Cheeseburger Subversive (12 page)

“You heard Reverend Rathburn's sermon last week on supporting your fellow parishioners,
didn't you
?” he rails. “Did he not mention a number of local businesses who are endorsed
exclusively
by the Church of the Lord's Holy Command?”

“Well, yes, of course, but — ”

“And was Searchlight TV not one of those businesses?”

“Well, sure, but — ”

“And are you telling me that you
doubt
the words of our Holy Reverend?” Missiles of spit fly from Liam Capper's lips as his voice reaches a quavering crescendo. “You are
unwilling
to
trust
the man whom
Jesus himself
trusts more than any other?”

“Of course I trust the Reverend, Liam!”

“Very good then,” says Liam Capper, dropping the moral indignation routine. “WANDA!” he bellows.

Behind the counter, the young woman snaps to attention. Without a trace of irony, she answers, “Yes, my loving master?”

“Write up a bill of sale for a Panisonic 17-inch TV,” he sighs. “And give him our highest congregation-member's discount — four
eighty
-nine.” He turns to Ronald and whispers, “We usually only give this sort of deep discount to the Reverend himself, so keep it under your hat!”

“Oh, I will, I will!
Jesus forgive you
, Liam!”

“
Jesus forgive you
, too, Ronald,” Liam says, as he walks into the backroom behind the counter.

Wanda smiles vacantly while a noisy old dot matrix printer cranks out a receipt. She absently switches the floppy disk in the computer, and prints out a second receipt. Ronald signs them and scribbles out a cheque. Wanda continues smiling like a plastic doll as she tears a carbon copy from one of the receipts and hands it to Ronald, who hurries out of the store with his wife, looking like an infidel who has just escaped the Spanish Inquisition.

“
Jesus forgive you
!” Wanda cheerfully calls out as the door creaks shut behind them.

Something about this is very weird, and I have a strong feeling that I should walk out right behind them, but the words DOUBLE MINIMUM WAGE from the Help Wanted ad leap into my head, so I walk to the counter instead.

“Um, hello,” I say to Wanda. “I'm here to apply for the delivery job.”

“Delivery job?” she hazily asks, looking as if she is trying to decide whether or not I am really here. “Oh yes. Liam fired Corky last week, didn't he?” She fades into herself for a moment.

Perhaps Corky didn't love Jesus enough. I'd have to make sure to come across as extra pious.

Suddenly she says brightly, “Oh! I'll go back and get Liam! He's in his office.”

I am left standing alone at the counter for at least twenty minutes before she returns with Liam Capper. While wondering what the two of them could possibly be doing back there for so long, my bored eyes wander across the countertop to the copy of the receipt for Ronald's new TV which Wanda had left lying there. Right beside it, in plain view, is
another
copy of the same bill, but
with different numbers on it
! The original receipt shows that Ronald paid $609 for the TV (including taxes and mysterious fees), yet the second bill shows that Searchlight TV charged only $365! Again my instincts tell me to leave the store but the temptation of DOUBLE MINIMUM WAGE, like the apple to Adam, is impossible to resist.

Liam Capper finally strides in from the rear of the store with Wanda following a few paces behind, her eyes cast down. Liam Capper thrusts his hand in my direction and says, “Sorry to keep you waiting here for so long, but I needed Wanda to, uh . . . help me with the books. I'm Liam Capper, owner of Searchlight TV and deacon of the Church of the Lord's Holy Command.”

“I'm Dak Sifter,” I say, pretending not to notice that Wanda's hair is messed up and her blouse is now tucked into the waistband of her panties. Those books must be pretty hard to manage!

“So,” says Liam, “you're here to interview for the delivery job. Normally, I hire only members of our church, but I'm in a bit of a pinch right now. So, tell me, do you love Jesus?”

“If people were more like Jesus,” I say, “the world would be a better place.”

I haven't been to church since I was nine-years-old, but I really do mean that. The kind, wise, forgiving Jesus I learned about in Sunday School seemed like someone worth looking up to.

