The Parking Lot Prophet

On a hot and humid Sunday afternoon in August, Churchill surveys the scene from his driver's seat perch. Families amble to and from their cars and IHOP. He takes care to park in the same space, hidden from Walgreens’ cameras, and always backs in, so no one can approach him from behind.

He turns off the car and removes the key. Can't have a dead battery like the time before.

Anticipation climbs his spine like a lizard up a wall. When he deems it safe, he removes the Whip-It canister from a cloth shopping bag and puts on a pair of gloves. Don't want any frostbite either.

He unscrews the cartridge holder, and inserts a silver metallic bulb, nipple side down. He twists it into the canister: Crack. The gas releases: Hiss. Bringing the dispenser to his lips, he presses the lever and inhales fully, then holds his breath.

Twist, crack, hiss, suck, hold.

“Do another.”

“And another.”

After fifty, the first ice layer forms.

“Now two at a time.”

Twist, crack, hiss.

Twist, crack, hiss.

Suck.

And hold.

“Take it all in, every time!”

Twist, crack, hiss.

Twist, crack, hiss.

Suck.

And hold.

Again.

And again.

My field of vision sparkles with sprinkles of dayglo pink and green.

Like confetti assembling, they form spinning pinwheels and fold into themselves. As revolving spheres, they reorganize into a grid.

With the discipline of a runner doing quarter mile repeats on the track, Churchy inhales nitrous oxide.

Angels in bleachers chant, “Go, Churchy, Go!”

With accelerating speed, ice builds.

In a state of euphoria, I reach the Spiritual realm, revealing mystical ecstasy.

Churchy conveys thoughts, not speech. The Spiritual realm requires no language for communication.

God told me to consume copious amounts of nitrous oxide.

The Spirit moves me to inhale.

Ice crusts the canister.

God commands my obedience. Climbing higher, I participate in Oneness of Everything.

In prophetic garb: tunic, rope belt, sandals, 

I travel beyond time and space.

To a desert: Dust. Sandstone. Pyramids.

Dust blows. In a boat, I row.

God speaks: “Maintain Equilibrium.”

The Third Eye open, closed eyes see.

The Leather Landscape: A contoured, checkered Path, light and dark

brown. The Path unfolds into hills, valleys, and snow capped mountains visible in the distance.

The Fabric of Enlightenment, a whorl of multi-colored

vectors: pink and green and all the other colors, rainbow, and beyond, envelops me. I am immersed in beauty.

===================================================

A blaring car horn penetrates, returning Churchy to Earth. He lifts his head. The blare ceases.

Time check. 3:33. Left home at 1. Session commenced: 1:11.

Time to mobilize. Remain undercover.

Dripping sweat, frozen dayglo green Whip-It canister between his legs, Churchy places the last empty box on two black plastic bags in the passenger seat, filled with spent metal bulbs: The ammunition of a spiritual warrior.

Gloves off, he reaches into the cup holder for the key. Didn’t I put it there? He feels his pockets. Where did I put it? He looks in the bags and the bulbs clink. He checks the floor.

Addled and perspiring, he anxiously opens the door. Air flows in. Oxygen refreshes.

Stepping out of the car, he stumbles on numb feet to search the back seat.

There, on the floor. How did it get there?!

A wave of nausea crests to a gag. He starts the car and blasts the A/C. 

He looks left at IHOP, and, seeing no cars, shifts to drive, turning towards Walgreens. 

God appears, a gray column rising to the sky: Maintain equilibrium.

“Maintain equilibrium,” he says aloud, then inches forward carefully, foot on brake. 

Before leaving the lot, he parks by the Vietnamese restaurant next to the vape shop to dispose of the bags and boxes. Dropping them in the trash can, he cringes at the clinking clatter. Furtive glances all around: I remain undetected. 

The canister, cold to touch and wet with ice melt, returns to its bag.

No one will believe that God tells me to do this.

He breathes deeply and drives. Maintain Equilibrium.

“Maintain Equilibrium,” he says aloud again.

Up the treed driveway then through a side door, with stealth and vigilance, like an undercover CIA agent, Churchy walks to his home office, places the cloth bag into a file cabinet drawer, and closes it to lock.

“Hi Honey, I’m back. Any thoughts about dinner?”

