Wonkette Presents THE SPLIT: Chapter Six

In which Lorinda contemplates her future, ignores Pastor Doug, and gets something unexpected from Emmie.

The pastor said, “Tommy? Keep shooting. Ed? Round ‘em up.”

The image of the two shouters froze, shrank to a small box, and slid into the upper left-hand corner of the screen. The video shooter, pivoting with his camera as though dancing with a very skeletal robot, found another screamer and sent her face onto the screen, at which point, Ed in the control room shrank her face and set it alongside the first two. This went on at an impressively rapid clip, the shooter spotting and picking off faces all around the sanctuary like a sniper, until almost all the young people yelling “Drugs!” and “Manna!” had their shouty, frenzied faces captured, frozen, and on display in a checkerboard-like array of still images. Lorinda wondered what the point of this was, but it soon emerged: The shouters all stopped to gaze at and admire themselves, and the hall fell silent.

“Y’all happy now?” the pastor said. “Okay, then. Kindly be seated and I’ll continue.”

Where, Lorinda wondered, would she go from there? Specialize in the bar end of the business, or learn to manage the kitchen, too? Immediately, she knew: Stick to the bar. Chefs and cooks, as she knew only too well, could be tyrannical, picky, petty, and domineering. Why look for trouble and heartache? Focus on the bar biz, and take it up the ladder, all the way to Dallas.

Raising fists in triumph, applauding for each other and themselves, the unruly drug fans, one by one, sat down and shut up. Pastor Doug adjusted his hat and continued. “Three-quarter of a million words in the Bible, and not one of them is about viruses or inoculations or vaccines. Not one of them has any blessed thing to do with statins, or blood pressure, or KO-LESS-TER-ALL good, bad, or indifferent!” He paused for a laugh, and he got one, accompanied around the sanctuary by a flurry of knowing nods and murmured agreement. “So,” he said, and with his trademark panache suddenly swiveled round 180 degrees and addressed those who had hitherto only seen his back. “Let me ask you good people something. If GAH-duh himself did not see fit to talk to us about pharmaceuticals, why in Heaven and on Earth would we let mere men — and women! — tell us which of those chemicals we can and cannot put into our own bodies, and those of our children?” Whether it was a rhetorical question or not, he didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he went on, “Because they went to some fancy school? And read some fancy books? I’ll tell you something, my friends. You know what they didn’t read in those schools? The only book that matters.” He seized the Bible and slammed it down again on the lectern. “This one. The Good Book.”

Or, Lorinda thought, become an expert in cocktails! Start a consulting business. Develop a line of cocktails of her own. She reminded herself that PumpJack’s wasn’t the only chain of restaurants in the CCSA. There were more upscale places, too. Some with tablecloths! Who knew where all this could lead?

“Now. It’s true…” Pastor Doug continued. “We all know someone — in our family, or over in … Austin …” He said the name with the distaste he usually reserved for Sodom and Gomorrah and New York. “… who talks about ‘science.’ Well. Science, as we all know, is un-Christian. It was thanks to science that we got the atomic bomb, and the COVID epidemics and their wicked vaccinations, and so much else. And, of course, we all know that science is mostly conducted by … well, let’s just call them ‘the Unsaved.’”

Lorinda figured, What the hell, and started to think about what kind of new car she wanted. Maybe a Toyota Savior. Granted, it was said they weren’t as good as the Toyotas sold in the USA. But they looked the same. And she was sick of driving a North Korean piece of shit she couldn’t even pronounce.

“What I’m saying, my friends, is: Why did we even start this New Country? Why did we campaign for, and insist on, The Split? I’ll tell you why, although I’m sure y’all know: It was to restore godliness to the free states of America. Because, when it comes to a showdown between science and GAH-duh … well, I know who I’m betting on, every time. Science without GAH-duh is like a car without a driver. Better get out of its way. And that brings me to our special guest here this morning.” Pastor Doug gestured gracefully toward a man in the front row. “Jackson, come on up here.”

“That’s your boss!” Rita Moon excitedly whispered.

“My boss’s boss’s boss,” Bob Moon whispered back.

A short, bald man in a noticeably elegant charcoal gray suit stood and slowly mounted the four shallow steps to join Pastor Doug at the lectern. He stood beside the pastor and gazed mildly into the middle distance, as though happy to be admired and on display. Either that, or he was uncomfortable commingling with ordinary, church-going people, and was essentially holding his breath until it was over. “This is Jackson Howe,” the pastor said. “Some of you know him. He’s CEO of Gotfried Lenz Pharmaceuticals. And if you don’t know him, you probably know some of the drugs his company has developed and blessed our new country with. Such as —” The pastor shrugged and shook his head, and handed the executive a cordless microphone. “Jackson, you tell ‘em the such-as. I can never pronounce those things.”

