Bermuda Shorts - James Patterson [22]
Instead, I have slowed him down long enough to suggest that, over the past few centuries, and particularly in the last fifty years, the religious institutions that took the spiritual lead in Western society have been forced to loosen their political grip, and, as a result, plenty of trustworthy thinkers are free to approach these subjects with wide-open minds, blending ancient philosophies with contemporary ethical imperatives, all the while keeping their genuine spiritual inclinations intact. No, most of these current ruminators haven’t claimed for their ideas the legitimacy of coming direct from some unseen deity. That, to me, is what is so refreshing about their points of view. Philosophically, spiritually, and ethically, collectively, this could be a golden time in the history of ideas. Or it could be an invitation to chaos.
None of this is very satisfying to Gordo who would like some sort of answer now, so he can get on with his day without the universe imploding in around him. He’d call me a deist if he could remember what it meant. He’d realize that he is one as well. Also, it is such an easy topic to exploit, and I know Gordon has unwittingly bought into a discipline that exploits the discourse of society in crude and cruel little chunks. So I’m being careful not to give him a sound bite. Deep down he knows that. This is why he comes to me when his foundations start to quake. Why, too, that I rarely hear from him when he’s doing well. I guess what I’m saying is that I don’t sense an open mind but, as with so many of us, a door that is only slightly ajar. Pried open by the inevitable panic we all feel from time to time.
When Gordo and I hang up the phone, we have agreed to get together and talk about God sometime. I smile for a moment, staring out my office window. I thought we just had.
The Conjecture
Chamber
Amanda Gay is dead. I don’t like to muse about death. As a reference point for the varying propositions regarding life it can be useful, but I have never entertained the fascination that seems to obsess so many. I will be forced to deal with its many aspects soon enough.
I’m standing on the Metro platform in The Capital of the Empire, Washington, D.C. I’m waiting for the subway far beneath the business district. I’m trying not to think about Amanda Gay when suddenly I notice that the fellow standing next to me seems very uncomfortable. Curious, because he’s got to be wearing five thousand dollars’ worth of clothes. A camel hair coat. Italian loafers with tassels. He’s carrying an umbrella and briefcase. Beneath the coat is a blue suit, white shirt, red tie. The Kakistocracy Uniform. He appears about twenty-five pounds overweight. His hair is professionally coiffured. He is approximately my age—that is to say, nearing forty. He is perfect. A perfect example of the white-collar class of fatuous, self-absorbed, self-important, ill-informed, unread, culturally inert pigs that you find lurking around centers of money and power.
I am a working musician playing two hundred nights a year. Just one other musician and I tour together, write all our material, and book and promote the gigs as well. I’ve lost my patience with people who don’t support the arts, never go out, read crap, and presume their financial status to be the sum and substance