Napping in the family room, she blinks, stretches and yawns. “How about a G&T?”

Churchy fills tumblers with ice and pours jiggers of gin. He finishes with fizzy tonic and squeezes of lime.

On porch chairs, Churchy and Honey rock and sip. I remain undetected.

After refills, they take seats at the kitchen table and bow their heads.

“Bless us, O Lord, and these thy gifts, which we are about to receive through thy bounty.”

“Amen.”

Pensive, Churchy chews. He wishes he could tell Honey about the Fabric of Enlightenment. But it is an undercover mission.

“Get what you needed?”

Churchy nods, preoccupied with images from earlier.

I become a lizard man wearing Scottish tweed, then a shaman at a fair.

In a familiar fractal hallway, I see Mom, her back to me.

She turns to look me in the eye.

It makes me cry.

On the hallway floor, a silvery salamander slithers into a circle and shrinks. Becoming a singular point, it disappears.

“Churchy?”

“What’s that?”

“Your mind is elsewhere. I was asking how Mary's doing?”

“Sorry. Guess I was lost in thought. Funny, though. I was actually just thinking about her.”

“So, how is she?”

“I called Toni while I was out. Mom’s still in the hospital. She may be discharged tomorrow. Toni asked me to be there. I said I would.”

===========================================================

“Hey, Sis. Just checking in on Mom. How are you doing?”

“Not great. I’m still at the hospital. When are you coming? Mom was asking about you. Said she could hear you down the hall. I think she's delirious.”

“Probably so. I've been busy. I'm heading to a meeting now.”

“A meeting on Sunday? Well, I could use your help. Can you at least be here tomorrow? They're saying she may be discharged, if you can believe that.”

“Sure. I’ll be there.”

===========================================================

“Is Churchy here?”

“No, Mom. He’s supposed to call me.”

“I heard him talking earlier. I thought he was down the hall.”

“He’s not here.”

“Are you sure? I definitely heard him down the hall earlier.”

“What did he say?”

“He said, ‘This is it. This is what I have been seeing.’ Do you know what that means?”

“No, I don’t. Wait, he’s calling. Let me talk to him.”

===========================================================

Churchy sees the nurse. In a tone reserved for hospitals and funeral homes, he asks, “How is she doing?”

“She’s sleeping. The brain injury was severe. It requires rest to heal. Time and rest. Are you her son?”

“Yes. My sister’s Toni.”

“Oh, I know Toni. She's here every day.”

Churchy, feeling negligent and a pang of guilt, enters Mary’s room.

“Hi Mom,” he gingerly kisses her forehead.

Mary’s eyes open. “You made it.”

“Freed up last night. Are you being discharged today?”

“Maybe, maybe not. Soon, they say.”

“Your bruise is healing.”

“I heard you down the hall yesterday.”

“Really? What did I say?”

“You said, ‘This is what I have been seeing,’ but I didn’t know what that meant.”

Churchy shivers. I saw Mom in the hallway. She looked at me. Do the brain injured have access?

“The Spiritual realm is real.”

“Oh, I know that.”

“I’ve seen all kinds of things, Mom. God spoke to me. He told me, ‘Maintain equilibrium.’”

“Can you do it?”

“I’m trying my best. Are you tired? Should I let you sleep?”

“Yes. I just need rest. Rest and peace.”

"Rest up, Mom. I have to make a call. From the car. But I'll see you again.”

Mary drifts to sleep.

The captain of a ship in pouring rain, I remain dry.

A lizard man appears, produces a blade, strikes my forehead.

Defenseless, I kneel on the deck of the ship and pray.

Lizard man disappears.

Now the boy of my youth, I am delivered to a sunny meadow. 

From ocean waves, Mom emerges and walks towards me, bearing a beatific expression. We bask in peaceful warmth.

Next to his car in a remote corner of the garage, Churchy lies prostrate in a sea of scattered silver bulbs. Bright red blood streams from his head, seeps into the concrete. It forms a sticky, steadily growing pool, enveloping all that surrounds him, including the still standing green Whip-It canister.

Toni enters her mother’s room. “Hi, Mom.” She kisses her forehead. It is cold. Mary’s eyes do not open.

With tears in her eyes, Toni calls Churchy.

The ringtone from Churchy’s phone echoes throughout the concrete structure.

THE END