Howe took the mic and said, “Thank you, Pastor Doug. I just want to say, it’s great to meet and greet all you good people today. At Gotfried Lenz we’ve worked hard to develop state-of-the-art pharmaceuticals for any number of medical needs. Things like Zelzah, and Fershterasis. Also Delbasid,  Luftsid and Estupor. Also—”

“Whoa, Jackson, we get it!” Pastor Doug gently relieved the executive of the mic and said to the crowd, “I brought him up here because he’s been a very good friend of this church — and by ‘good friend’ I mean, he’s written us some good checks, big checks. And they always clear!”

Knowing chuckles bubbled around the hall as the two men exchanged a brief comment off-mic. Addressing the crowd, Pastor Doug said, “Now I wanted you good people to meet Jackson, here—and you can talk to him after the service—because he’s come to me with an idea that I find very exciting.”

To Howe he said, “Thank you, sir.” He gestured toward an amply-upholstered armchair several yards away on the stage. “Y’all be seated in the Chair of Honor and I’ll take it from here.”

Howe waved to the crowd, who responded with appreciative applause as he made his way to the special chair. When the pastor resumed, it was in his trademark declamatory-orator style. “Drugs …” He paused dramatically. “… are a life-saving miracle! Even if they were omitted from the Good Book!”

A few manna-heads yelled, “YES!” and “DUDE!” but were immediately shushed.

“A life-saving miracle sent by GAH-duh,” the preacher went on. “Because He loves us and wants us to THRIVE.”

This time the shouts were from the older folks. “AMEN!” “Praise Him!”

“Amen and Praise Him indeed, my friends.” The pastor then executed one of the moves for which he was well-known: He spun on a single heel and suddenly addressed those to whom his back had been turned. “But how can we THRIVE … How can we AVAIL ourselves of the MIRACLE of these PHARMACEUTICAL BLESSINGS … if we have to depend on so-called DOCTORS to write us little PERMISSION SLIPS to OBTAIN them?”

This — a rhetorical question with an arguably obscure reference — left the crowd bollixed. Some yelled, “YES!” and others, “NO!”

The preacher held up his hand. “I agree. And so does Mr. Jackson Howe, who came to me with an idea. ‘Doug,’ he said. ‘I’ve been thinking about how we can make life-saving pharmaceuticals available to all people, all the time. About how to HELP people. Which is what JEE-zuss would have wanted. And I prayed on it. And I think GAH-duh may just have shown me the way.’” The pastor paused. “Do y’all want to hear about Mr. Howe’s idea?”

Cries of “Yes!” arose from around the hall. Lorinda saw her mom wave a fist and shout, “Amen!”

Pastor Doug held up a calming hand. “All right, then. Here it is. He proposes that all drugs be made available OVER-THE-COUNTER. You walk into a drug store, you say, ‘Give me a bottle of twenty X pills or a tube of Y ointment,’ and you get it. NO prescriptions. NO mandatory visit to any doctor or … what’s the word … oh, yes: specialist.” He somehow made it sound obscene. “Now, I know some of you have a doctor you TRUST. And that’s FINE. You can talk to him, and get his recommendations and suggestions, no PROBLEMO. But you all know what’s good for yourselves — and for YOUR CHILDREN. So I think — and I think you all think — that what we’re talking about here is an idea whose time has come. Now that we’re free of the Old Country, let’s keep making this a New Country!”

This triggered the loudest applause yet. Even Lorinda joined in, although out of distracted, mechanical politeness. Her thoughts focused on appreciating just how thrilling these career plans were. Mrs. Barker had lit a fuse in Lorinda’s soul — a fuse Lorinda had had no idea even existed. It now burned steadily toward a fireworks explosion of accomplishment and advancement she had never even conceived. She had always been adaptable. But now she realized that she felt — and she savored the word — ambitious.

 Pastor Doug nodded all round, and pointed a finger at Jackson Howe in his seat, followed by a thumb’s-up. Then the pastor waved the crowd quiet and resumed.

“Now I’ve got two things to add before we get on to today’s lesson. First is, when I say ‘all drugs,’ I’m not talking about ALL drugs. I’m not talking about heroin. I’m not talking about crack or cocaine. I’m not talking about ecstasy or fentanyl. And I am sure as heck not talking about contraceptive pills or day-after murdering pills or A-BORT-O-FAY-SHINTS.” He paused for more applause, and got it. He nodded, shushed the multitude, and said, “And the second thing is this. It’s no secret we got a campaign going on to see who will lead our sacred Confederation for a new term as its Chief Executive Officer. Well, my friends, if you want to see the realization and the implementation of Mr. Jackson Howe’s brilliant idea — vouchsafed unto him by GAH-duh — then there is only one candidate you can vote for. I am of course talking about Reverend Oliver M. Waldrip — the godliest, whitest man running, the only real Christian capable of leading this Christian nation, and the man I personally am hoping will be our next CEO.” Then, with a big, benevolent smile on his face, he did a slow three-sixty rotation on his left heel, taking in every section of the auditorium. His flock knew exactly what was coming: Pastor Doug’s trademark signoff. “Now,” he grinned, “always remember: We’re right and they’re wrong, no matter who they are or what they say. Amen!” A thunderous “AMEN!” came back at him. Nodding with satisfaction, he turned his gaze upward, toward the raised platform where the band stood, waiting for their cue. “Cody?”

