Winnie's Interview and Father Gene

I’ve never told Winnie very much about myself, and I don’t know what she would think if she knew I had been married at one time in my life. I’m not ashamed about this point in my personal history, but I don’t talk about it much.

I met Karen at my first real job after college. It was a local newspaper with a circulation that barely drifted past the city limits, but it was a real job. Karen was a copy editor and she kept returning my scintillating articles about road closures and special speakers at the library with red ink marks correcting my screwy grammar and made up words.

“Pot-holeristic is not a real word, you dork,” she would write. I could tell that she liked me.

We dated a bit, lived together for a while, and then got married right before I got fired. I was fine with losing the job because I was bored out of my mind, but writing restaurant reviews for a slick county-wide magazine wasn’t a lot better, except for the free meals. After a couple of years Karen took off with a hotshot reporter who got picked up by the Fresno Bee. I curse Fresno to this day.

I arrived at the End of Time before Winnie, but only by a few minutes. She joined me at our booth, dressed in a gray skirt and a snug, ivory sweater that complimented her willowy figure, which wasn’t usually noticeable because of her typical baggy jeans and oversized long-sleeved shirts. Her dark brown hair was pulled back and woven into a French braid that trailed half way down her back and allowed her pretty face to see the light of day. This was a welcomed change from her usual sensible way of dressing. I hoped that she was doing this for me and not for a job interview.

“You look very nice today, Winnie,” I said.

“Thank you, Maxwell,” she said. “I have a job interview today.”

“Oh. Good for you.” Her sweater had a little smudge of something on her left shoulder. I didn’t care and didn’t plan to point it out to her.

“Maxwell, do think that Mr. Forbish thinks I’m simple?”

“What do you mean? ‘Simple’ as in uncomplicated?”

“No,” she said. “‘Simple’ as in unintelligent. Or ignorant.”

Her green eyes looked so innocent that I was disarmed and released from my petulance.

“No, Winnie, not at all. He doesn’t have anything to do all day except read magazines and newspapers, so he thinks he knows more than anyone. He really likes you. Also, you have a little smudge on the left shoulder of your sweater.”

She looked down and pulled at her shoulder to verify the defilement, tightening the sweater across her chest, which I appreciated. She made a face that radiated discouragement.

“Now I have to go back home and change. I will see you later, Maxwell.” She rose from her seat and headed to the door. A man in a dark suit held the door open for her as she left. When he stepped inside the café, I saw his clerical collar. He walked past my booth, stopped, and stepped back toward me.

“Are you Max Hewes?” He asked?

“Yes, I am,” I said.

He stuck out his hand and I shook it. “I’m Gene McNeal. Father Gene, to my church. I really like your articles in The Telegraph. It’s not the most exciting newspaper I’ve ever read, but your columns crack me up.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“Keep up the good work,” he said.

“Will do.”

Father Gene smiled and located a booth of his own. The Forb suddenly appeared before me, apparently having slipped in the front door while my attention was diverted by the priest.

“Who’s the cleric?” he asked, sitting down without an invitation.

“Father Gene,” I said. “I just now met him.”

“So what is he? Catholic, Episcopalian, or what?”

“I don’t know. Like I said, I just now met him.”

“This place has too much religion floating around in it. You, Winnie, and now the Right Reverend. What is a crusty old heretic like me going to do?”

“Why do you think I’m religious, Forb?”

“Come on, Max. You’re not nut-case religious, but you’ve got the stink of faith on you. It’s a good cologne the way you wear it, so I’m okay with it. I like that about you because I need someone to argue with.”

“So you won’t abandon this place for a diner infested with infidels?”

“Nah, this place needs me. It keeps the universe balanced.”

The Forb did his usual non-ceremonious departure and flopped into his own personal booth and opened up a magazine. Mirna brought him coffee and stopped by to warm up my cup. I wondered if Winnie would get her job. I realized that I didn’t even ask her what it was about.

Maybe I’ll see her later. Or call her. Except I don’t have her number. I don’t think she even has a cell phone.

There’s a lot I don’t know.

