= 18. =
 Lightning flashed, and artillery boomed as the two figures trudged in a gray, seething rain. The hail had stopped, but cold glassy fibers of rain filled the air. The wind had died down, so the water fell straight down as from a million faucets.
Jimmy walked his bicycle with the big backpack tied to its seat like an inanimate passenger.
Martin walked beside him with the blanket draped over his head—heavy and soaked, but shielding him from the constant battery of water. Beside him, Jimmy looked like a man in a shower with rain runneling from his long hair and beard. When Jimmy talked, rainwater fell from his mustache.
Occasional squad cars raced by on a mission to find the Beach Killer.
Jimmy had a little radio on which he played rock music; he kept it in a plastic sandwich baggie hanging from the handlebars by a twist of old-fashioned coat hanger.
"Man, you know anything about that?"
Martin shook his head.
"You said your name is Martin?"
Martin nodded.
Jimmy looked at him with big, scared, haunted eyes that had seen horror before. "You ain’t Angus Story Bitters, are you?"
"Never heard of the man," Martin said.
After a half hour the two soggy, wading allies arrived at a little wooden building at the edge of a eucalyptus grove. A neon cross hovered over the white shingled walls. Through an open, ogive-shaped, double door up a flight of steps, Martin could hear singing. An organ played, and people clapped powerfully in rhythm.
Jimmy Sprocket put a hand out against Martin’s chest. "We can dry our clothes and get a bite to eat. But first you gotta spend an hour singing and praying."
"What denomination are they?"
Jimmy shook his head. "Does it matter? They’re all crazy. They believe in imaginary beings and ghosts."
"Don’t you?"
Jimmy flashed a slit of brown teeth. "I’m a survivor, man. You feed me, I will pray to anyone or anything you worship. Be it rocks, trees, or dead people. I seen it all."
They made their way up the steps. The vestibule was clean and well lighted. A large blond-haired, crew-cut man who could be a former boxer greeted them. He wore a black suit and introduced himself as Deacon Gabriel Ramirez. "Bless the Lord, brothers. Welcome to His sanctuary."
"Amen," said Jimmy.
"Amen," echoed Martin.
"Bless the Lord," Deacon Ramirez repeated. With large, powerful hands, he removed the sodden blanket and ushered Martin into a side room that smelled of cloth and lye. Stacks of freshly laundered clothing stood about. An ethnically diverse mix of men and women in simple but clean clothing sorted and folded clothing. Two black women wearing red dresses—one with a large yellow hat, the other a large blue hat—ironed on two boards that gave off a pleasant smell of hot linen tinged with ammonia.
Deacon Ramirez intoned, "We clean the body, we clean the soul. We nourish the belly, we feed the faith. Welcome to Al-Balaam, savior of the galaxy."
"What?" Martin asked in a tiny, scared voice.
"Don’t worry," Jimmy said. "You’re probably from some standard, stay-pressed church. I don’t ask, you don’t tell. It don’t matter when you are shivering and hungry. These guys have been around for a long time."
"Who is Al-Balaam?"
"Who is Alienopolis?"
"You know about Alienopolis?" Martin said, suddenly impressed.
"Who hasn’t heard of Alienopolis?" Jimmy said as he started to peel off his outer layers of soiled clothing. "I may be working for them soon."
"Building strange new worlds," Jimmy said. "You go guy."
Now that they were in a dry building with standard yellowish electric lighting, Martin could see that Jimmy literally wore rags. He wore multiple sweaters that fit him like sheets of fungus, with holes literally rotting off of him. Underneath were yellowish, stained layers of T-shirts whose predominant shades were yellow and gray in overlapping cloud-patterns.
"Been a while, brother," said Deacon Ramirez as he held up a plastic trash bag for Jimmy to deposit his clothing. "Showers are in the side by the sanctuary. You guys go get cleaned up, put on some fresh clothes, and join us to sing hymns of praise."
"Amen, brother," said Jimmy with a distant layer of sarcasm masked by an intense show of faith and humility.
Martin found himself trembling with joy just to be dry and warm again. His body had become a shipwreck of shivering timbers, sailing unknown seas in a storm, or something like that. He was beyond poetry and metaphor. This was reality, or something approximating it.
Whatever happened to his clothes, he made sure he kept his wallet close and tight. It had his I.D. cards, driver’s license, credit cards, and cash—several hundred semoleans, intended to impress Chloë.
"You are welcome to join the Holy Sanctuary Church of Al-Balaam and rejoice in the Spirit of Salvation," Deacon Ramirez intoned. "Al-Balaam is the Prophet of God. Rejoice!"
The rocking and singing in the church continued unabated while Jimmy and Martin shed their wet clothing and now wore white sheets.
"These are the white garments of the elect," intoned Deacon Ramirez .
He was joined by an equally large black man in a black suit. "I am Deacon Greg Beor," said the newcomer. "I will help ready you for the Lord. Follow me."
Martin and Jimmy left their clothes behind in soggy piles on the floor. Women in the sanctuary rushed in to scoop the clothing up in trash bags. "We will clean them and return them to you so that your garments will be purified," so sayeth Deacon Beor. "A warm shower with lots of soap and water will be your next odor of business."
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Thank you for reading the first half (free, what I call the Bookstore Metaphor). If you love it, you can (easily and safely at Amazon) buy the whole e-book for the painless price of a cup of coffee—also known as Read-a-Latte (hours of reading enjoyment; the coffee is gone in minutes, but the book stays with you forever). You can also get those many hours of happy reading from the print edition for the price of a sandwich (no, I don't have a metaphor for that, like a 'sandwich metaphor?'). To help the author, please recommend this book your friends, and also post a favorable (five star!) review at Amazon, Good Reads, and similar online reader resources. Thank you (JTC).
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