“Do you walk in the light of the Lord, and obey his holy commands?” Liam Capper asks. The weird glow in his eyes tells me I had better not say no. Since I haven't yet had many opportunities to break any of the Ten Commandments, I, more-or-less, truthfully say, “Sure.”

“Great!” says Liam Capper. “Just one more question — do you have a valid driver's license, and can you drive a large van?”

“Of course!” I say, confident in the knowledge that I have been practicing my driving in Mom's Honda Civic and, despite backing one tire over a curb while parallel parking, I did manage to pass my driver's test.

“Perfect!” says Liam Capper. “You're hired. You can start right now.”

I work like a slave all day, loading dozens of heavy televisions into the Searchlight TV van without any help from Liam Capper, who spends most of the day loudly summoning Wanda into his office for more help with the books. The shock absorbers on the dilapidated delivery van are totally worn out. So compared to my Mom's Honda Civic, driving the bouncy cube van around town feels more like flying a helicopter through turbulence. The customers to whom I deliver goods all seem to be members of the Church of the Lord's Holy Command, judging by their frequent use of the phrase
Jesus forgive you
, and the ubiquitous long dresses, braids, and lack of makeup on the women. After a few deliveries, it begins to unnerve me how the women always look at their feet when men are present.

The strangest delivery of the day, though, is to the Church of the Lord's Holy Command itself. Reverend Rathburn requested a new television for his office, and deacon Liam Capper practically drools all over himself to oblige. Liam sends me to deliver the Reverend the best TV in the store, an enormous
real
Sony. I feel my muscle fibers tearing as I struggle to heft the huge television crate over the van's tailgate.

The church itself resembles a postmodern shopping mall — all white brick and stainless steel. On the wall nearest the building's entrance, a huge steel cross hangs with a jagged lightning bolt cutting through it. Beneath this symbol is a large plaque inscribed with the following words:

The Church of the Lord's Holy Command
Faireville District Parish
The Superior Reverend Ignaceous Rathburn, Presiding
“JESUS FORGIVE YOU ”

Ignaceous Rathburn
? Where had I heard that name before?

I walk inside feeling tense and jumpy which is a strange way to feel in a place of worship. At the end of a long corridor is a stainless steel door engraved with the cross-and-lightning logo and the words, Office of the Reverend. A couple sit in the plastic chairs to the right of the door — the man with his chest puffed out and his chin in the air, and the woman hunched over with her face cupped in her hands, her long skirt tucked between her legs. Maybe they can tell me where to drop off the television.

As I walk towards them, the steel door opens and out steps an enormous man with wiry, shoulder-length black hair and a jaw like a cement block. He is wearing shimmering, gunmetal-blue robes, with the cross-and-lightning logo embroidered in silver across his barrel-shaped chest. Large gold rings encircle each of his meaty fingers like brass knuckles. I stop in my tracks.

The man in the robes turns his elevated gaze upon the woman.

“Cynthia,” his voice echoes through the hall, “according to your loving master Paul, there is a problem we need to address.”

Now I remember where I've heard the name Ignaceous Rathburn — he had once been known as Iggy Wrath, former lead singer of the thrash-metal band Ejaculator, which fell off the public radar when a judge sentenced Iggy to an extended stay at a correctional facility.

The woman pleads, “But Reverend, it was an accident! I only — ”

“You broke one of the Lord's holy commands!” Rathburn glowers.

“As I already explained to my loving master, I was only trying to — ”

“THE LORD'S HOLY COMMANDS ARE NOT TO BE BROKEN!” Rathburn roars. He grabs her arm in one of his huge fists and jerks her from her seat. She hangs like a rag doll from his grip as he drags her through his office door and shoves her onto a sofa just inside the doorway. “
Jesus forgive me
!” the woman shrieks as Reverend Ignaceous Rathburn kicks the door shut behind him.

Her husband sits there with his arms folded across his chest looking strangely smug.

I sprint out of the building, heave the television from the back of the van and shove it through the front doors of the church. I drive away with one side of my brain fearing what might be happening to that woman in the Reverend's office and the other side wondering if it's all just my imagination.