Winnie Speaks Out

The Forb and I both arrived at the End of Time around 7:30 this morning. As we walked from the parking lot I noticed that he had a magazine rolled up in his hand; he held it like he was about to use it as an offensive weapon. I waited until he was ready to begin his morning lecture.

“Max, this country is going to hell in a handbag. I just read about the list of Republican hopefuls for the next Presidential election, and I’ve never seen such a band of idiots in my life, except at the last election. And the one before that.”

“Somebody’s idiot always gets elected, Forb,” I offered with caution. “Don’t both major parties have their fair quotas of idiots?”

We walked in the door and I waved to Mirna, who floated by humming something by Buffalo Springfield. Winnie was alone at my booth, which surprised me. She wasn’t usually so forward as to invade my sovereign territory without permission. As we passed through the café, Limerick Bill was in The Forb’s usual booth, scribbling busily on some new literary masterpiece. He looked up with bloodshot eyes as we passed by.

“Hey, Maxwell,” said Bill, “is ‘mesticles’ a word?”

We stopped and The Forb looked at me, waiting for my answer, as though a serious one could be produced.

“I don’t think so, Bill.”

“Damn,” he said, scratching out some shred of creativity that wouldn’t see the light of day.

“You can’t find a rhyme for everything, Bill,” said The Forb.

The Forb followed me to my booth and sat next to Winnie, while I sat across from the both of them, wondering when I had lost the rights to my personal domain.

“Good morning, Mr. Forbish,” said Winnie.

“Hello, Winnie,” said Forb. “You’re looking fetching today.”

Winnie turned tomato red at the compliment and fixed her eyes on the menu. She only glanced at me. “Hi, Max.”

“Hi, Winnie,” I said.

“Anyway, Max,” continued Forb, “You can’t tell me that these people are completely bereft of legitimate leaders somewhere. Instead, all they come up with are morons and tycoons. And I still can’t believe how people in our country are going giddy over the likes of Donald Trump and Sarah Palin.”

Winnie looked up from her study of the menu. “I like Sarah Palin, Mr. Forbish.”

The Forb just stared at her. I intervened, hoping to avert disaster.

“What is it about her that you like, Winnie?”

Winnie set the menu on the table, folded her hands, and gazed at the ceiling while she gathered her thoughts.

“Well,” she said, “I like it that she’s a woman and that she is having an impact on politics. She is a family person, she’s smart, and she’s a Christian. I think her faith is important; at least, it’s important to me.”

I waited for The Forb to launch his counter-attack. Instead, his face softened, and he reached over to place his hand over hers.

“Winnie, my dear,” he said, “I really appreciate what you’re saying. I think all those things are probably true. And let me say that she’s also the prettiest contender we’ve ever seen. But let me suggest something: You are one of the finest people I’ve ever met. I may not see eye-to-eye with you on everything, but you are nothing if not sincere and honest. You are lovely, and tender, and your deep faith—a complete mystery to me, I might add—is a wonder.

“But I must say, all those fine characteristics don’t necessarily mean that you should be President of the United States. I’m sure that Mrs. Palin is a good person, but she shouldn’t be the leader of this poor, confused nation either. The only thing worse that could happen is if I became President!”

Winnie giggled at that last comment. I didn’t recall ever hearing Winnie actually giggle, and I was smitten by it.

“I’ll think about what you’ve said, Mr. Forbish. I’m not sure I agree with you, but your kindness could win me over.”

The Forb took Winnie’s hand and kissed it. He left our booth and joined Limerick Bill, and recharged his lecture, undoubtedly giving Bill inspiration for a new, filthy poem.

I think I just referred to my kingdom as “our booth.” I may be in over my head.

Limerick Bill

I ran into The Forb at the Post Office where he was picking up the mail from his Post Office box. He doesn’t want mail delivered directly to where he lives because he is suspicious of his neighbors and has some interesting concerns about the CIA. He had a friend with him who looked like a haunted, malnourished version of a 60’s college radical. Forb introduced him to me.

“Max, this is Bill. He’s a poet and writes things I don’t care about and I think are stupid, but I like him. He writes limericks. I call him Limerick Bill.”

With that generous introduction, Limerick Bill produced a facial expression that was a cross between a grimace and the effects of a gas pain, and then followed The Forb out the door.

