The Impartial Friend

The Impartial Friend

By Selmoore Codfish

Copyright 2013 Selmoore Codfish

Smashwords Edition

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Table of Contents

The Impartial Friend, Chapters 1 to 21

About the Author

Sugar and Spice, Chapter 1

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Chapter 1

Kneel.

Sire Belcher had led me into his office. He’d left a message on my voicemail to come see him after assembly Sunday, which is today. I couldn’t remember the last time that I was at assembly. That was probably why he had called me there. He was going to berate me for not coming to worship regularly even though I was an employee of the Mother Assembly. I was only a low-level insurance agent and adjustor at the Sacred Recluse Self-Insurance Group. (SRSIG)

After he’d motioned for me to come in, he’d closed his door and turned to me. I was sure that he would begin with the standard speech, You need to be a role model. People look up to you. How can I get other believers to attend assembly if our own employees aren’t even here?

Instead, all he said was, Kneel.

I knelt before him on his office floor, and bowed my head. He was going to go right into my punishment. I knew I had been irresponsible and he didn’t need to remind me.

Get up.

I obliged him.

Then again he said, Kneel, and I knelt.

This must be my punishment, I thought. He was going to make me kneel repeatedly on his floor. The floor was hardwood, but my young knees could handle quite a bit of abuse.

As I expected, he again said, Get up.

I got up again.

Mr. Kneel Harris.

I began to kneel, but looked back at him. I was unsure what was going on. Was he trying to trick me? Again he said my name, Mr. Neal Harris.

Yes, I said. I guess kneeling wasn’t my punishment yet. I avoided looking directly at him. I was embarrassed and didn’t want to know what he thought.

I want to show you something, he said. Then he began to defrock. He removed his robe then he lifted up his shirt.

I thought, Oh God. He wants to be my special friend. But I’m too old to be an altar boy. If this is the punishment for missing too many assemblies then I may just find a new job and new religion. I wanted to avoid looking at him even more. Maybe that was how they got to you. First, they embarrassed you, and after that, they pounced.

Then I noticed the fresh wound on his torso. The wound was in the same area as the scar I had from when I was young. Then I looked at him and realized that his sweaty palms and flush face were not from the excitement of defrocking in front of me, but from pain.

Prompted by his emotion, I thought back to the sermon that he had just completed. He had been in pain. I mistook it for passion. I found it hard to distinguish between the two. They are both strong emotions. However, his voice had been filled with more distress than necessary in a sermon about tithing although, this assembly did appear to be in desperate need of money. Fewer than one hundred worshipers had been in the St. Calvin Klein Temple earlier that morning. I remembered many more members there when I was a boy.

However, Belcher’s agony was from something deeper and more personal. My appendix has been stolen and with it my soul, he said with despair.

I remembered my recent visit with Professor D’Verbose at Elliot Seminary. We talked about how a second coming of the savior would be recognized. He reminded me that the appendix was the vessel of the soul, because the soul has to have a residence within the body. He thought that a savior would have an extra large appendix.

However, if the appendix held the soul then that gave little hope to my future, and Sire Belcher. What were with without our appendixes? Walking dead?

You say it was stolen? I asked.

Yes, four days ago. I have just today felt well enough to appear at the temple. He tucked his frock and retied his sash.

Then he said, You must help me. I know that you are an investigator with SRSIG. I need someone who I can trust that is outside of the squabbling within the Assembly.

I nodded at the later statement. He seemed reassured, as if I had agreed to help him. I suppose I had agreed. His situation was similar to my own. My appendix had been removed when I was younger.

I don’t know if Belcher knew about that. I had never told anyone. Losing one’s soul could lead to ostracism. I hoped my parents hadn’t told anyone either. The temple had gotten two new preachers since then. I hoped that even if he knew about my lost appendix that he wouldn’t threaten me with releasing the information. We now shared a secret. Even if he knew nothing about me, our fates were tied. I felt that I must help him.

Do you know who your attacker was? I asked.

I don’t remember anything after supper that evening, he replied.

Did you go out or stay in?

