Today’s blog was going to be about Ave Maria, a Catholic planned community in Florida that we visited today. But my mother insisted that I tell this story instead. I hope my “Luteren” friends will laugh and cut me some slack – I’ve been to this meeting more than once.
So, here’s my first short story on the blog. And I am going to use it to introduce my novel’s main character, Bobby Kurtz. Sorry, Bobby, you just got drafted again.
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Bobby was skeptical about the intel that led him to this Lutheran church on the outskirts of Minneapolis. It seemed an unlikely venue for a group of domestic terrorists to be assembling to build chemical weapons. He hadn’t talked to the informant himself, but the man had supposedly had all the right answers to all the bad questions. There was too great a risk of an attack to ignore this warning. His boss, Colene, had passed the file along to him. He was going in alone tonight, a weapons team would be located less than a half mile away in a nearby woods, but he was the only one on site.
He had a small chemical detection unit with him that would alarm if any of the precursors for weapons were detected. The tech guys told him that it would detect low enough levels that he could safely escape before any harm came to him, but he wasn’t taking that one at face value. Chemical weapons only needed a drop on your skin to wipe you out with the nasty ones.
Bobby walked into the church just after six in the evening and was greeted by two elderly women with bluish hair and dour faces. The more pugnacious of the two asked him, “Are you here for the meeting?” Bobby felt a tingle go up his leg. This might be legit info after all. “Yes, I didn’t think we’d be talking about it out here.” The second woman screwed up her face and laughed. “Mister, it’s all we talk about. Just head down the stairs to the basement and it’s the second door on your left. Don’t knock, just go in. They’ve already started.”
Bobby followed her line of sight and headed toward a door next to a small book rack. “No, the stairwell next to the window.” Bobby nodded and turned 90 degrees to the East and saw the stairs. Walking down the stairs he felt the weight of his .45 under his left arm. He hoped he wouldn’t have to use it tonight. The chemical detection unit in his pocket hadn’t made a peep on the earpiece he wore, but something smelled awful. What kind of weapon were these people working on, and why would the be doing it in a neighborhood church? Bobby gently opened the door and looked inside. There must have been 150 people sitting at tables with plastic table cloths and flowers! What had he gotten into?
He found out a second later when a 70 year old man snuck up behind him and said in a shouted whisper, “Come on in, we’re still eating. No need to sneak about.” Bobby hadn’t even heard him coming and had no choice but to enter the church basement. Bobby passed a large table covered with literature for a missionary outreach group in Haiti. These people weren’t radicals, it was worse – they were Lutherans and he was in a Lutheran church basement at supper time.
Chemical weapons would have been preferable. If he survived this evening that informant was in for a beating. The man who’d surprised him at the door introduced himself, “I’m Lars Tegner. I’ll bet you’re here for some of Gladys’ famous meatballs. Come on over and get a plate.” Trapped, Bobby couldn’t refuse. Lars took him to a serving table covered with chafing dishes heated with Sterno. This was the source of the smell. The three little women behind the table grabbed the lids from the dishes and served up a plate for him faster than he could say “Alka Seltzer.” Bobby looked on in horror as they scooped up congealed butter noodles, meatballs that had last been “fresh” when they were spat out of a machine in a factory in Montana 19 months before, and covered them with gravy that looked just like the oil in his crankase when the head gasket had blown on his 1990 Bronco II. This was the stuff you bought at Costco in the 8 gallon can that carried warnings about prolonged exposure to children and animals. No doubt marked “institutional use only” somewhere under the FDA certificate. They added a dollop of lime green gelatin desert that was filled with cole slaw. The only saving grace was the cookie they pulled out of a giant bag. It didn’t look too bad considering its accomplices on the plate.
Lars escorted him to a table and introduced him to everyone there – not a single one of them a day under 68. Bobby gave his name as Jeff Laughner. His partner would be getting all the mailings, not him. Bobby said grace and was immediately handed a cup of coffee. At least that’s what they called it. It looked exactly like, tasted exactly like, and was the precise temperature that you would have if you left a 50 gallon drum of water out in the sun during July for precisely five hours and then added a single cup of stale instant coffee for flavor. You could practically see the individual molecules of coffee looking for each other without much luck. Out of politeness he choked the meal down. About the time that the cookie had sucked the last drop of moisture out of his abused mouth someone rapped on the microphone and said, “Good evening, Saints!” They were greeted with an enthusiastic “Back atcha, Steve.” The misery rose a notch as a woman, probably Steve’s wife, grabbed a second microphone and the two began a banter with each other. Without warning they launched into an old hymn and the crowd enthusiastically joined ìn, largely off key.
One of the women at the table shot Bobby a dirty look and pointed an arthritic finger at the 7th generation photocopy of the night’s hymns on the table next to him. Bobby faked a song or two and that seemed to placate the woman. She hadn’t taken her gaze from him for so much as a second. She wanted to be sure he was properly enthusiastic.
Bobby was relieved when the music stopped and things quieted down for a moment. The announcement from the podium brought about a shuffling of chairs as the elderly around him started to lurch from their seats, “Plenty of food for seconds, go grab a plate before we start the meeting.” Bobby gave serious thought to fighting his way out of the room, but the sea of walkers and canes would no doubt trip him before he got out from between the tables. Nor would his .45 do him much good, too many of them. It wasn’t their fault that he had been given bad intelligence. Other than the food they were harmless souls engaged in God’s work. He was best off just blending and making a break when the meeting was done. But there was only so much he’d do for the United States of America, and having seconds went beyond the call.
He quietly sat with his hands folded over his belly pretending to be full. The fact was that the portions wouldn’t feed a child but it was too soon to count that blessing.
Two seemingly endless hours later the meeting was over. They had prayed over the budget, handed out awards, read the list of members who had died the preceeding month (the longest part of the meeting), and assigned tasks for the upcoming month. Bobby, having given Jeff’s name and information, volunteered to make phone calls to the hearing impaired members and remind them of the next meeting. He’d probably burn in Hell for that but it amused him. The meeting was formally dismissed, but before thirty seconds had passed, as he prepared to escape, one of the men came up and said, “You gotta get up. That chair needs to be stacked and your keyster in it ain’t helping us get the work done.”
A greatful Bobby nodded his agreement and fled into the night. With any luck he could get his stomach pumped before the meatballs killed his intestinal tissue.