Later that evening, Zoe and I sit on the same side of a booth at the local burger joint comparing our notes for tomorrow's science test. I tell her that I'm saving for a car of my own and that I've just started a new job delivering TVs for Searchlight TV. I am just getting into the story of my weird visit to the Church of the Lord's Holy Command, when Zoe's jaw drops.

“The Church of the Lord's Holy Command?” she interrupts. “The
CLHC
? Haven't you been reading the papers or watching the news?”

“Zoe, I'm working two jobs and going to school. When do I have time to read the papers or watch TV?”

“Dak, if your new boss is involved with
them
, you've got to quit right away. They're more like a brainwashing cult than a church. It's been a running story in
The Star
for the past two weeks: ‘Bad Men Who Love Jesus.'”

“Oh, come on, Zoe . . . as if anything that sinister is happening in Faireville! You can't even rent an R-rated movie in this town!”

“They've got these so-called churches popping up everywhere,” Zoe continues. “They recruit new members from drug and alcohol rehab programs, unemployment offices, and other places where people are hurting and vulnerable. The FBI and the RCMP have been trying to get to them for years for tax evasion, fraud, and other illegal stuff, but they haven't been able to get enough evidence — the congregation members are intimidated into keeping their mouths shut, and the church insiders cover their tracks too well.”

“I'm sure not all of them cover their tracks so well,” I say, remembering the phony receipt Wanda left lying on the counter in full view.

“That's not even the worst part,” Zoe continues. “The women are forced to submit completely to the men, and there's even an official dress code. The women are punished for exposing their legs or letting their hair down, or doing anything that might arouse lust in other men. Yet, they are supposed to do whatever the men of the church demand, whenever they demand it. They get punished if they refuse.”

My stomach tightens as I tell Zoe about the woman who was dragged by Reverend Rathburn into his office, and the way her husband had watched with his head high in the air. I guess it wasn't just my imagination after all.

“God, Zoe,” I say, “the crap people do to each other in the name of Jesus. It must really piss Him off.”

“You can't go back there, Dak,” Zoe says, inching a little closer to me on the vinyl bench seat and giving me the big brown eyes treatment. It never fails to make me to do whatever she asks. “These are dangerous people. Quit your job at the TV store. Promise me you won't go back.”

During the week that follows, I take some time to scour the city newspapers for information about the Church of the Lord's Holy Command. There is nothing at all until Friday, when
The Star
prints an official apology and retraction for “alleged misinformation and innuendo” they printed earlier about the CLHC. In another major newspaper it is revealed that one of the CLHC deacons, who also happens to be a notorious litigation lawyer, is threatening
The Star
with a lawsuit.

The newspapers can't stop them. The police can't stop them. I go to bed with a feeling of powerlessness, like fingers of ice are closing around my heart. Tomorrow is Saturday, and I am supposed to show up for my second day of work at Searchlight TV. What am I going to do?

During the night, I have a strange and vivid dream. I am driving along in the Searchlight TV van, but gliding through the sky rather than bouncing along a road. Beside me in the passenger seat sits Jesus Christ, not the CLHC's version of Jesus, but the Jesus I knew and trusted when I was a little kid in Sunday School. He has never appeared in my dreams before, but here He is, nodding along to the blues playing on the van's radio. Jesus is speaking directly into my mind, saying, “Do what you have to do.”

“I don't understand,” I say out loud. “What do I have to do?”

The words Jesus sends back into my brain are, “When the time comes, you will know.”

Then Jesus smiles and vanishes. The tires bounce against the ground with a jolt, and I sit upright in bed, my heart pounding.

It is six o'clock. I rise and dress. Despite my promise to Zoe, I am going back to Searchlight TV for a second Saturday. I hope that she will understand. There are greater forces at work here.

My first assignment of the day is a job I haven't done before. An elderly woman had been into the store the day before complaining of poor television reception. I am to climb up on her roof, replace her old antenna with an expensive, high-tech one, and replace the old flat antenna wire with coaxial cable. After I load the huge antenna, a toolbox, and a heavy spool of cable into the Searchlight TV van, Liam hands me a pre-printed bill and a cell phone.