I don’t remember anything after supper that evening, he repeated.

I thought that his memory might come back to him with time. I wondered why he needed someone from outside to help him.

Is there no one else here that can help you through this? I asked.

I can’t take the chance, this is my life, he said. That seemed like an exaggeration to me. I had lived quite well since the loss of my appendix. However, it was much more severe to a preacher to lose his soul. For many people their livelihoods are their lives. If he were removed from his post as preacher, he would be left working as a greeter at Junk-Mart.

Sensing my disbelief he added, Two of our members have been murdered in the past couple of weeks. The first one was murdered shortly after she asked the people of our assembly for their support when her appendix stolen.

That was a wonderful way to show support. Someone helped the victim reach her heavenly destination.

The second murder was four days ago, the same day as my misfortune. Mr. Blankly’s funeral is tomorrow at three. I had heard a rumor that his appendix had been stolen, but he never publicly admitted it.

Now I understood the need to keep this information secret. My life could even be in danger if anyone were to find out about my appendicitis. However, rather than feeling that I should help him, I desired an urgent extended vacation. I couldn’t escape, though. He could have known this secret about me, too.

I could have just asked him what he knew about me. I could have said, Is there any reason that I should help you?

Then he might have said, The fate of your eternal soul.

However, he could mean anything. He could mean that he knew about my appendicitis, or he could mean that he would only hex my soul if I refused to help him. He would pull out an ancient secret text that had been passed down, and seldom used except in emergencies. He might make a replica doll of me and stick pins at the location of my appendix.

That was nothing to worry about because I didn’t have an appendix. He couldn’t hex something that wasn’t there.

If I had asked him if there was any reason why I should help, it might have aroused his suspicion.

I’ll have to think about my plan to investigate this, I said. I rarely deal with murders. My cases are usually misplaced jewelry, or applications for insurance coverage by mental patients who eat too much pudding. I’ll call you tomorrow.

No, you can’t call me, he said.

I thought that maybe he planned to go on an urgent extended vacation also. Perhaps to the Holy Land. Most clergy visited there.

He might learn more going to the Unholy Land. We don’t learn from ourselves, and people like us. We learn from observing others who are different than us.

I can’t trust the phones. Anyone could be listening in. I wouldn’t put it past my secretary.

I nodded. I wouldn’t put it past my secretary either. Bless her soul, Bobbie was a good person, but she had her weaknesses.

You must not even come to my office, he said.

I thought, Surely, they don’t have your office bugged. I thought back to the behaviors of mental patients that I had observed in my most recent case. I couldn’t tell for certain that he was delusional. I might have been able to make that judgment if he had told me that some supernatural being had ears that were eavesdropping on his every sound and thought. I mean some super being, besides God, listening in. It was acceptable to believe that God was eavesdropping, but not others such as trolls, fairies, or Santa Claus.

You must instead come to my confession booth from now on when you need to talk. Any minute now people will start to become suspicious about why I am talking to you.

Maybe his precautions were justified. Rumors had killed a man and his funeral was tomorrow.

Okay, I said.

I will tell everyone that we met today because you are repenting for your sins.

What sins? Now I had blown it. He was going to threaten me with revealing my appendicitis. I had sinned, but I wasn’t going to tell him about it—salvation or not.

He looked at me and said, All mortals sin. His answer was vague enough, because it could be a threat or a platitude.

You must not ever say anything to Deacon Salvadori.

He’s the one person I would have most trusted. He was the priests’ right-hand man. I hadn’t ever met him. I ignored most old robe wearing men anyhow. However, I would have thought that the Sire would hire a deacon he could trust.

The assembly is divided into his followers and mine. They were responsible for spreading many of the rumors about Mr. Blankly. I cannot trust him to keep this quiet.

Don’t you have the power to replace him? I asked.

No. Because this assembly was founded after the Second Grand Council, our charter follows its rules. Since then, the council makes all of the real decisions in the assembly.

I kicked myself for not remembering that catechism. All I really remembered from catechism was that I had to learn the names of the volumes in the Holy Book. But now I could barely rattle off a dozen.

