The Revelations by Erik Hoel (e ink ebook reader txt) 📕

Kierk, in the front of the crowd now, begins to shuffle and nod along, hesitantly at first. Then, committing, he closes his eyes and lets the words rock over him, swaying to the preacher’s rhythm. He’s now with the other devotees, undergoing this strange public conversion. Kierk begins to shout—Amen!—during the downtime between sentences to punctuate the preacher’s points. The preacher, emboldened by this new buttressing and vital force, responds in kind, becoming more vitriolic, more enthused. Kierk feels the eyes from behind, the members of the crowd disdainful, but he keeps clapping and shouting, nodding his head in agreement. Luckily he is wearing one of the few T-shirts that survived the purging of his old clothes, and although his new sneakers squeak cleanly against the pavement his movements and general attitude are convincing enough. The couple sitting on the steps looks on in confusion at this whirling dervish, this repentant sinner, and then back to the Whole Foods bags he’d set down beside them.

Kierk twists like a cobra in front of a snake charmer. Even the street preacher now seems impressed by Kierk’s personal passion, the other desperate souls are egged on, and they continue this kind of dance to the preacher’s rant, which itself winds from the evils of science to the glory of service to the giving away of all wealth. A small part of Kierk, blasé and impassive behind his eyes, is impressed at the oration. He wonders if afterward the preacher trembles as he washes his face in the sink of a public restroom. But as the preaching drags on long beyond Kierk’s expectations, it begins to change from annoyed to snapping anger. He wonders what would happen if he went up and planted his fucking foot into the street preacher’s little stool and kicked it out from under him. Mostly he is annoyed at himself: he did not count on having to maintain the charade so long. The preacher, as if sensing Kierk’s approaching boiling point, stops, gumshoe mouth and all cylinders fired, and becomes again a man, pausing, glancing around at the traffic, blinking, and Kierk knows that look—it’s the same look on Kierk’s face when he finishes writing a scene, feeling precisely how Brahma must feel at each new creation of the world as he emerges from the center of it all blinking, looks around, lights up a cigarette, holds it up to his mouth with blue hands, takes a drag.

The preacher is gathering up his little stand and Kierk walks up to him looking like he just came out of a dance club.

“Amen, man, that was great talk.”

Kierk had been right. The preacher does tremble afterward.

“I’m glad you liked it. But it is not me speaking. Can I provide you any assistance?”

“You said you were a member of . . .”

“The Following Brothers of Christ. An organization devoted to promoting the word of Christ as a shield against the corruptions of the modern.”

“Well, I’m ready, I’m ready to change, you know? Like I’ve been reading a lot of stuff online. So many ways that scientists distort the truth.”

“Good!”

“Do you have like, a pamphlet or something, a meeting or something? Like, how do I join?”

“Right here,” he says, and after digging around in a bag hands Kierk a purple pamphlet with blocky lettering reading THE THREAT OF SCIENCE. Kierk flashes a dark glance at the preacher.

“We hold weekly meetings at a chapel on Fifth Street, between First and Second. We welcome all those who come to us before Christ and agree with our mission. To get involved go to that address.”

“I’ll definitely do that. So what do you plan on doing about all the corruption from science, all the lies?”

“Well, you’ll see at the meeting.”

“Have you considered like, action?”

“Action?”

“Against science.”

“It is our duty to expose the hidden underbelly of flaws that rule over—”

“But more direct actions. Like outreach or picketing or something. Or like taking it to them, you know.” Kierk makes a punching motion.

“Stop by next Monday. You should find it very interesting.”

“Like I was reading about how they are going to like, map the human brain. Like a big brain map. What do you think of that?”

“Well obviously that would be against God, as he gave us free will.”

“Exactly.”

“You should come to one of our meetings. Fifth Street church. Most nights. The coffee is free. But right now I have to go.”

“Wait, let me tell you of my path to God.”

“Listen, I’m glad my message reached you, but I have to go now.”

“Tell me—”

“I’m sorry, I have to go.”

Kierk considers following him. Instead, he watches as the preacher waits for the pedestrian walk signal with his sign and little stool. People are staring at Kierk. He pockets the pamphlet, finds his untouched grocery bags sitting on the steps, and then heads home.

In his apartment he is deep in thought weighing possibilities as he unloads the groceries. The Riesling could now almost burn skin if gripped long enough. And on picking up the small plastic container, which is aglow with a sickly warmth, something globular is dissolving. Opening it, Kierk’s upper lip sneers in disgust. The lobster salad has turned rotten from the heat.

SUNDAY

Kierk wakes up, coming to awareness amid books, notes. Last night, there had been something important. He had stayed up late reading, thinking, sketching things out about consciousness, until it had all become a dreamy blur. Yet he remembers being sure he had made some sort of breakthrough. A hand goes out, finds a piece of paper which had been torn out of a notebook lying in bed with him, with large handwriting sprawling across it. Sitting up in bed he holds it up in front of him, squinting at the hasty and excited writing.

“Consciousness . . . is the . . . stone of the world.”

Looking around for anything else, he puzzles his face. Finding nothing, he repeats the phrase. Standing, Kierk shuts off his alarm and meanders to the bathroom to brush