The next morning at the End of Time, I was barely into my first cup of coffee when The Forb came in with Limerick Bill in tow. Forb saluted me and sat in his favorite booth across the room from me and opened a newspaper, while his companion came directly toward me and plopped down, apparently assuming that I wanted to converse with him.

“I wrote a new limerick,” said Bill.

“That’s great,” I said.

“Want to hear it?” he said.

“Sure,” I lied.

“Okay,” said Bill, grimacing with joy. “Forb has been talking about politics, so I wrote this for him:

Mr. Trump cannot be ducked,

From the race he will not be plucked.

He might have great hair,

And he’s too rich too care . . .”

“Wait a second, Bill,” I interrupted. “Is this a dirty limerick?”

Bill stared at me for a few seconds before he spoke. “No. Maybe a little.”

“You better think twice, Bill,” I said, “because Winnie is coming this way. She won’t stand for profanity.”

Bill craned his neck to watch as Winnie made her way toward our table.

“Hello Maxwell,” she said. “May I sit here with you?” Winnie wasn’t usually this forward, but the place was a bit crowded and she gets insecure very easily. I was her port in the storm. She looked cautiously at Limerick Bill. I scooted over and gestured for her to sit next to me. I was pretty sure she wouldn’t sit by Bill.

“This is Bill, Winnie,” I said. “He’s reading us a poem.”

Limerick Bill looked nervously at Winnie, and then continued.

“Mr. Trump cannot be ducked,

From the race he will not be plucked.

He might have great hair,

And he’s too rich too care,

But if he makes it we all will be . . .”

Bill looked back and forth at Winnie at me, then looked back at his dirty, wrinkled piece of paper.

“But if he makes it we all will be . . . confused.” He frowned, which didn’t look much different from his smile.

“That was very interesting, Bill,” said Winnie. “But it didn’t rhyme at the end.”

Bill wadded up his paper in his hand. “I have to go.” He left our booth and joined The Forb in his isolation.

“That is a very strange man, Maxwell,” she said. “I didn’t like his poem very much.”

“Yes,” I said. “He is a very strange man. Sometimes poets are like that.”

At that moment it simultaneously occurred to both of us that we were seated side-by-side on the same seat in the booth with no one across the table. Neither one of us immediately took the initiative to relocate. After a minute or so of silence, Winnie took the leap.

“I’m going to visit the ladies’ room, Maxwell.” She left for only a couple of minutes, then came back to my table. She sat across from me this time, and picked up a menu and started reading it. Her face seemed a little flushed.

I must admit that I liked it better when she was sitting next to me.

Grandpa's Debit Card

On my way to the End of Time today I stopped at the grocery store to buy a few things. As I paid with my debit card, I thought of my grandpa, who is now 90 years old.

Grandma died five years earlier and Grandpa took awhile to figure out how to do his life without her. He was in pretty good health, but he had come to rely on her for all the day-to-day things of life. So his first experience buying some items at the store with something other than cash was a memorable experience for him.

Here’s how he told it to me:

“So, Maxie (he always calls me Maxie. He and Grandma were the only ones I permitted to do that), I went up to the checkstand and this nice young woman was running this little gun thing over everything. I couldn’t figure out how she was putting the prices into her cash register, but I didn’t say anything, because she had an honest face.

“When it came time to pay, I held up the little plastic card that we’re supposed to use instead of real money. She was very nice about it all.

“‘You can swipe your card, now, sir,’ she said. She was very pretty, Maxie. You would have liked her.

“I said, ‘Why would I swipe my card? I don’t have to do that; I already have it.’

“‘Well,’ she said, ‘If you have it, then you can swipe it.’

“‘I don’t understand. I wouldn’t swipe anything. It’s against the law to swipe things. If I swiped something you wouldn’t let me leave the store.’

“She just looked at me in a funny way, and said,

“‘Just let me see the card, sir.’ She took the card from me and slid it through a little machine on the counter in front of her. Then she said,

“‘Go ahead and put in your pin.’

“I said, ‘What pen?’

“‘Your pin. What is it?’

“I looked in my pocket. I said, ‘I think it’s a Bic.’