I nodded to acknowledge that I understood him.

Okay, then let’s go to coffee hour, he said. We arose and walked into the sanctuary.

Coffee hour was a misnomer. Doughnut hour would be a more appropriate name. Coffee or doughnut hour was an ancient ritual that was as old as worshiping in temples. Ancient believers met in doughnut shops. Other believers met at brownie stores, but that preference was mostly a phenomenon localized around the area of the Sacred Recluse.

Doughnuts were older than most people realized. Deep fried dough is such a vital contributor to a person’s peace-of-mind that a doughnut shop was the first business set up outside of the Garden of Eden.

The believers would meet in the doughnut shops and say a prayer before eating. The prayers and rituals were first just a way to kill time until the doughnuts were ready. Each time someone added just one more ritual before sacramental doughnut consumption. People insisted that their favorite rituals always be repeated. Eventually the rituals became a full service at the shop. Modern services have evolved to only a long prayer before digging into the goodies.

The early gatherings became large assemblies of worshippers at scheduled times. The membership increased by inviting people who looked hungry for doughnuts. A believer would approach a vagrant and say, Some friends and I are going for doughnuts. Would you like to come along? It’s our treat. No one would mention that there would be prayers before the treats, but by then the new believer would be in the doughnut shop. The vagrant could smell the pastries, and because he was thinking about eating, he usually wouldn’t even hear the sermon.

The believer would say, You have suffered in pain.

The vagrant would respond, Yes, I have been in pain, and hungry too. In the Holy Book, this line was written, I hunger and thirst after righteousness. That was the official response, but the vagrants would never get the wording quite right.

The believer would say, There is hope. You must confess your sins so that you stop hurting.

The vagrant responded, I confess that my stomach is in pain from hunger.

This reinforced that the soul was found in the appendix because it was located in the tummy. It makes perfect sense that the vagrant would hurt at the location of his soul. He may think that he is hungry, but he probably just confused unhappiness in the pit of his stomach with starvation.

The believer would say, Let us begin the ritual of the doughnuts.

The vagrant would respond, Thank God, I’m starving. In modern rituals this is shortened to, Thanks be to God.

The believer would say, Lord, bless these doughnuts that we are about to receive. Let us be truly grateful.

The vagrant responded, Bless them.

Then the deacon would bring out the plate of prune-filled doughnuts. They were prune filled so that they would help the soul, the hunger, and the colon simultaneously.

Deacons were responsible for The Serving of the Doughnuts and Coffee. The word deacon comes from waiter. (I’m not making this up. Check it yourself.) Deacons were the waiters at the doughnut shops. They were absorbed into the Mother Assembly hierarchy when the doughnut shops transformed into Temples.

At St. Calvin Klein the waiter/deacon immediately approached us as we entered. He was anxious to provide us quick service. Would you like a doughnut? he asked.

Thank you, I said as I politely took one. It was plump with filling. The deacon smiled graciously as I took it. He didn’t offer one to the preacher.

I wasn’t as desperate as a vagrant, but as a poor employee of the Assembly I could accept small charities. We had already done the ritual readings during the service. I had confessed the hunger in my soul, so I didn’t need to say anything beyond thanking him. However, whether I still had a soul was an open question. My appendix was gone.

Sire Belcher quickly said, Deacon Salvadori, do you know Mr. Harris?

No, he said.

I was talking to him in my office. He is repenting and wants to become a more regular worshipper, Belcher said.

Great, the deacon said to me. Then to the preacher he said, Did you enjoy your little vacation?

Without waiting for an answer from Sire Belcher the deacon said to me, We have to forgive him for his blackouts, because it is very important to minister to the people in the shelters.

The deacon was referring to the side effects priests suffered from taking the sacrament of the diluted poison. The poison was used to kill Ralph, our Savior, and Son of God. The side effect of frequent consumption of a symbolic amount of poison was blackouts. My friends and I had made fun of these blackouts since we were boys. However, I always tried to give people the benefit of the doubt. Maybe the religious experience overwhelmed the priests and caused them to black out, rather than intoxication.

