Prayer Guarantee

Yesterday, just as soon as work was finished, Jolene met some old friends, went out to the local bar for just a couple of drinks, went on a road trip two towns over to sample Dan’s Famous Fried Chicken, got separated from the group, found another group, got arrested for solicitation with the new group, got released from jail with a warning not to get mixed up the wrong sort of people, found a taxi and toured three more cities in the wrong direction before she could correct the mistake, made it home just in time for the Late, Great Show with Mel Stevens, and finally flopped into bed without setting her alarm clock.

Still, she had no worries. At five seconds past her normal wake-up time an old truck backfired in front of her house and caused her to stir a bit. Soon after, she opened one eye as two fire-engines and one ambulance raced past with sirens blaring. When she fell back down again, a parade that included two marching bands, fourteen trumpeting elephants, seventeen screeching monkeys, and sixteen enthusiastic cheerleaders went past, causing the ground itself to shudder and four of her favorite plates to smash to the kitchen floor.

“All right!” she yelled. “I’m up already!” Two minutes later the parade passed by and the neighborhood became quiet again. She shook her head to dispel some of the cobwebs, and then realized what a mistake that was as she fell back onto the bed with her head spinning. “No!” she screamed. “I’m up!” Outside, a police car shut off it’s siren in mid-squawk.

She looked at the clock, cursed, and then got up to get ready for work. Her mornings were usually messed up, normally because of the night before, but she’d sent in a prayer request just before leaving work the other night. Personally, she felt that mornings should happen to other people, not to her, but she had to work. Since Christopher, her daytime supervisor, had begun scrutinizing her time cards and call sheets, she knew that to keep her job she had to get there on time. To get there on time, she had to wake up in the morning. For the past few months, she made sure to go to church, speak nicely to the priestess, and pay her tithes. By now, any prayer she could make would be guaranteed.

“Just in time,” Sally, Jolene’s cubical neighbor in the other lane, muttered as Jolene plopped her rump down on her chair. Just then, a tall, gawky looking man walked up and made a note on a clipboard. “Morning, Christopher,” Jolene said as she punched her code into her phone. The time “8:00 AM” flashed briefly on her phone display and the young man nodded and walked on. He only seemed to care when Jolene was late. He didn’t seem to mind when she was on time. In a way, he was fair minded.

Before she had time to settle in and grab a chocolate sprinkle doughnut, Jolene’s phone began to buzz with her first call of the day. She quickly logged into her computer and then pulled her headset over her ears. “Prayer’s ‘R Us. We’ll answer your prayer. Ask, and ye shall receive. My name is Jolene; please state the name of your deity, please.” They used to say, “god or goddess,” until some government official pointed out that some religions worshiped objects such as trees or even ideals such as honesty. For a few months, there was a cult out of Texas that worshiped a cactus out in the grasslands near El Paso that had developed a strange type of fungus in the shape of a pig. But during the summer months, the fungus cleared up and the members of the cult quietly went off to seek other religions.

“I’m sorry, sir, or madam. You’ll have to speak up. I didn’t catch the name of your deity,” she said as she reached into her desk to take out some purple nail polish, a packet of dental floss, and a ragged toothbrush with grayish bristles. Her toenails really needed some work. “Oh, did you say you worship Gerrhabbbbsan? The god of vengeance?” Gerrhabbbbsan was a new client at the firm and as of yet had few worshippers, though His congregation was growing rapidly. One of the major requirements for admittance was the ability to say the name of the god correctly without spitting. Few were able to speak the name without needing a wet wipe afterwards, and even those who were successful needed lip balm afterwards. Jolene’s lips had a deep cleft in them that enabled her to say the name so perfectly that had she entered the religion, within a week she’d be the High Priestess and well on her way to becoming the first mate of the new god. She could even get the trill just right. The trick was to put the trill on the “b” sound instead of the “r.”

“Yes, sir?” Jolene said while she unscrewed the cap from her nail polish and tapped the edge of her toothbrush on the edge of her desktop to clear out any debris. She then nodded once and started typing on her keyboard. “This will just take a minute. Okay, I have your information and see that your tithe account is up to date. Now, what was your prayer request? You wish to place a curse on the manager of your apartment building. Yes sir, I understand. I’d get sick of jiggling the toilet handle myself. Now, have you observed all the Rites of Vengeance? Well, let’s go down the list, shall we? Have you danced naked under the stars during the last waxing crescent moon while playing the banjo? Okay, now have you placed a drop of your own blood on the doorstop of the intended victim? Are you sure? We can check you know. Okay, now, have you made, and drunk the vengeance potion as described on pages thirty-six and thirty-seven of “The Book of Vengeance?” No, sir, I did not get it wrong. It is currently,” she said as she pulled out a thick book bound in black leather, “the year of the Vicious Ant, and the month of Voodoo. I also know that at least three volcanoes have been active in the last week and that the High Priest has spotted a bullfrog sitting on the burnt remains of an elm tree on the first of the month. No, it was definitely an elm tree. No, not an oak. Sir, I’m afraid you’ll have to wait until next month to get your vengeance. