A Pagan's Nightmare (2 page)

Lanny was superstitious about the number thirteen—and normally he would have ordered something else just to change the
total—but he was flustered by all the golden crosses and quickly forked over the money.

The cashier girl handed Lanny his change. “Enjoy your meal, Mr. P.” she said.

Lanny looked at her with his head cocked funny. “My name is not
Mr. P.
My last name starts with an H.”

Counter Girl smiled politely. “Today we’re referring to you as Mr. P.”

Even more confused, Lanny shook his head, picked up his tray, and sat in the far left corner, next to the window. He felt
like he was being watched, so he munched his fish sandwich and avoided eye contact with the fast-food workers. He was still
eating, staring out the window at the traffic on 1-285, when he noticed the billboard:

Nervously glancing around the restaurant, Lanny gobbled his cheeseburger before starting on his fries. Imagine his shock when
he withdrew the first fry from the pouch and saw that it was curled into one long word,
Pharisee.
He frowned at the wordy potato and stuffed the entire thing into his mouth. Then he read the slogan on the cardboard pouch:
“McScriptures—a new kind of french fry, pure as gospel.”

Lanny tucked his fries into the bag, grabbed his Coke, and left his trash on the table for the smiling blonde to clean up.
“I’m outta here,” he mumbled to himself as he pushed open the glass door.

Lanny was a self-professed pagan. Mannerly, sure, and usually a patient fellow, but he had wanted nothing to do with religion
ever since eighth grade, ever since he’d found out that his neighbor, an associate pastor, had been convicted of trafficking
drugs and adult magazines. That summer Lanny had made up his mind to use Sundays for golf. He would be a low-handicap pagan.

Perhaps that’s why Counter Girl referred to me as Mr. P.,
he thought
as he climbed into his truck.
How ironic. But I’m still ticked about the gas thing.

Traffic was horrible, and Lanny grew frustrated at the congestion, even more so when he reached the on-ramp to 1-285 to south
Atlanta. No one would let him merge. Here traffic was worse than bumper to bumper; it was religious bumper sticker to religious
bumper sticker. They were all reading each other’s spiritual platitudes and giving each other the thumbs up.

In contrast, Lanny’s only bumper sticker read “Sometimes I wake up grumpy; other times I let him sleep.”

.Miranda put it there. She read novels on Sundays while Lanny played his golf.

Annoyed at what the day had wrought, Lanny waited for someone, anyone, to let him merge onto crowded 1-285. But everyone ignored
him, so he called Miranda’s cell, hoping to reach her before she boarded her flight from Orlando. He wondered if she, too,
was experiencing the religious weirdness in the South today. There was no answer, so he tried her work number. That number
went unanswered, so he called her cell again and left a message for her to call him as soon as possible.

The temperature was already near one hundred degrees, and Lanny turned his AC on high. Still no one would let him merge. Not
the SUVs, not the minivans, not even the redhead in the silver Audi. Her bumper sticker read “Traffic Is My Mission Field.”

But the redhead would not look his way, even though Lanny was motioning for her to lower her window so that he could ask her
what was going on today in Hotlanta. He hoped the religious weirdness was a regional thing. In fact, he almost
prayed
that it was a regional thing, but then he remembered that he never prayed to anything but his golf clubs, which he tended
to slice.

So Lanny sat waiting to merge, fiddling with the radio and eating his McScripture fries. He thought they tasted very much
like regular fries, only with less salt.

Lanny had installed satellite radio in his vehicle and figured his best move now was to tune in to a station out of L.A. It
was his favorite,
as their mix of oldies and modern rock suited his worldview just fine. So he tuned to the station and increased the volume,
only to hear the Beatles singing their greatest hit, “I Wanna Hold Your Tithe.”

Lanny slammed his fist into his seat.
Someone is even changing the song lyrics,
he thought to himself.
That’s sacred territory.

Minutes later a little old lady in a Volkswagen Bus honked, waved a brochure that read “Repent of Bingo,” and allowed Lanny
to merge.

He waved with no sincerity at all, then tried Miranda again on the cell phone.

But again he got no answer.
Maybe she’s already on the plane.