“She said, ‘What?’

“I said, ‘A Bic. I have a Parker at home.’

“Maxie, I think I made her unhappy because she called her manager and we went through this all over again. He was quite nice, although he was somewhat snobby in a managerial sort of way, but I couldn’t come up with whatever pen they needed. You would think a grocery store would have more pens than they need. Why they needed mine in order for me to buy some things is beyond me. I went home empty handed.”

I ended up helping Grandpa with this problem, and now he is proficient with ATM cards and pin numbers. He even flirts with the woman who works the checkstand at the grocery store, and I don’t think she minds at all. Grandpa survived the Great Depression and World War II, and I didn’t want a stupid plastic card to be his undoing. He is too great a man for that.

The Forb Speaks out about the Tea Party Bible

Mirna moved from table to table in her usual, floaty way, refilling coffee cups and being nice to the customers. She claims to be a Buddhist, which could explain why she seems to be at peace with everything in the world. It could also be that she dropped a lot of acid in the 60’s and damaged the part of her brain that used to deal with complex ideas.

There were more people than usual at the End of Time today, which could bode well for the future of the café in this uncertain economy. The Forb was sitting on the other side of room, where he was reading a newspaper and ignoring me. I was not offended, since he often did that when he was thinking about something that he would soon spring on me with his typical enthusiasm. I was enjoying a few minutes of quiet with my coffee.

When The Forb slapped his newspaper down on the table, the noise startled several of the nearby diners. Unfazed by the effects of his own powers of disruption, he stormed over to my table and stared at me until he had captured my full attention. His jaw muscles were working, so I prepared myself for a fresh onslaught of cultural criticism.

The Forb is probably ten or so years older than me, and his mostly bald head and scruffy goatee reminds me of a weird uncle I used to have, who was a math professor at a large university. That uncle was long dead, but I suspected he had channeled part of himself into Graham Forbish.

“Do you know what I just read, Max?” The Forb’s eyes seemed to pulsate with excitement.

“No, Forb, I don’t. But do please tell me.”

“Fifty-six percent of Tea Party members believe that free-market capitalism is fully compatible with Christian values.” The Forb squinted suspiciously at me. “Did you know that?”

“No, not exactly.”

“Look, Max, there’s a book you probably never heard of because you graduated from college, what—three years ago?”

“Fifteen, actually.”

“So,” said The Forb, “have you ever heard of the book Atlas Shrugged?

“Sure,” I said. “It’s a movie now, right?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t go to movies. Anyway, that book is like the Bible to the big voices in the whole Tea Party movement. Haven’t these insane Christian people who think the Tea Party is the answer to everything ever read that book? I’m pretty sure that Jesus would not like this at all.”

“Why not, Forb?”

“Because it’s all about selfishness, Max! The idea is that if everyone only watched out for themselves and acted strictly out of self-interest, then everything would be great. So now these morons who are just waddling along with this movement think that people will all make wonderful choices and run beautiful businesses and everyone will be happy and rich if they just stick to their new ‘bible’.” Forb took a deep breath and looked around the room at the people enjoying their breakfasts. “But you know what the problem with that is?”

“What?” I did have some ideas of my own, but I didn’t think Forb was in a listening mood.

He leaned toward me and spoke with a conspiratorial whisper. “People are, in general, jackasses, Max. Free-market jolliness does not run the world; jackassery runs the world.”

The Forb stopped long enough for Mirna to float up alongside our table to refill my cup. The Forb had left his mug of tea at the other table. As she poured, she purred softly in her detached way of speaking.

“There is none righteous, no, not one,” she said. Mirna drifted away to the next table. The Forb watched her go.

“See, Max,” he said. “Even Buddhists get it.” He got up and moved back to his own table without further comment.

I didn’t see Winnie this morning. I don’t think she cares for crowds. She likes it better when the End of Time is mostly empty. It might not be good for the local economy, but it’s better for conversation. Based on today’s discussion with The Forb, it was probably better that she stayed away. Winnie doesn’t like conflict.

Easter by Direct Mail

“What the hell is all this, Max?” The Forb tossed four or five glossy flyers on the table in front of me. One landed on top of my coffee cup. I removed it.

