By Sherry Shahan
4 A.M.
It’s summer again.
Only Stanley and the mice are active at this hour. He’s nude, peering into a camera on a tripod. The image will go next to Jesus on the corrugated steel wall inside the barn’s living quarters. The eight-by-ten glossies of his Savior were downloaded from picturesofjesus4you. Healigns them with a bubble level.
Stanley squats beside his laptop. He swigs cooking sherry, thick and syrupy like rosebud hair gel. He drinks sherry because espresso is known to decrease sperm quality. He inks in loan docs, his hand an agitated bird. Monthly income: $100,000.
As soon as escrow closes, he’ll take ownership of the two-hundred-acre horse ranch. Then he and his fiancée can move into the lavish manor house. No mice in the French Tudor.
He fires off faxes to his banker, realtor, and wedding consultant and follows up with phone calls, emails, and texts, leaving messages about maximizing productivity. The floor lamp shimmies, requiring him to unscrew the bulb. The air constantly buzzes.
How do people who sleep all night ever get anything done? One of the powers of sleeplessness is the promise of holy visions.
Stanley caresses the shimmery gold foil on a large gift box, picturing the sea-foam chiffon gown inside. Beaded. Beautiful. Just like his love. The other gifts aren’t wrapped—a gold chain necklace with a cross and an avocado-shaped jade ring that survived his mother’s tragic death.
He shuffles through a stack of photographs, and chooses one of himself leaning against his Maserati Levante, licking a banana-surprise ice cream cone. His fiancée’s favorite flavor. The photo goes in the onyx box with phones pre-set with his number. She’ll want to call. Thank him. Express her undying love and devotion.
Her concert schedule is safe inside the commercial refrigerator. Last week, the fridge stood in the tack room beside Billy Royal saddles. That was before evil forces tampered with the temperature controls and melted six gallons of ice cream.
Monsters! Devils!
Friends from church helped him move the fridge into the living room. Now prenatal vitamins cram the freezer. He has to admit he misses an occasional soupy bowl of banana-surprise.
~
Stanley shivers in a steamy tub, listening to his fiancée’s latest CD. The first time he saw her in concert—actually, it had been on TV—she raised the microphone so high he glimpsed pastel hair under her arm. It really turned him on, a sensation that localized in memories of his ex-wife.
A sea of cameras on tripods crowd flickering candles in the boxy bathroom, recording his soak in cooking sherry, heated batch by batch in the microwave. He pricks his finger, watching it bloom.
He inhales power from the illusion of order, sings into an empty sherry bottle, and imagines himself on tour with his fiancée. Next weekend, she plays the West Coast, Levi Stadium in San Francisco.
Towel in hand, he steps over burning candles, and admires his damp body in the mirror as it expands and contracts like an Immersive Van Gogh Experience. He smiles. Doesn’t really have an overbite, just misaligned veneers. His hair mimics a well-known Italian judge on the Food Network.
He blots pink beads glistening on his chest, flosses with celery string, and snips the tags from his $1,690 Armani suit. (Twenty-day return policy.) The style is classic—a peaked lapel collar and four-button surgeon’s cuffs.
He laces shoes tan and green shoes lifted from a bowling alley. The slick leather soles help him slide when he walks. He chose “Let’s Get It On” for the wedding dance and hired Frank Fluke and the Pollyanna Players because he has a sweet spot for accordions.
The Maserati is parked in the breezeway between rows of horse-piss-scented stalls—a new-owner sticker on the windshield. The dealer agreed to hold Stanley’s check for thirty days. By then, he’ll have more money than, as they say, he knows what to do with.
~
Stanley speeds through San José on the 101, popping NoDoz and Sleep-eze, which doesn’t require a pipe or needle and rarely results in an overdose. Ninety-five mph. One hundred-and-five.
Two-dozen Juliet roses wither on the leather seat, wafting tea and vanilla. He steers with knees covered in rare fibers, aiming his iPhone at a billboard of his hysterically gorgeous fiancée, then his $37,000 Rolex—documenting the next phase of their meticulously planned courtship.
Driving is a good time to contemplate the wedding menu. He envisions medallion-shaped monkey hearts and roasted grasshoppers with ladybird sauce. Genius. He should have thought of it sooner.
Stanley isn’t usually much of a list-maker. His desk calendar tracks what he wears so he won’t repeat an outfit in the same month. (Is loincloth one word or two?) Underwear isn’t a factor.
And now, a wedding . . .
Thus far, his fiancée hasn’t embraced L.D.S. life, so the ceremony won’t be held in the church temple. Never mind, a manicured English garden spreads from the manor house. It might be memorable to exchange vows on bales of hay for the sake of a lasting story.
~
A parking attendant at the stadium points to the VIP lot. His laminated press-pass works every time: Press. Prenza. Stampa. He scans fans and prays for the poor souls in the nosebleed bleachers.
Security stops him at the next gate. “Ticket, sir?”