He tried her parents in Cocoa Beach—where they’d retired and where she’d been visiting.

Again, no answer.

He tried Miranda’s sister, Carla, in Augusta.

No luck there, either.

His father and mother had passed away two and four years earlier, respectively, so the next closest persons he thought about
were his golf and poker buddies.

He tried all five of them.

Nothing.

Rolling along on congested 1-285, sandwiched between zealots, Lanny felt very alone. In fact, he was beginning to feel like
the lone yellow M&M in a bag full of reds. But not quite like that, since feeling alone in the world is much worse than being
a solitary piece of chocolate, which has no feelings at all, even when it melts in your mouth instead of your hand.

The smaller shock to Lanny was that religious people seemed to be the only ones inhabiting the state of Georgia. The real
shocker to him—it was more like a revolving question—was, where had everyone else gone? Who had taken these people? And how
did he—or she?
it?
—manage this?

Lanny’s thoughts ran wild. They ran in circles. They even ran all
the way back to his childhood, when he had sat in the back during Sunday school.

Surely there’s no such thing as a reverse rapture? Is there? Did I miss that part?

Surprise, surprise.

I
MAGINE A SATELLITE VIEW
of Florida, especially the sun-drenched peninsula that divides the Atlantic from the Gulf of Mexico. To the far left side
of the screen, in swirling bands of white cloud, a hurricane spins four hundred miles away, heading due east from the Gulf,
on a beeline for Tampa and Orlando. For all we know, this zephyr may or may not turn out to sea.

Now picture a broadcast booth, and inside, a radio talk-show host. This man is bearded and pudgy and usually jovial. Behind
him on the wall sits a plaque on which is centered a set of scales, golden in color, the two cups aligned at a perfect horizontal.
For fifteen years this man’s hospitable manner has fed America’s quest to voice its every opinion, and his show has grown
into a meeting place for those with extremist views, stupid views, boring views, and no views at all.

Known affectionately to listeners as DJ Ned Neutral, he leaned into his mic, glanced through Plexiglass at his producer, and
cleared his throat.

The producer readied himself behind a soundboard and counted down the seconds on his fingers:

Three… two… one.

“Hurricane Gretchen is still a category three, traveling east with winds at one-hundred-twenty miles per hour. At its current
pace it will make landfall along our coast in approximately four days.” Ned’s voice boomed friendly and deep, an intelligent
voice that he’d parlayed into one of the nation’s most popular call-in shows. “Welcome to Fence-Straddler AM radio, where
I, DJ Ned Neutral, serve not only as arbiter of American argument, but this week go far beyond the call of duty…. I’m doubling
as your weather man.”

Ned paused, checked the time, rubbed his beard. He glanced at the row of red lights on his phone, lights that signaled incoming
calls. All five were lit. Before taking a call, however, he addressed his audience again.

“Good morning to the fruited plain. This is DJ Ned coming at you live from wind-whipped Orlando. Tropical Storm Felix missed
us by forty miles, and still I have limbs down all over my yard. And now,
now
we’ve got a bigger storm on the way. So before we get into which special-interest group hates which and for what reasons,
does anyone care to share how they’re preparing for a third August hurricane?” Ned pressed line 1.

“Yo, Nute. This is Crackhead.”

Ned smiled above his mic. “Yo, Crackhead. Didn’t you call in last week?”

“Yeah. I’m the guy who—”

“I remember. You got your name from cracking your head after falling off your skateboard.”

“You got it, Nute. I never done no drugs.”

“Honest?”

“I swear, Nute. I’m a health guy.”

“Right. So, what do you have to say to America today, Crackhead?”

“First I want to say that all these hurricanes could be God’s judgment on Florida.”

“No kidding?”

“Some pastor said so.”

Neutral rubbed his chin and winked through the glass at his producer. “Okay, Crackhead, and just what denomination are you
a part of?”

“Some kind of Redeemer Fellowship thing…. I’ve only been twice.”

“And you’re absolutely sure about this judgment from God?”

“That pastor said so. Said too much drinking and fornication goin’ on in Florida.”

Ned struggled for words. “Okay, Crackhead, since you’ve got the
Sunshine State covered, now tell us what kind of natural disaster is going to crush the drunks and fornicators in land-locked
states like Kansas and Iowa.”