“What is it with you religious people and your PR departments? Explain this to me, please.”

The Forb considers me to be a religious kind of person, which apparently requires me to be held accountable for everything that is done in the name of God.

“It’s Easter service invitations, Forb. We all get these every year.”

He sat down across from me and leaned forward. “Look, Max. Out of respect for you I decided to actually read the part in the Bible that talks about this whole resurrection thing. And you know what?”

Forb stared at me and made eyes that suggested an oncoming revelation. I prepared myself. I realized that he was waiting for my response.

“No. What?”

“Those people who first discovered the empty tomb were so scared they almost soiled themselves. The guards passed out like Victorian maids and Jesus told everyone else to quit being afraid. The other guys blew off the story altogether at first—probably because they didn’t think women had any sense. This, my friend, was not about lilies and eggs and slick productions. This was about abject terror and skepticism.”

“Well, Christians are on the other side of the story, Forb. We don’t get to experience what those first people experienced, but we can celebrate what it all means.”

“I don’t think you people really know what it means. How can you know what resurrection is really about?”

I had to think about that one for a minute. I hate it when The Forb gets going like this, which is almost every time I see him. He’s like talking with a nail gun when he’s fired up. I looked across the café and saw Winnie sitting by herself. Forb saw her, too.

“Don’t start on her, Forb. That would be a big mistake.”

The Forb kept looking. “Yeah, probably so. She’s still mad at me, I think.”

“So go over and be nice to her.”

My friend The Forb is not big on mushy reconciliations, but deep down in his heart he’s quite fond of Winnie, even though he thinks she’s a little too “church lady” for his tastes.

“Be nice how?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe tell her that you’ve been reading the Bible. That might give her some comfort.”

He looked at her some more, and then started nodding his head. Without further comment, he got up and walked over to her table. When she looked up at him, she didn’t look very pleased with him. I could hear him speaking, but I couldn’t make out what he was saying. Suddenly, Winnie’s face lit up, she bolted out of her chair, and threw her arms around The Forb. He remained rigid, and then finally unglued his hands from the side of his trousers and patted her gently on the back. Winnie sat back down and pulled a tissue out of her purse. Apparently she was crying.

The Forb walked back to my table and gathered up the cards he had assaulted me with earlier.

“I gotta go.”

He blew out the door and disappeared past the front window of the café.

I think Forb might be on to something. The first Easter was a bundle of crazy emotions and we sometimes celebrate in ways that are too slick to be believable. But watching that brief exchange between two people who want to love but are often isolated by doubt and fear brings me hope.

I guess I really do believe that Jesus is risen. I think I just saw him chase away some fear right here in the End of Time.

The End of the World Again

Winnie usually comes in around 8:00, after The Forb has unleashed his morning vitriol on me. He loves it when she arrives because his torment of her is one of his fundamental delights.

Today Winnie looked paler than usual, which made her almost transparent. She’s pretty and I would be romantically attracted to her if she wasn’t so scared all the time. Being around perpetually frightened people makes me jumpy.

“Have you guys heard that Jesus is coming back next month?” Winnie practically vibrated as she stood at the edge of our table.

“Why?” asked Forb. “Did he forget something?”

“Don’t be sacrilegious, Mr. Forbish.” Winnie is too polite to use nicknames. “It’s all been researched. He’s returning on May 21. Right around 6:00 pm.”

The Forb looked me with astonishment radiating from his eyes. “Do you know about this, Max? It REALLY sounds important.” His eyes rolled back so far in his head that I feared his optic nerves would snap.

I had read about the 89-year-old California preacher who, in spite of giving past incorrect predictions about the return of Christ, was confident that he had nailed the Savior’s rendezvous with the faithful right down to the hour. Out of cowardice, I chose silence and offered only a shrug of my shoulders.

“I knew this was coming,” sighed Winnie. “All the earthquakes and tsunamis and such. The earth is groaning, the faithful will be raptured, and only the unrighteous will be left behind.”

“Which are we?” asked Forb. “I keep forgetting.”

“I know what I am,” said Winnie, stiffening her back with confidence.