Stanley notes the guy’s Golden Goose sneakers. Knockoffs. “I’m Stanley,” says Stanley. “Lady Glee is my fiancée.” (That rhymes!)
The guy smirks in that minimum-wage-lackey way; he’s wearing a T-shirt with a silkscreen of his fiancée face. It’s the only time he’s seen her with a perm. “Is that right?”
“Where’s the VIP entrance?” Stanley asks him.
“Gate 6. Follow the signs.”
A lackey stops him there, too—so many security guards where a single Halfling would do.
“You on the list, man?”
Stanley flashes his press pass and pearly-gate teeth.
The guy fully embodies his bestial role, clearly smoldering in a private hell. “You gotta be on the list.”
Stanley knows a disciple of Satan when he sees one. He steps from his car, his fists balled in his pockets; he should be wearing a silk scarf. “Shall we pray?”
The guy fingers his walkie-talkie. “Code X, Gate 6.”
Security surrounds Stanley faster than he can say Our Heavenly Father. He rubbernecks and drops to his knees, using his keen mind to remain calm. “Good evening, gentlemen.” He reaches inside his jacket for his wallet.
“Hold it right there!”
Now Stanley is face down, kissing the asphalt, muttering in a language he doesn’t understand. He’d learned to breathe without air while in the hospital, where urinating on another patient’s bed was rewarded with a lorazepam/olanzapine cocktail.
He licks his teeth. They feel like mossy rocks, though similes aren’t his thing.
Then, “Sinners, join me in prayer—”
Concertgoers gather in squeaky laughter. He knows what they’re thinking, What’s a nice young man like you doing wearing bowling shoes?
A woman tsks. “Be careful not to chip your teeth.”
Stanley has always been receptive to high levels of attention. He moans, and the guard moans. Two-part harmony, so depressingly ordinary. He sucks his tongue and presses his lips together.
“Another nut case.” A guard helps Stanley to his feet—probably a washed-up body-builder. The Golden State is full of them. “Come on, buddy. I’ll walk you to your car.”
Stanley tugs on his earlobes to dim the guy’s voice and cracks his knuckles as if they’re imported Brazil nuts. This whole rigmarole is straining his moral patience. “I’d like a seat, now, please. Front row, center.”
“The concert’s been sold out for months.”
“I have zero-interest credit cards. Best-Buy. Home Depot. Amazon Rewards. The works.”
“Sold out, friend. End of sentence.”
Stanley strolls back to his car like he’s walking onto a yacht. He practices the wedding dance on the way: kick-ball-change, crossover, settle.
He slips behind the steering wheel while sixty-eight thousand people cheer, and imagines as many phones raised and swaying. His fiancée sings like an angel, “I’ll be waiting for you/Here inside my heart.”
He pictures her marble skin and citrine eyebrows and wonders if the fog will puff up her new coif. “Soon we’ll be together/ I’m the one who will love you more.”
Stanley laughs into his teeth when a seagull shits on his windshield—splashing slate gray like an early Pollock. Or maybe one of Warhol’s wigs? He takes a screenshot, adjusts himself, commando as always, and calls the caterer, florist, and videographer. Gets bids on a helicopter pad. Half-a-mil. Peanuts.
He drains his water bottle on the long drive home and refills it, tingling with flowing relief. His wet, sticky fingers confirm his masculinity. He pulls into the barn’s breezeway at sunrise and plucks dead rose petals. She loves me. Yes, she will always love me . . .
Jesus Henry Christ. There’s an eviction notice on the steel door, FIVE DAYS TO VACATE, signed by Judge Miller, the same Evil Force who dropped a gavel at his divorce. Unstable. Noncompliant. No visitation rights.
Vicious lies, flames, singeing his God-fearing soul.
Stanley slaps his pocked face while praying for his ex-wife, the judge, and lowly security guards.
He bolts the door inside the apartment, seals the jamb with duct tape, and sculpts a silver figurine with the rest. I have to stay put until escrow closes.
Stanley opens The Book of Mormon and removes the photos of his children. Luke, Mary, Eve. He goes online and orders a tuxedo (size 5) with satin lapels for his son, the best man—chose chiffon dresses (size 3Ts) for his twin daughters, flower girls.
Alas, he sees things more clearly and hires an arborist to cut down dozens of eucalyptus along the ranch’s mile-long driveway. Stupid trees shed year-round. The buzz of chainsaws nearly drives him crazy.
The old man who owns the ranch returns from vacation and pounds on the door. “Those trees are thirty years old!” he screams into steel. “The limbs broke horse fencing. You know the ranch is for sale! Who’ll buy it now?”
If his dad keeps it up, Stanley won’t take care of him in his old age. “Don’t worry, Dad. I
have it covered,” he says. “I’ve ordered Pygmy Date Palms. They don’t molt.”
His dad yells, “Eucalyptus leaves relieve flu symptoms!”
