Stimp, the Prophet Man

Vicar: In the Gathering Storm

This is episode 5 in a storytelling experiment. Read each episode as a standalone chapter, or start at the beginning. Enjoy!

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9

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-Recap-

Stimp gets discharged from the hospital with a prescription for pain pills. He needs them, but he wants meth more. He picks them up with a plan to use them sparingly if it all. He’ll get a bed at the homeless shelter while he heals up, and find Three as soon as he can. But God has other plans for him. As he makes his way downtown on the city bus, God reminds him of their deal. After all, He didn’t heal his eyes for nothing.

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Vicar

“Stimp!”

Juniper was running at him, but she stopped when she saw him limping, a white bag with his pills swinging as he shuffled forward.

“Jesus, you okay?”

“I’ve been better,” he was struggling to breathe with the pain.

The shelter stood behind her, the steps to the entrance dotted with people smoking, some talking with one another, a few talking to no one. Juniper turned towards them, following Stimp’s eyes, then back.

“Everybody thought you were dead.”

The pain was blaring, radiating from hip to knee, and back up his side. He closed his eyes and counted. It was a trick his mom had taught him the time he had fallen on the way to school. Loose rock from the asphalt had wedged its way deep into the fatty softness around his bones.

“Gonna have to cut it out,” the doctor had said simply, then smiled.

Stimp had tried his best not to cry, but tears came anyway.

“Don’t be such a god damn baby,” his mother had said, and then, on seeing more tears softened. “Listen to me,” she had leaned and almost whispered, “When they give you the shot, you close your eyes and count. Don’t open ‘em up, no matter what.”

Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen.

“Stimp? Did you hear me?”

He opened his eyes. June was looking at him, concern wrinkling her brow. She looked old and motherly, nothing like the bouncing girl who had given him cigarettes a few weeks earlier.

“What?”

“I asked where you’re gonna sleep,” her eyes flitted to the bag at his side, “and if you’d taken your pills.”

He pulled the crinkling bag closer to his leg, and his face hardened.

“How do you know about my pills?”

Hurt framed her eyes, then a shimmer gathered at the lid.

“I don’t—I mean—the bag, I just figured—,” but he cut her off, pushing past to walk on towards the shelter.

She started to follow, and he barked back at her to stop without turning. The sound of her combat boots halted, then faded away from him, first slowly, then at a run. He didn’t have time for her feelings, not with this to deal with.

But that wasn’t it was it? It was the bag—she looked at it.

“Shut the fuck up,” he mumbled to himself, pushing the thoughts away as the building came closer into view.

He scanned the hovering bodies, waiting for the doors to open like flies on shit. Mountains of Mercy Homeless Shelter was spelled out on the concrete building in big, bold black lettering, painted new and shiny the year before. Now the edges were dulling, chips in the black exposing gray concrete beneath.

He stopped just before the stairs and glanced around for a bench. The place was strict. You couldn’t sit there or block the entrance, not if you wanted a bed. Stimp knew one guy Lyle who had fallen asleep in front of the automatic doors after a particularly long bender. They didn’t even wake him up, just hauled him to jail near comatose. When he tried to come back the next week, they pointed to his picture on the wall.

“You aren’t allowed here anymore. Shelter has a zero tolerance policy for alcohol or drugs on the premises.”

There was nowhere to sit except the steps, but he couldn’t risk it. Three guys, evenly spaced, sat with their backs against the wall. A sliver of shade hovered at their eyes, the rest of their bodies sunlit. He made his way over gingerly, and leaned back between two of them. They were nodding off, unaware of his presence, mouths opened and heads slinking forward against their chests. He needed to sit, to rest.

“Right,” he said to himself. He straightened, pushing back against the wall for support, and the pain tore through his right side. He could see the muscles ripping in his mind’s eye, rending him in half. Blood and stars. Since the accident, he hadn’t experienced two hours without an influx of medication. Now that he was tapering, he could feel the SUV’s front bumper in his thigh, the hood bouncing against his ribs.