The Saved, with Cheryl Zink, its sexy lead singer, broke into, “He is Coming and I Am Ready” as the pastor went over to where Jackson Howe was seated. The executive rose and the two men shook hands, after which Pastor Doug escorted Howe over to the steps and ushered him back down toward his seat.

 And that, apparently, was the sermon of the day. The pastor encouraged all to sing along, then cued another upbeat, light-rock hymn, and ended with the altar call. With a congregation of ten thousand, a gathering of even ten percent of the faithful at the foot of the stage would have been unruly and absurd. So Pastor Doug called for “an in-place altar call,” exhorting anyone and everyone to stand, give free voice to their acceptance of Jesus, and be sanctified by his group benediction.

As usual, this form of worship seemed slightly odd to Lorinda, who had several clear memories of church services in New York State fifteen years earlier, before her family emigrated to the CCSA. She had been seven at the time, but perhaps that fact accounted for her impression of colorless, intimidating solemnity of those Old Country services.

Whatever. It didn’t matter. Her parents, now as always, seemed refreshed by the service, and chatted happily as they shuffled among the crowd leaving the sanctuary. Out on the plaza fronting the entrance, a large group of people clustered to meet Jackson Howe, while another flocked around Pastor Doug and Kendra. Lorinda’s father had just said, “So. Ice cream?” when Lorinda heard her name called.

She looked around. There was Emmie, pointedly standing still and not approaching. Emmie waved her over with a look of mischievous excitement, as though bursting to share some red-hot bit of gossip. “Be right back,” Lorinda told her family.

Lorinda had just managed to say, “Ems! What —” when her friend grabbed her hand and essentially dragged her through the crowd, toward one of the broad uprights that supported the portico above the plaza. On the far side of the upright, shielded from Lorinda’s family, Emmie said, “Okay. God, I’m glad you came. Here.” She withdrew from an inside jacket pocket a small white paper bag, inside of which was a cardboard box. “Take it. And don’t let anyone see it. I mean anyone, Lor. Put it in your bag right now.”

Lorinda did as she was told. “What is it?”

“A pregnancy test,” Emmie whispered

“Pregnancy test?!”

“Shhh.”

“Where’d you get it?” whispered Lorinda.

“It doesn’t matter. I’m a nurse. Medical things come my way.”

“But … I don’t need this.…”

“Honey, you do. Look, if it’s negative, you throw it away and that’s that. But what if it isn’t?” Lorinda rolled her eyes. “You need to listen to me,” Emmie said, with an unexpected seriousness. “I can’t get into it here in the church parking lot, but you need to take that test.”

Lorinda sighed. If she didn’t want to contemplate that dire possibility, she was nonetheless grateful to her friend for caring so much, and taking some risk to act on her behalf. “Okay. I’ll do it.”

“Soon,” said Emmie.

“Okay. I promise.” She kissed Emmie on the cheek. “Thanks, sweetie.”

“You’re very welcome.”

“Hey,” Lorinda said, looking for a way to change the subject. “What did you think of that Jackson guy? And his idea? He’s my dad’s boss’s boss’s boss, you know.”

“That all drugs should be over-the-counter?” Emmie pursed her lips and shook her head. “It’s insane. It’s fucking insane. But that’s who runs this country, right?”

Lorinda had never thought of it that way. “Is it?”

“Believe me, it is. And when people start taking the wrong drugs, or the right drugs at the wrong dosages, or in combination with other drugs that don’t mix well, and they end up in the hospital, we’re the ones who have to deal with it in the emergency room. Fucking insane. Anyway. Gotta go. See you at the bar tomorrow?”

“Tuesday,” said Lorinda. “I’m off Monday. Monday’s fun-day.”

Emmie gave her an encouraging little smile, and in few seconds was lost in the crowd.

We didn’t pay the authors: You do. Make us look good, if you like it. Hit up the authors with a one-time or recurring donation!

PREVIOUSLY in THE SPLIT!

Chapter One.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three.

Chapter Four.

Chapter Five.

Subscribe over at THE SPLIT to get it in your inbox every Sunday, or read it here at Wonkette every Monday a.m.!