Happy That It's Not True (19 page)

              May I continue?—Asked the storyteller.

Chapter Twenty

            
 
The two dogs leaped to the floor and ran to the door with high-pitched whining. 

              “Diego’s here,” Alex said.

              Diego slowly opened the door holding the rolled up drawing.

              “Hey guys.”

              “Hey Tio.”

              “Hey Tio.” 

              Diego tossed the drawing by his canvases and went into his bedroom and came back, kicked off his shoes and jumped into the armchair.  He held his hands to his face, his finger tips touching his mouth, staring at Cara.

              “Anything exciting happen after I left?” Cara said.

              “No,” Diego said.

              Cara noticed that Diego was staring at her and fixed her eyes on her laptop screen.  Alex sat next to Cara on the couch and booted up his computer. 

              “Move over!” Alex said.

              “How much of the sofa do you want?” Cara asked.

              “Move!”

              Cara nervously looked at Diego again.  “I saw you were really having a nice time with that girl.”

              “I was.”

              Alex opened a document where he had pasted facts and thoughts that he wanted to share with Diego. 

              “I did tons of research today.  Some of it having to do with the Bible—thought you would be interested.”

              “Sure,” said Diego.

              “Did you know that Jesus didn’t know any Latin?”

              Cara elbowed Alex in the ribs.  “Diego goes to church—don’t be disrespectful!” she whispered.

              “Not anymore,” Alex said.

              Diego took his hands away from his mouth and smiled.  “No, that’s okay.  I never thought about it—I guess you’re right, Jesus was Jewish, so he knew Hebrew, Aramaic and maybe a little Greek—but Latin—I guess that would be stretching it a little.  I just usually figure—he’s Jesus, so he knows everything.”

              “Yeah, I’ve been learning lots of stuff—all very interesting, but not usually what you would hear preachers say on TV.”

              “Oh don’t ever watch those televangelists—unless you believe all that stuff about doubling or tripling your income if you send them money.”

              “Did you know that monkeys in Thailand use public transportation?”

              “Fascinating—so what did you learn about the Bible?”

              “Did you know that the book of Revelation was written in a style called Hebrew Apocalyptic?  That you have to be a historian and scholar of ancient texts to understand the symbolism of it?  It’s not supposed to be taken literally.”

              Diego rubbed his eyes and then looked at the canvases in the room, showing interest in the painting Cara had begun.

              “Alex,” Cara said with a disapproving look.

              “How does one compete with a search engine?” Diego whispered to himself.  He stretched his legs and folded his hands over his stomach.  “Don’t worry—even if I’m completely wrong about everything I believe in, I won’t lose my faith.  I’m a Christian, I’ll always be.”

              Alex, with a panicked expression, put his hands on his head.  “Oh, no, that’s not what I meant—that’s not what I meant at all!  It’s just that after you left your church, I figured that maybe there really was something wrong with those people and that the stereotype might be true—you know—close minded Christians.  Maybe the problem is just organized religion.  What if it weren’t organized?”

              “Disorganized religion?”

              “Yeah, something unorganized.  They have groups like that.  You can find them online.  You know—if you miss church and being around people, you can go to a meetup—you never know—you might like it.”

              “I don’t know-”

              “You can be SBNR.”

              “SBNR?”

              “Spiritual but not religious.”

              “Hmm...unorganized religion.  God that sounds weird—All right, maybe I’ll do some surfing.”

              “I know how important church was to you and everything.  I’m sorry if—”

              “Oh my God—oh my God!” Cara shrieked.

              “What’s wrong?” said Alex.

              “Dad has his own blog!”  Alex and Diego both moved closer.  “I just Googled his name—look—he calls it The Octoblog—it only has two entries.”

              “Read the first one,” Alex said.

              “These were very recent, just before Mom went to the hospital.  The first post he made is a video.”

              “Dad posted a video—cool!”

              Diego patted Cara on the shoulder, “Go-head, play the video.”

              Cara clicked the play button and turned up the volume.  Octavio could be seen from the chest up in a green t-shirt, his face unshaven.  Behind him were kitchen cabinets with many sticky notes clinging to them.  His voice seemed deeper than they had ever remembered.

              “Hey—this is Octavio here—this is my first blog and first video post—just thought I’d try it.  I’m not feeling too bad today.  I’m going to the VA later to try and get some treatment.  Just working and sleeping—don’t have any energy to do much else.  Speaking of energy—that about does it for me—I don’t really have much to say.  Don’t send me any emails—I’m not online that much.  I wish I felt better so I could do it more often.  All right—signing off—Octavio.”

              “He said signing off just like you Alex,” Cara said.

              Alex exhaled slowly.  “What about the second post?”

              “He typed this one—only a few days later—it says:  I’m feeling terrible.  I think the doctors are misdiagnosing me and giving me medications that only make me feel worse.  I feel like I’m in another world, but I think it’s the medication.  The VA won’t admit me because I’m not suicidal.  I can’t begin to describe how tired I’m feeling.  I don’t think I’ll be blogging much for a while.  At least I was able to fill out the benefits form.  All twenty three pages.  Thank God I was able to do that.”

              “That’s it?” Alex said.

              “And yet they see no problem with sending him back to Afghanistan,” Diego said, shaking his head.