The priests who administered the sacrament often ended up at homeless shelters because passed-out preachers were mistaken for vagrants. The deacon probably wouldn’t have teased him about the blackout if he’d known that Sire Belcher’s disappearance was related to loss of his appendix.

Then he said to the Preacher, You needn’t worry about the flock. They were in good hands while you were gone. I felt that the deacon had said that for my benefit. He was trying to make himself look important in my eyes. However, the many blackouts and disappearances preachers experienced required that each assembly have a person, such as a deacon, who could assume responsibility in an absence.

Uh-huh, Sire Belcher said ungraciously. He hadn’t willingly given up his flock. The Sire appeared to think that his sheep would be better off with a wolf watching over them.

The vagrants must have been very needy this time to have your attention for four days, the deacon said, killing a dead horse.

Yes, they are very needy, the preacher said, choosing his words carefully.

I wanted to ask the deacon about his opinion on appendixes and murders, but I couldn’t. I needed to tactfully observe everyone. I could never ask anyone direct questions about the appendix thefts but would always welcome bringing the subject into a discussion.

Sire Belcher used the lull in our conversation to walk away. He had good reason to distance himself from me.

Sometimes he’s not so frigid. Sometimes he’s only icy, the deacon said.

I looked at him questioningly.

He has a good soul. He cares about people. Sometimes, he just goes about things all wrong, he said.

I nodded.

The deacon sensed that I was not going to berate the preacher with him, so he said, It was nice to meet you, and walked to another group, offering more doughnuts.

I needed to adjust my style. I was not going to learn anything by being a bore. Sire Belcher had thrown me into this and I needed to think about my strategy.

When I looked over the crowd, I recognized a friendly face. Dexter saw me too, and came over. He was a retired widower who was very popular with the older women. He kept busy by playing the Temple organ and had played at today’s service.

Dexter was always friendly. He always greeted me with a smile and a handshake. Then he’d tell one of his funny stories or a dirty joke. I always told myself that I should try to find a story that he hadn’t heard yet and tell him.

Neal, are you still breaking girls’ hearts? greeted Dexter.

I’m sending them to the cardiac unit, I said. Oops, I thought. I had just put my foot in my mouth. Some of the many women he flirted with were probably there now.

He laughed and said, Good boy. You’re slaying them.

I laughed.

Have you met any girls at work? he asked.

Just one, Angela, I said shyly.

Are you giving her the finger yet? He made a suggestive gesture with his hands.

I was embarrassed. In church, it was improper to talk about intimate acts such as hand holding. Not only did he mention it, he chose to use a very vulgar expression for it.

I shook my head and looked away. I welcomed obscene jokes about other people, but not about myself.

We’ve only been dating a couple weeks, I said.

Oh, it’s good to go slow. Tension from waiting builds up the expectation. I thought that since you are currently repenting you would have more spicy details to talk about.

News traveled fast. He probably learned it from Sire Belcher trying to distance himself from me and thefts. At least I wouldn’t have to explain my sudden presence myself.

However, if they really knew me they would have known how unlikely it would be for me to repent. It probably would have been more believable to them if Belcher told them he invited me so he could disrobe in front of me.

I have hopes for Angela. I’m invited to meet her parents at dinner tonight, I said.

That’s a good sign.

Yes, I said. Our conversations were usually fairly short. Humor, obscenity, and organ music were all that we ever talked about. What an odd combination for a temple. However, people talked with obscenity everywhere else. Why wouldn’t it be at home here, too?

We stood silently for a few moments. Then a woman approached Dexter. He greeted her with a scandalously long handshake and a kiss on the cheek. If he had her hand any longer, I would have called it intimate. They began to talk and I faded away.

I looked over the people gathered in St. Calvin Klein Temple. The first thing I noticed was a subtle presence of black in everyone’s clothing, which paid homage to their patron saint.

I watched as people mingled and socialized. I saw was no pecking order. The rich real estate agent socialized with the lowly self-made millionaire stockbrokers. Was that an oxymoron? Could someone really be a self-made millionaire if they made their money solely