Oh Lord, Won't You Buy Me a 𝗖𝗥𝗨𝗡𝗖𝗛𝗪𝗥𝗔𝗣 𝗦𝗨𝗣𝗥𝗘𝗠𝗘™

Short Story
03-27-02024

I hope, I pray, I beg, I lay prostrate upon the altar of this world, that the 𝗧𝗔𝗖𝗢 𝗕𝗘𝗟𝗟™ on the 19th & Central accepts volunteers.



. . . but the cashier is only looking at me confused. She assumed my request was a joke — a stunt to boost the phantom metrics of that false God. Her eyes scanned me all over, searching for my phone’s recording light, that diode that gives context to all crazy acts.

“𝓣𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝓲𝓼 𝓵𝓲𝓴𝓮, 𝓪 𝓣𝓲𝓴-𝓣𝓸𝓴 𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓻𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽?”

But, it wasn’t. I’ve only the Tik-Tok of my heart, its beats wasted on a life devoid of devotion. I tried to communicate the earnestness of my intentions, and this only made it worse. The confusion traveled from our exchange, across my skin and into my being.

I think to myself . . .

“ꜱʜᴇ ɪꜱ ᴄᴏᴍɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴀᴍᴇ ᴄᴏɴᴄʟᴜꜱɪᴏɴ ᴀꜱ ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀꜱ — ꜱʜᴇ ᴛʜɪɴᴋꜱ ɪ ᴀᴍ ɪɴꜱᴀɴᴇ.”

. . . when did earnestness become insane?

She squares her shoulders and, speaking with assertive calm, says . . .

“𝓢𝓲𝓻, 𝔀𝓮 𝓭𝓸 𝓷𝓸𝓽 𝓷𝓮𝓮𝓭 𝓪𝓷𝔂 𝓿𝓸𝓵𝓾𝓷𝓽𝓮𝓮𝓻𝓼.”

I noticed then that I was holding up the line, upsetting the very commerce I sought to serve.

𝕾𝖎𝖓!

I rushed out, straight armed and slunk in shame . . .



. . . minutes later, and I’m on my way to 𝗧. 𝗕𝗘𝗟𝗟™ corporate. On my way to Irvine — fucking, Irvive — California. On my way to 1 Glen Bell (ᴍʏ ᴘᴀᴛʀᴏɴ ꜱᴀɪɴᴛ) Way. Once there, I’ll float through the lobby and ask, no, demand that they take me up on my offer to spread the grande news pro bono. If they deny me, I’ll sit outside in full lotus like a Zen novice seeking the master’s tutelage. I’ll prove I can wait. What is devotion but the pleasure of a lifelong wait?

Maybe I’ll start sweeping the parking lot, hell, all the parking lots. I’ll run a monthly circuit of the Irvine metro area’s 34 locations. I’ll scrape ancient, flatted sauce packets off the hot asphalt with a drywall blade. I’ll treat each 𝗕𝗼𝗿𝗱𝗲𝗿 𝗦𝗮𝘂𝗰𝗲™ saying as Psalm.

𝕴'𝖛𝖊 𝖇𝖊𝖊𝖓 𝖙𝖍𝖗𝖔𝖚𝖌𝖍 𝖋𝖎𝖗𝖊 𝖋𝖔𝖗 𝖞𝖔𝖚!

If the staff tries to feed me, I won’t let them. I will insist on paying. I’ve pledged myself to lesser economic goals., after all. I’ll guard 𝗧. 𝗕𝗘𝗟𝗟™s profits with 乃ushido 匚ode vigilance. I’ll don the dress of the Zapatismo — a Nietzschean mustachio, sauce bandolier, and kind eyes looking far and wide for a chance at martyrdom. I’ll circuit the perimeter with a broom slung across my back like a Winchester. I know nothing of Zapata’s plight, but I celebrate it. I celebrate all revolutionary devotion!

I’ll ask the patrons as they walk to their cars, loaded down with bags filled with sacred sacraments shapes composed of the same five ingredients . . .

“𝓦𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝓲𝓼 𝔂𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓯𝓪𝓿𝓸𝓻𝓲𝓽𝓮 𝗕𝗼𝗿𝗱𝗲𝗿 𝗦𝗮𝘂𝗰𝗲™ 𝓱𝓮𝓪𝓽? 𝓜𝓲𝓵𝓭, 𝓗𝓸𝓽, 𝓕𝓲𝓻𝓮, 𝓸𝓻, 𝓑𝓮𝓵𝓵 𝓼𝓪𝓿𝓮 𝓾𝓼 . . . 𝕯𝖎𝖆𝖇𝖑𝖔?”

. . . despite my zealous passion, I’m a 𝓜𝓲𝓵𝓭 man. I’ve made peace with that.

It must be possible, to fill life’s void with a devotion to one lord. What does it matter who the lord is when all the pleasure is in the devotion. Oh 𝗧𝗔𝗖𝗢 𝗕𝗘𝗟𝗟™, I only want to be useful, what do I care who does the using. Your cinnamon twists are as holy as any communion — each sip of Baja Blast is the electric blue blood of a Dios gracious enough to shed and share with a wretch like me.

Is not every church is a franchise, a hundred thousand buildings with the same book of instructions? A holy paternal I can find in Budapest, Bel Aire, and the Christian reading room in Terminal 2 of the Burlington, Vermont airport. A Godhead as universally uniform as the smell of 𝗦𝗨𝗕𝗪𝗔𝗬™ bread baking.

Devotion to beauty is too easy. To read the poetry of a holy text, atop a pyramid, or under the great dome of golden a cathedral — what challenge is there in that? What sacrifice?



Only when I can read the 𝗧𝗔𝗖𝗢 𝗕𝗘𝗟𝗟™’s Employee Handbook, Edition 24-C (ᴛʜɪꜱ ɪꜱ ᴀ ʟɪᴠɪɴɢ ꜱᴄʀɪᴘᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴍɪɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜ) at a teal formica table, faded & abraded by thousands of hungry elbows and swipes of sani-rag. When I can sit there and read . . .

“𝗬𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝘁𝗼𝘁𝗮𝗹 𝗲𝗹𝗶𝗴𝗶𝗯𝗶𝗹𝗶𝘁𝘆 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗙𝗮𝗺𝗶𝗹𝘆 𝗟𝗲𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝗲𝗾𝘂𝗮𝗹𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗺𝗮𝘅𝗶𝗺𝘂𝗺 𝗼𝗳 𝟭𝟮 𝘄𝗲𝗲𝗸𝘀 𝗼𝗳 𝗙𝗮𝗺𝗶𝗹𝘆 𝗟𝗲𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝗺𝗶𝗻𝘂𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗮𝗺𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁 𝗼𝗳 𝗙𝗮𝗺𝗶𝗹𝘆 𝗹𝗲𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝘁𝗮𝗸𝗲𝗻 𝗱𝘂𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝟭𝟮 𝗺𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗵𝘀…”

. . . and feel each word as the totality of God’s creation placed there in that moment for my eyes alone. The ocean of all time in a drop the now.

Resting in the glow of that great care, who dies in that 𝗧𝗔𝗖𝗢 𝗕𝗘𝗟𝗟™ booth, the man of sanity or the man of doubt? Who dies, and who even gives a dam?