“Um… I dunno, man. . . Maybe all their peas and corn will shrivel and die.”

Ned hit the red
End Call
button on his desk. “Thanks for the call, Crackhead.”

He restrained a grin and leaned once more into the microphone. “One warning from last week, folks. Although we give voice
to most anyone, I’ll not tolerate any more Nazi Skinhead versus Lutheran Senior Ladies Book Club. You all wore me out last
week. Now, who’s my next caller?”

Ned pressed line 2.

“Neutral?”

“Welcome to Fence-Straddler AM.”

“Hi, Neutral, this is Nancy from Wichita. That last caller was right about the judgment, but wrong about the reasons. It’s
the materialism that will cause our destruction. Everyone wants the big house on the golf course.”

“Well, Nancy, I happen to live in a big house on a golf course. And I bought it by working hard for fifteen years to give
America an outlet to speak their mind.”

“Is your house over six-thousand square feet?”

Ned rolled his eyes and gripped the mic. “Is six thousand the cutoff size for God’s wrath?”

“I think so. How big is your house, Ned?”

“Five-thousand, two-hundred square feet.”

“You see, Ned… those limbs that fell in your yard were a warning not to expand.”

Neutral hit the red button. “Alrighty, Florida. Who else has limbs down in their yard? Welcome to Fence-Straddler AM.”

“Neuuuutral! You rock, man.”

“Thank you. What’s on your mind?”

“My name’s John, and I called in to say that I have it worse than just limbs down in my yard.”

“And how big is
your
house, John?”

“I live in a trailer, man. Just a single-wide. And now it’s turned on its side and leaning up against my neighbor’s place.”

“And is your neighbor okay?”

“Yeah, my neighbor is Crackhead, who called in earlier. We’re about to hitch his four-wheel drive truck to my trailer and
tump it back over.”

“Tump
it back over? Where’re you from, John? Or should I call you John-boy?”

“South Georgia, originally.”

“And do you think your trailer getting
tumped
over by Tropical Storm Felix is a judgment from God?”

“Definitely, and it ain’t got nothing to do with house size.”

“I see. Then to what do you attribute the cause?”

“Online gambling, Nute. I slipped up and clicked on a Web site that I shouldn’t have.”

“And does Crackhead know about this?”

“Crackhead told me to click on it…. It’s how he makes his living.”

Ned considered his audience, saw that all five red lights on his phone bank were lit, and cut John off. “Next caller,” he
said.

“Neutral, this is H. Bernard Randolph.”

“Welcome to the show, H. Bernard.”

“Thanks, Neutral. I’m on my lunch break up here on Wall Street, and I just have to say that I disagree vehemently with both
Crackhead and his neighbor John.”

“That so?”

“According to the blonde on the Weather Channel, the percentage of storms hitting Florida is no different today than it was
back in the fifties… back when America still had its innocence.”

Ned paused and considered H. Bernard’s factual tidbit. “So Fonzie and Ralph Malph were never in any danger of getting walloped
by a tornado for lusting after Richie’s sister?”

“No, never. But Joanie was a babe.”

DJ Ned hesitated, wanting the caller to continue. “Is that all you had to say, H. Bernard?”

“That’s it.”

Just as Ned cut the call, all five red lights went dim.

DJ Ned stared at the row of vacancies and shook his head. “That’s never happened before,” he muttered to himself. “Sorry,
folks. All the lines just went dead. This show never has empty lines.”

After ten minutes of waiting for the lines to light up again, Ned raised both hands, palms up, and shrugged the big shrug,
a silent signal of give-up to his producer.

But his producer was no longer in sight.

Ned looked out through the glass surrounding his booth and tried to spot him. But only Ned himself was in the room.

He figured his producer had run to the men’s room.
But while broadcasting?
He glanced back at his phone bank and saw that all five lights were still dim.

By the time his show ended at 2:00, DJ Ned Neutral had not received a single call since H. Bernard phoned in from Wall Street.
Ned rose slowly from his radio booth and peeked down the hall of Fence-Straddler AM.

No one else was in sight.

He looked into all the offices, but all were empty.