“Oh, good,” said Forb. “So what will you do when I get taken up? Won’t you be lonely?”

Winnie glared at The Forb and then turned to me. “He really is impossible, even in the face of the worst danger imaginable.”

I decided to venture cautiously into the fray. “Don’t you think that there’s the possibility that the good pastor is inaccurate, and now people are making rash decisions like quitting their jobs and selling everything? If he’s wrong, then won’t a lot of people be in trouble?”

“Hey, wait a minute,” said Forb. “Is Jesus coming back on May 21 in the US or in Australia? We’re a day off from each other. And is it 6:00 pm Pacific Standard, or Mountain Time, or what?”

Winnie sniffed. “People just need to be ready, that’s all.”

“Look, Winnie,” said Forb. “If I’m going to make a last-minute decision about religion, I’d like a little precision on the timing. If I’m off an hour with my personal debaucheries, it could really screw up my eternal destiny.”

“I’m going to get some coffee,” said Winnie. “I can’t even talk to you about this.” She stood up abruptly and marched to the counter to attempt a rational exchange with Mirna.

The Forb fixed his outraged eyes on me. “Max, is ‘Christian’ a euphemism for completely, freaking, nuts?”

“Every group has its own quota of nuts, Forb. The nuts get most of the airtime. The sane people tend to mind their own business. Be nice to Winnie. She seems particularly tender today.” Forb looked over at Winnie, considering the possibility of being nice.

Winnie returned with her coffee and sat down, avoiding eye contact with us and looking injured. Forb stared at her, and then spoke softly.

“I’m sorry, Winnie. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. If ever anyone deserved to be taken up at the Lord’s command, it would be you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Forbish.” Winnie still wouldn’t look at him.

“Just one thing,” said Forb. “Which way, exactly, is the ‘up’ where Jesus will take people? The earth is round, you know. Won’t people just take off in different directions? What if people in Africa get to heaven, but you just bump into the Moon?”

“I’m leaving,” said Winnie. 

The Forb Discovers Hell

I’ve been ordering coffee at the End of Time long enough that Mirna knows how I like it. My habits are predictable enough that sometimes the steaming mug is waiting for me when I walk in exactly at 7:30 in the morning. Mirna has things under control.

As usual, The Forb was already there, reading TIME Magazine and sipping his Earl Grey. He had that look in his eye so I knew the morning topic was ready to burst.

“You know I like you, Max, and I think you’re smart, but these religious cousins of yours are idiots.” Graham Forbish never wasted time on a conversational warm-up.

“Have you read this guy’s book?” He held up the cover, which queried in bold, letters: WHAT IF THERE’S NO HELL? I was familiar with the story and book it was profiling. I could hardly wait to hear my agnostic friend’s assessment of the apparent controversy.

“Yes, I did read it,” I said. “It’s short.”

“Well, I don’t know what all the fuss is about,” said The Forb. “I like this Rob Bell guy. He’s asking all the questions I’ve been asking for years. Why are people mad at him?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “So could he convince you to quit being an agnostic?”

“I’m not really an agnostic, Max. I’m just ambivalent.” He opened the magazine and searched for a page in the cover story. When he found it, he shoved it toward me. “And what is this Fuller Seminary place that they talk about? Why is it an ‘electric’ place?”

I took the magazine and scanned the page he kept poking his finger against. “It’s not ‘electric,’ Forb. It says it’s eclectic.”

“Whatever,” said The Forb. “So what is it? Is it full of screwballs?”

“It’s a theological school,” I said. “Lot’s of smart people teach there. Probably no more screwballs than the average institution. I have some friends who went there.”

Forb took back his magazine and turned to the page that had Rob Bell’s picture on it. “Bell looks pretty wiry. They should put him in the ring with one of those evangelical crybabies and let them punch it out. I think Bell could do some pounding. I’ll be he moves fast.”

“He’s probably a peaceful man,” I said. “He might prefer words over punches.”

“He should reconsider.” Forb flipped back and found a picture of a high-profile celebrity. “And who does this guy think he is? He’s uglier than a bucket of noses.”

I recognized that the religious side of our conversation was over. The Forb has a short attention span.