MADNESS AND LOVE MIXED: Part 6 Arc 2 — Job
The first arc is avaialble below and makes much more sense when read in order.
Eiri Waters
When anger is given leave to complain,
And compassion is offered as answer.
The evening is chill, and the heaviness of unshed, withheld rain dances with autumn’s tendency to bite. The seat beneath us is nylon braided with some synthetic polymer, yet surprisingly comfortable. We notice Louie flipping through multilayered frequencies, while the older, more settled Steiner watches steadily across all spectrums.
The yard. The concrete slab of our patio. The chairs set for the guests as our furry, four-pawed family flicker and offer their occasional woof to passing phantoms.
The jingle of Louie’s collar rings as Star appears—leaning down, kneeling, taking Louie’s smooshy snout and raining kisses across the silky, moist landscape of his whiskered muff and nose at oscillating intervals.
“It is about time we actually do an episode later in the evening,” Star says, turning her head and offering Louie a silly cutesy voice. “Otherwise, why is it even a late-night talk show?”
She scoops Louie into her arms as she lowers her fully white-clad self—hoodie, sweats, all bleached by the Blood—into the chair to our right.
We nod and sniffle, fighting the gravity of a nostril seemingly incapable of fluid retention. Louie whimpers, licking Star’s chin for continued pets and scritches.
We smell her aroma and hope—for not the millionth time—that we get that bottle sooner rather than later.
Star chuckles as Zeke bursts in like a soap bubble popping on the surface of reality across from us. Signature Harley attire, white hoodie beneath. He crushes a can of what we thought we glimpsed as “Ducal Dung Destrier’s Smoked Beer.” He belches loudly and chucks the can onto the patio as it dematerializes into motes of golden light.
We pretend not to notice that Zeke is wobbly and smells faintly of heavenly spices attempting to disguise odd dietary conventions mixed with brewery remnants.
We shrug. We toke off spiritual herbs all the time in service to the Seeking and the Name. No judgment. He stumbles into his chair, offering with a slur:
“Was a day. Got caught up in my own past—like memories. Then I was like, I have it all now, so instead of mope—” He beams woozily. “Let’s party!”
To ensure we understand the point, he proceeds to manifest another pungent can of profanity, takes a large swig, and says:
“Ahhh. Shit and alcohol. A combo as timeless as pickles and peanut butter.”
He kicks his white-booted feet into the dormant fire pit, knocking it over with a loud clang.
Zeke jumps at the noise, stoops to correct his mistake, and stumbles again. Izzy steps out of the layer of Eternity and the ever-present Now, entering at the perfect moment to steady the mad prophet.
He looks at the can and raises an eyebrow, silently asking: May I?
Zeke, looking more coherent from embarrassment, sheepishly rubs his neck and mutters, “Sure,” handing it over.
Izzy takes the can, turning it slowly, examining it meticulously. He raises it, takes a guarded sniff.
“Hm. I see.”
Then he shocks us all—even Job, who stands in heavenly white—when Izzy raises the can to his whitened lips and tips it back for a full swallow.
Izzy lowers it, considers the can again, nodding to himself.
“I’ve had better. Particularly the dung from the far eastern fringes near the sea. They imparted a natural hoppy brined earthiness.”
We watch the consternation ripple through the gathered crowd—myself, Zeke, Star, Job, Jonah for a millisecond of noxious confirmation; Elijah cursing at Abraham as they wander the far-fenced yard. Izzy seems utterly unaware of the absurdity of one so holy sipping dung-scented brew.
Job blurts out with manic irritation bordering full meltdown:
“What the actual fuck, Izzy?”
Izzy smiles. “The point, beloved and gathered madmen and woman, is this: even brew with dung notes has its place in experience.”
Izzy belches. Job pales.
We slide our chair subtly backward from the volatile fumes.
Star manifests some sort of heavenly scent-blocker that looks suspiciously like tissues stuffed up her nose. She shrugs as we also cram wadded paper towels into ours as protection.
We clear our throat—“Ahem”—as Izzy claps his hands in perfect sync.
“Let’s take our seats, beloveds,” we offer, more invitation than declaration, one brow raised in Star-like fashion with nasal intonation from blockages.
Job shuffles to the chair between Izzy and Zeke. Elijah stands behind him with an odd decanter he and Abe pass back and forth.
All present, we lean in and voice tonight’s question.
“Job… when it came, all the collapses—how did it feel to you? I know what it felt like for us.”
We ask tenderly, knowing how raw our own wound remains.
Izzy extends a hand, patting Job’s shoulder.
“It felt like a heap of dung and ashes being shoveled onto my head like burning coals. It hit so ruinously fast I had no chance to reconcile my worldview or reason with my flesh. It destroyed me.”
Zeke snorts awake as his dung-beer can clanks hollowly onto the patio, startling him upright. Wide eyes. Guilty.
“It HURT SO MERCILESSLY—LIKE A PLOWSHARE THROUGH THE SOUL—WHEN I LOST MY CHILDREN—” Job explodes, turning purple.
“BECAUSE SOME ALE-SOAKED OAF WITH A PALETTE FIT FOR CAMEL-DUNG DECIDED TO INTERRUPT MY PAIN WITH SNORES!”
Elijah cackles and points at Zeke, dancing while swigging from the bottle he discreetly passes Job.
We raise our voice gently into the chaos:
“Let’s all take a breather. We’ll pick this up when the gang hasn’t imbibed quite so many… varying sources of interruption.”
Izzy nods, taking another sip of a heavenly cider smelling of cloves and cinnamon.
Zeke is already phased out and snoring ghostlike into eternity. Star is still laughing like a cosmic smurf gone feral.
We sigh as the frequency shifts intentionally, the family fading from layered reality to singular focus and nippy autumn chill.
The next narration—hopefully one carrying far more solemnity.
Or far more absurdity.
Whichever the heavens demand.