One M, Two M’s

 Fiction is the only way to get at truth from a certain point of view. Don’t ask me what it is; I just know it when I read it. I love the Book of Revelation. Something in me wants to rescue it from all the pre-a-post-millennial puzzles that obscure the blazing light of its Truth. So I’m playing with some stories I hope smash the dingy panes of dogma through the stale light of which I’ve had to read the Apocalypse. Mostly, however, these are just for fun. I think. The first Tale was posted 12 July 2008. This is 2.

A Tale of Patmos

                “Hey, M & M, you gonna play me some b ball?”

                The red-headed kid dribbled down the hall toward the church office.

                “You mind your manners, mister!” shouted Rhonda, 210 pounds of rectitude, who ran the Church—Office.

                The redhead danced a circle just out of her reach.

                “Stop that, Maurice!” the preacher barked.

                “Aw, she knows I only do it cuz I love her.”

                “You do it cuz you don’t have no momma I can call down on you,” Rhonda snarled, but she couldn’t keep a chortle off the back of her palate.

                “Stop it!” the preacher said. The redhead kid stopped, just dribbling—he was a cyclotron of one.

                “Y’gonna play, or ain’t ya?”

                “It’s Thursday, isn’t it?”

                “Yep.”

                “Wouldn’t miss it!” the preacher said. He wondered where he stashed his sneaks after the last time.

                “No, you cain’t!” Rhonda said.

                “Rhonda! I told you nothing’ll keep me from playing a little one on one with one M every Thursday afternoon.”

                “Yeah, you said that, but you got that letter, remember? That letter from Patmose?”

                Actually, it only had the final e when Rhonda said it. The Patmos Serenity Center. “You promised you’d go see that old man this afternoon.”

                “Oh, damn, Maurice, I did!”

                A month ago, just before he went on mission trip and vacation, the crumpled letter came from the Patmos Serenity Center, addressed to MM, Laodicea Church. Scratched in red crayon across the back of the envelope were the words:

Repent! Lest I spue thee out of my mouth!

                “Who’d send hate mail to the Church?” she demanded.

                “It’s addressed to me,” M & M said.

                “Well, then I understand!” she said. He ignored her.

                Inside, in barely legible scribbling, was the message:

I am, old John, your brother and companion in tribulation, in the isle that is called Patmos for the testimony of Jesus. In the Spirit on the Lord’s day, he told me: The end is nigh!

                “Somebody’s meds need adjustment,” Rhonda said.

                The preacher showed one M the letter. “Old John knows his Bible, you gotta give him that.”

                “Yeah.” The kid scowled.

                M & M’s double scheduling got worse after Rhonda purchased him a Palm Pilot for Christmas. She was the only one who knew how to use it.

                “Want some M & M’s, Maurice?” the preacher said.

                “You a sweet, sweet man!” cooed Rhonda, making no attempt to swallow this snicker.

                He shot her his Gehenna gaze; she laughed out loud.

                The big bowl of M & M’s had appeared on his desk one Monday morning a few weeks after his first Sunday. The Youth group officially christened him M & M, in spite of his desperate pleas to be called Rev. Mike.

                Maurice said, “Rev. Mike—that sounds like a sound system.” M & M was it.

                “Miracle Emmett Emerson” was the name that marched out of his mother’s mouth. “Miracle” because she was 31, old for that part of the West to be giving birth to your first. She claimed she promised God that name, if he gave her a healthy baby.

                Aunt Bessie said, “It’s ‘Miracle’ because, at that age, skinny like she is, with glasses, she got herself a man, any man.”

                “Emmett” was for Grandpa Emmett, who raised her.

                “Emerson” was her husband’s name. Said so on the Marriage Certificate: Harlan Michael Emerson. All anybody ever saw of him was that Certificate. Turns out Grandpa Emmett raised baby M & M, too. With plenty of help from the church.

                He went to Scouts at church, summer camps, Bible drill competitions. The T.E.L. class of ladies kept him properly fed and clothed. The deacons paid for school supplies and fees.

                Since the church was the only building in town with a big enough hall to hold dances, he did all his dancing there as well. Anonymous from church bought him his first real suit of clothes, at age 17 after he surrendered to the ministry. And, a badly kept secret, it was Pastor Jorge Mercado who paid for his senior ring.

                He went to a church-related college on scholarship and, by the time he started seminary, he had five years of hardscrabble pastoring under his belt. His grades indicated a bright future in grad school, but his heart belonged to little churches like the one he grew up in.

                That’s how he ended up at Laodicea Church, “where the layman matters.” The other slogan that, thanks be to God, didn’t make it onto the letterhead was, “where we oughta see ya.” Nobody cared how corny it was, except the graduate fellows who filled in now and then, who knew just enough Bible to be dangerous.

                “Only one thing to do, one M,” the preacher said to Maurice. “You gotta come with me to the Patmos Serenity Center, ‘closest thing to Glory this side of the Pecos.’ We’ll meet Old John, have a nice chat, and then I’m gonna whup up on ya! How’s that?”

                “I don’t have to do anything religious, do I?” Maurice asked. He was Jewish.

                “Not a thing,” the pastor assured him.

                M & M parked in the clergy space, at the far end of the lot. One M dribbled up and back by the time he got to the front entrance.

                “May I help you?” asked the silver-haired woman behind the high counter labeled Welcome Center.

                “Yes, ma’am,” said the pastor. “I got a letter from somebody who lives here—old John? Could I speak to him?”

                “How’re you going to deal with him, I mean, this whole prisoner tribulation thing?”

                “Tell me why you ask.”

                “He’s mailed out 22 letters like that. We made up a fund to help him pay the postage. You’re the only minister who’s ever replied—no cards, no phone calls, even. You’re not going to preach at him, are you? I mean—we all know he’s got, problems. He can’t help it, he’s just like that. But he’s such a kind old man.”

                “Thank you, I won’t preach at him.” The lady winced at her choice of words. He patted her hand. “I know what you mean, I don’t like to be preached at, either.”

                “I’ll take you to him. He’s in our back meditation garden.”

                She led him to an asphalted parking lot, large pots of greenery placed here and there. His b ball tucked underarm, Maurice tagged along, taking in every detail; couldn’t wait to see an old man who “saw things,” as M & M described him.

                Beside the water-free fountain beneath the silent Gabriel, an old man sat, thin as a coat hanger, a wisp of white hair floating above his forehead.

                “Hello, I understand you call yourself ‘Old John,’” the preacher said.

                “Yep,” the old man replied, gripping his outstretched hand eagerly and staring at each detail of his face. “I knew you’d come.”

                “I’m—”

                “I know who you are,” the old man interrupted. “You’re MM, the Master’s Man.”