Schopenhauer. A German philosopher, he was surprised to learn. The preacher had a mentor, a philosopher. Felix also had a dead mentor. He liked a preacher who cited great people. He was trying to memorize quotes too, even though most people had forgotten Gibran.
The preacher mentioned “the insidious myth of altruism,” and some other things, then carefully read, spitting the words, “Again, Schopenhauer: ‘Truth is no harlot who throws her arms round the neck of him who does not desire her. . . . She is so coy a beauty that even the man who sacrifices everything to her can still not be certain of her favors.’” A couple of older women toward the front turned toward one another and frowned.
Felix had encountered a co-intellectual. “Truth is no harlot who throws her arms round the neck of him who does not desire her . . .” Though Gibran probably would not put it that way, Felix liked the quote. He saved “truth is no harlot” to the notepad on his Dragon, thinking, “That sums it all up.”
At the end of the service Felix followed the pastor and an adolescent acolyte out the door of the sanctuary and into the entrance hall. A few loitered and chatted. The Prophet’s maxim, “Your daily life is your temple and your religion,” confirmed.
“Passing through?” Witzkopf asked as he shook Felix’s hand. The man’s coiffure sprouted in various directions, though in the noontide heat some of his hair was now plastered to his forehead. He wore a clerical collar and scuffed, brown shoes, neither of which Felix had seen on preachers back home.
“Actually, I’ve just moved to Galilee,” Felix responded.
“What in God’s name for?”
“Communications. Trinity Communications,” said Felix.
“Really? Odd. Don’t get newcomers. Just about none your age. In a way, you and I are in the same profession. Are you a Methodist? Must not be, what with your invocation of the Trinity.”
“I grew up Baptist. Actually, I’m a seeker, a searcher, sort of,” Felix replied. He felt the aggravation of the older couple behind him, displeased at this extended conversation in violation of post-service custom. “Maybe we could talk sometime next week. I agree that truth is no harlot.”
“I’d like that,” said the pastor as he passed Felix on down the steps. “I’d really like that. As you see,” he said under his breath, “this bunch of dolts isn’t much into searching or seeking. I can tell you.”
At the foot of the steps a jovial older man offered Felix an outstretched hand. “Well hello and welcome to Galilee, son!” he called. “George Grimes here. By the prodding of the pastor, head usher; by the will of the people, public servant. Saw you made it to our attendance pad.” Felix brightened and shook his hand eagerly. “I take it you are just passing through. Nobody ever uses those attendance pads. What brings you by our fair city?”
“Communications, sir,” answered Felix. “Trinity Communications.”
“And just what did you want to communicate?” Grimes asked with a grin. An older woman, very thin, stood just behind Grimes, looking at Felix through large, pink sunglasses. Felix assumed that she was Mrs. Grimes. She smiled at Felix with brightly painted red lips.
“Uh, Trinity is only the how of communication, not the what. We aren’t even the why. We’re the means, not the substance,” Felix said, quoting verbatim from Quattlebaum’s sales manual. “We help keep folks on the same page.”
Grimes shook off these remarks congenially, then asked, “Say, what did you mean by what all you wrote on the attendance pad? That thing about us being ‘the way and the wayfarers.’ Was that meant as an evaluation of the service? If so, take heart. I think our organist may be on his way out, if you get my drift?”
“Why, no,” said Felix. “That’s from my spiritual mentor, the great . . .”
Looking over his shoulder, Grimes called out, “Somebody go tell that boy to stop smoking near the church steps!” The acolyte, free of his cassock, was lighting up on the sidewalk. “We got company here.”
“Oh, that’s alright,” Felix said. “Though smoking is wrong for me, I do feel people ought to be free to . . .”
Grimes, ignoring Felix’s comments, wheeled about and coaxed a young woman toward Felix with the words, “Here. This is my precious little Margarita. I want you to know that it’s not really a Spanish name.” He laughed loudly.
“You young folks go ahead and get to know each other. Margarita honey, you make Fred feel welcome. I fear Fred is not long with us. Maybe you can make it worth his while to stay awhile. Get him to take off his shoes.”
The girl smiled shyly as she and Felix moved to the edge of the street. He nervously chattered, comparing Salisbury with Galilee, mentioning the heat, asking her where was a good place to get groceries, repeating his actual name. When she apologized for the heat, Felix told her about his childhood asthma. He had learned to be content in almost any weather because, as he told himself, everything depends on how you look at it. All a matter of what’s in your heart.
“What’s in the heart means everything to me,” she said. He beamed when she explained, “You’re gonna find that there’s not many folks our age in this dead town. Not many have got much heart left. You’ll let me show you around, won’t you? Nothin’ more interesting than a good-hearted boy, particularly one that we don’t know nothin’ about.”
“That would be great!” As they swapped phone numbers, Felix’s Gotcha buzzed with a new text: B & E MON AM GIT YOKLE LST AT CT. HSE. MARGARET MEAD.
He turned aside to decipher: Bright and early Monday morning (or perhaps brash and eager?); obtain list of local farmers from the county courthouse.
“I know you are just so busy getting settled,” she said. “But I hope you will have time to hang out. Everybody but Daddy calls me Rita. Wouldn’t want to see you get too settled.”
He noted her pure, pale face, the perfect complement to her blonde hair. The lace collar on her dress suggested that she was an old-fashioned sort of girl. Friendly, not pushy, he thought. Good-hearted. He could hardly believe his good fortune to have met so nice a girl on his first full day in town.
“I’ll call later, Felix,” she said with a wink as her father led her and the thin, blonde woman (her mother?) down the street toward their car.
Felix’s slight smile and curt wave concealed his great delight.
“And son,” said Grimes in a lowered voice, “in the future please use the attendance pads for what they supposed to be used for, not to sound off with your pet peeves. I can tell that you are the sort of young man on the way up who doesn’t mind good advice. You’re not a Democrat are you, by any chance? I know somebody up in South Carolina who is a member of the party. Can’t think of his name right now. Well, good to meet you, Frank.”
“I’m more of a seeker, actually, than a member of any political party,” said Felix to Mr. Grimes’ backside.
A couple of old folks smiled but did not speak as Felix turned toward his apartment. The heat of midday was now scorching in its intensity, but Felix was light-hearted as he made his way back to a Sunday peanut butter sandwich at his new home, pleased at his good luck his first Sunday in Galilee, thrilled at having met a girl like Rita and a fellow traveler like the pastor. It’s like I’m already home. He spent the rest of the afternoon sitting