              Alex stood up, suddenly very conscious of his arms and not knowing what to do with them, except to adjust his glasses.  “This war has been going on ever since I can remember.  They say they’re going to start a withdrawal soon.  I hope Dad can make it just a little longer.”

              Diego stood and walked to the other side of the sofa, sitting on the arm, leaning over to look at Alex.  “I grew up in a time of peace.  I was too young to remember Vietnam.  I have no idea what it’s like to be you—going through what you’re going through.  I don’t think there’s much we can do right now except pray for your father.”

              Alex turned to look at Diego, for a moment, appearing to be much older, “I’ll try praying, but I’m pissed.  This country is so messed up.”

              “Alex, this is a great country, but there is no perfect system in the world.  Look at what happened in Cuba and how it affected our family.  Think of all the violations of human rights, all the labor camps—what they did to political prisoners.  And you know all about the evils of capitalism—out of control greed.  There’s nothing perfect on earth.  Everything in this world is a lie—truth only comes from above.” 

              Diego heard Cara’s breathing and leaned back in the sofa to see her looking at the ceiling with tears in her eyes.  He wanted somehow to erase all the pain he had witnessed that day.  Priscilla, the beautiful woman he met in class.  He had only wanted to look at her—talk to her for a while—to enjoy her physical beauty.  Cara and Alex—maybe he was making things worse by declaring the world to be a dark place devoid of truth.

Chapter Twenty One

            
 
The teacher’s lounge at the college was so small that Diego had given it a name—the econo-cabin, because it reminded him of a stay onboard a cruise ship.  Within the walls covered with paperwork held with pushpins were file cabinets and two small tables that appeared half the normal size of folding furniture.  Every item ingeniously arranged to be space saving.  A tiny coffee machine and toaster rested on top of a microwave oven, which rested on a mini refrigerator. 

              Harry Struhl, the art history professor, scribbled on a pile of papers, grading the exams on Byzantine architecture.  He wore a blue shirt, striped tie and a black yarmulke.  His head and beard were red, perhaps aging him slightly, but Diego could see a very young man in his late twenties or early thirties.

              Diego, wearing a Yellow Submarine t-shirt under an open fleece jacket, spoke on his cell phone, first looking annoyed, and then closing his eyes with frustration.  It was obvious—the wish to remain patient, amiable—wanting the conversation to be over without revealing any contempt or rejection. 

              “Yeah I know—thanks for calling Pastor Mark...yeah...look—I just need to get away for a while...well, it makes sense to me...no—there’s nothing I’m not telling you...no, I don’t think my faith will grow cold if I leave the church. I feel pretty good about my faith until I come to church, then the people there...look, I don’t want to be the one to criticize everything—just need to...” 

              Diego rolled his eyes causing Harry to smile briefly.  Harry stopped grading papers to hold his coffee mug with both hands and give Diego a concerned look.  Diego took a sip from his mug, put it down and wiped his lips with his hand, then put five finger tips on his forehead, in an apparent attempt at self-relaxation. 

              “Okay—I’ll let you know when I’m ready to come back…okay bye.”  Diego let out a heavy sigh.

              “Leaving the church is almost as hard as terminating an account with the phone company,” Harry smiled.

              “I shouldn’t have given them my number,” Diego said with raised eyebrows.

              “So why are you leaving the church?”

              “Oh-no—Not this again,” Diego laughed.

              “Seriously—what’s wrong?”

              “God, what must you think of us—”

              “What’s wrong with believing that there’s a higher power than one’s self?  A lot of people I run into think that they’re the ruler of the universe—that there’s no one greater than themselves.  Like some of our art students—oh the egos—such huge egos.”

              “I know what you mean.”

              “I happen to like the Christian concept of God entering into our suffering to comfort us.  I just don’t get all the prejudice over the years.”

              “I don’t get it either.  They say that it all started with a mistranslation—the New Testament word for Judean.  I think.  And Augustan didn’t help matters with his rhetoric.  People are stupid.  What can I say?”

              “And why are people stupid?”

              “Why are people stupid?  Glad you asked.  Did you know that the man who translated the Bible into English offended the people of his time so much, that forty years after his death, they exhumed his body and burned it?”

              “Unbelievable.”

              “And I was just reading that in some African countries, angry mobs’ll dig up the bodies of gay men to spit on them and dump them in front of the homes of their elderly parents.”

              “That’s horrible.”

              “It’s all because of fear of the unfamiliar.  You’ve ever heard of William’s Syndrome?”

              “No.”

              “Kids with William’s lack the genes that cause social inhibition.  They’re a little too friendly and trusting.  They’re also vulnerable to rape and physical attack.  So I guess we need the genes that make us paranoid.”

              “We need paranoia genes?”

              “It’s good to be a little paranoid.”

              “But not too paranoid.”

              “Exactly.  If you really feel threatened by a religion or someone’s sexuality, it’s just your natural defenses overreacting.”            

              Harry sighed.  “And that’s why no one gets along—I’m just glad we’re living in a time when people of different religions can at least talk to one another.” 

              Diego lifted his mug for a toast, and Harry clinked it with his mug. 

              “So what’s going on at your church?”

              “I couldn’t take some of the people there—they’re just so ignorant.”

              “There’re a few people at my place of worship that I would rather not be around.”

              “So you know the feeling.”

              “That’s just life.”

              “Hmm.”