Slowly he slinked, adjusting his leg as he made his way lower to the ground. Sweat gathered at his brow. A sick cold moved through him, then heat, alternating like a fever. Finally, when he only had six or so inches left to go, he dropped, hitting against the sidewalk with a thud. His breath came in and out heavily, pushing through the pain like women in labor did in the movies. It was bad, but now that his muscles were relaxed, the sun hot on his jeans, tired rushed over him. He wanted to sleep.

He looked at the white bag, then around him. The guys next to him were still sleeping, the street empty. Everyone here was off or coming off something, trying to get sober enough to get a hot meal and a bed for the night. Carefully, he pulled the pill bottle from the bag. He shook it, listening, trying to guess how many he had before popping the cap and looking in.

Over a dozen white ovals stared up at him. Not his thing exactly, that was crystal, but right now he would take anything. His hand was shaky as he reached in to grab one. Just one. He could throw half the bottle in his mouth. That would take care of things. But the bed. He needed it. And Three. He needed the goodies at Three’s place even more. And without money—he pinched one pill between his fingers and popped it into his mouth, let it dissolve bitter on his tongue before swallowing dry.

It didn’t take long, ten minutes or so, before he fell asleep. He dreamed about the closet in Three’s apartment. He watched Three open the accordion doors. Instead of bags of Crys-Tal, an explosion of painted flowers kaleidoscoped out of the darkness. Stars from Starry Night and blooms from Georgia O’Keefe’s paintings, swirling and expanding like breath. Inhale. And contracting like breath. Exhale. 

“Get up man,” someone was shaking him. His eyes were heavy and closed again. “Come on, or you won’t get a bed.”

He pushed himself up to a sitting position. At some point he had slumped over, the bottle of pills tucked beneath him, hidden. The man looked at them, the whites of his eyes growing bigger, then back at Stimp. He held out a hand. Stimp took it, then noticed for the first time a voice, upbeat and booming over a speaker. Stimp put a hand to his temples and rubbed, trying to take away the sharp ache he felt there.

“Who is that?”

“That?” the man turned around, “Oh, that’s Pastor Rob.”

Stimp looked at him, trying to pinpoint the welling feeling of recognition in his gut. He wore a white T-shirt, two doves with an olive branch between them and the words, Know Jesus, Know Peace spelled out. The N and the O were bold, giving the effect of a double meaning, No Jesus, No Peace.

“Well look at that,” Pastor Rob was saying, his hand held out to the sky beyond.

Stimp looked and saw a rainbow in the distance, dark storm clouds beyond.

“Isn’t that something? Let’s bow our heads and pray,” and he closed his eyes and smiled. One hand held the mic, and the other was palm up, like waiting to receive a gift.

“Heavenly Father—” he started, but Stimp couldn’t hear him anymore. The clouds in the background were ominous and growing, the rainbow fading in the coming storm.

That’s what God showed Noah after he massacred the entire planet. A peace offering.

“That’s the guy,” a voice like rushing waters sounded out of the clouds. Lightning glowed for a second, the innards of the cloud vapor illuminated before they went dark again.

Stimp looked around. The guy next to him stared at the pastor, his eyes wet from the prayer. A woman behind him was looking at her phone, tapping the screen. Stimp took a step back, then another.

“What do you want me to tell him?” he tried to say it quietly, but the man turned and looked at Stimp, brow furrowed before turning back to the pastor.

“I want you to tell him to let my people go.”

“Jesus, like Moses?” Stimp laughed, but there was no joy in it. “Come on man. I can’t do that. He’s not gonna listen to me,” he hissed in a whisper.

The man turned and shushed him forcefully, his finger pressed hard against his lips. Stimp waved a weak apology. The guy shook his head, and went back to the praying.

“No, he won’t. But you’re going to tell him anyway.”

“Amen,” Pastor Rob said, and with a clap of his hands announced, “Let’s eat!”

Stimp followed the gathering crowd, moving with the others into a line in front of the steps. Everyone was quiet except for a few conversations, but he couldn’t pick up what they were saying. His attention was focused on the sky. Lightning flashed.

Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen—he counted in his head.

A clap of thunder vibrated above them. For the most part, the others didn’t move. One guy jumped, then murmured under his breath. Stimp kept looking, watching as the wind pushed the clouds faster and faster in his direction, like they were gathering above him.

He was waiting.