do with our hard-earned money.  Feeding professional ingrates, encouraging filthy immigrants to illegally come across our borders and spread drugs, disease and crime, and then coddling lazy bums with financial benefits and socialized healthcare, well, this is not how we want our American dollars spent.”

Moses posed proudly for the camera, his jaw jutted.

“As a matter of fact, we don’t want our dollars spent at all.  You want little Justin or Jason to learn how to read?  Then you go buy the little bastards a book.  And if your goddamned house gets caught in a rising river, you can just wave to the rest of us from your roof as you sail on by.  You get sick?  Good, do us all a favor, the herd needs culling.”

Moses stared down at his cowboy boots with a faint smile on pursed lips, then he humbly elevated his gaze back to the camera, his photogenic face framed by those famous craggy creases, eyes all a’ twinkle, his head tilting and nodding in a folksy and friendly manner.

“That’s why, along with our women’s auxiliary, Americans Saving Society, we have purchased more than 50,000 acres up in God’s Country as a settlement where we can live exactly the way free men want, and to hell with everybody else.”

“Where exactly is God’s Country, Moses?”

“I’m referring to a lovely spot in the heart of America, near the Tetons, just outside a tiny hamlet called Gorda Fortuna.”

An amber spray of scotch shot straight into the air, while dentures and a pair of eyeglasses flew across the room from the whammy force of Ma’s double-take.