“You don’t even believe in God!”
He and his earth father were once close but now suffer from creative differences.
Righteousness versus Skepticism. Their relationship deteriorated further when Stanley’s mother ended her life in a train tunnel. Her note said she was no longer a woman because her eggs had fried during menopause. Whatever that meant.
Stanley pictured egg yolks, lacy edges tinged golden.
He was playing hopscotch when the school nurse brought the news.
His mother had dressed in her Sunday best—pantyhose, sensible heels, a pillbox hat, the slim handle of her pink clasp purse over a slender wrist. He wondered if the conductor saw the woman in white gloves waiting on the tracks.
~
Time to rethink the seating chart for his family’s side and the arrangement of hydrangeas.
Later in the purple night, Stanley strips butt-naked, peels tape from the doorjamb, and
sneaks out to fire up the John Deere. His bare feet make indentations in the scabby dirt. That’s fine. He’s used to stepping over himself.
He hooks a heavy chain to the tractor, drags off limbs left behind by the lazy tree surgeon, and piles them in an empty field. Since the famous stud moved to greener pastures, thoroughbred breeders no longer trailer in mares.
Damn it to hell, anyway. He hadn’t considered the wrath of tree stumps. Dynamite will handle it. Tomorrow night.
~
Stanley hasn’t slept in a month. Invigorating!
His eyeballs take on the look of tomatoes stabbed with a fork.
Suddenly, he’s famished. He douses a bowl of Rice Krispies with cooking sherry. Snap, crackle, pop. Such practical sounds are worth listening to. He guzzles supplements and stuffs the Restraining Order from his ex-wife down the kitchen sink.
Then he calls her. The number is no longer in service . . .. “Slut!”
He searches Facebook and TikTok. Nothing. Tries her maiden name. Nil. Scans the church Web site. Nothing there either. He Googles private investigators.
“My ex kidnapped my children,” he tells the guy. “They probably left the state.” Pause. “Of course I have pictures. Retainer? Absolutely. How about Venmo?”
Stanley scans and emails photos of his son and two daughters. Others go in an onyx jewelry box. His fiancée will be a good mother to his children and theirs—one baby a year as per the divine injunction “Be fruitful and multiply.”
He’s downloading adoption forms when he hears voices. Polite voices, thick as an ESV Bible.
“Stan? Are you home?”
Stanley squints through a pinhole in the sheet of cardboard taped over a window. Dr. Burrhus, his therapist, and the church Bishop.
“We’d like to come in,” Dr. Burrhus says. Seven years on the guy’s couch; he still seems like an actor playing a part. “To make sure everything is okay.”
“Are you having a bad day?” Stanley asks him.
“Bishop Joe has a doublewide trailer on an acre. Rent-free, Stan. In exchange for care-taking.”
“The barn is comfortable and convenient—escrow on the ranch closes soon.”
“We’d like to visit awhile. Talk about your return to the temple.”
“Uh, sorry. I’m expecting a call. Come back around six. I’ll make pork chops.”
Stanley notices the difference in their voices as they whisper to each other. It
sounds like they’re discussing the price of hand-pulled noodles in China.
“Wonderful, Stan,” Burrhus says. “We look forward to it.”
He suspects the men’s parents are cartoon characters. They should be more excited about
my future.
~
Stanley pushes his tongue against his top teeth and answers his phone in a whisper. It forces people to pay more attention. “Hello?”
“Mr. Williams? I’ve located your family.” It’s the investigator. “You’re a lucky man—it rarely happens this fast.”
Thank you, Jesus!
“They’re in Independence, Missouri.”
Missouri appears frequently in Joseph Smith’s twenty-seven volumes of writings, available on his dot.org site. “The righteous will come together in Independence,” Stanley tells him. “It’s the center of Zion and the Second Coming of Christ.”
He can’t wait to take his children to the Missouri Model Railroad Museum and Willy Wonka, Jr. Children’s Performing Theater.
“Please Venmo the balance of my fee,” the dick says.
Stanley mouths his undying appreciation.
~
Stanley checks his GPS: 2,425 miles to Missouri. Estimated driving time: 36 hours, 9 minutes. Today is Friday. If he drives straight through, he’ll be there in time for Sunday Sacrament.
He pops over-the-counter pills, dabs foundation on his pitted cheeks, and packs his son’s tuxedo and daughters’ dresses. Cases of extra dry cooking sherry, Hostess Ho Hos, windshield wiper fluid, and a butane blowtorch because failing to prepare is preparing to fail.
The Book of Mormon opens to a random page, a forest of inky margin notes and exclamation points. Everything goes in the plush trunk of the Maserati.
Jesus Rides Shotgun.
~
Sherry Shahan is a teal-haired septuagenarian who writes in a small California beach town. I hold an MFA from Vermont College of Fine arts, taught a creative writing course through UCLA Extension for 10 years, and have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize in Poetry and Short Fiction and Best American Short Stories.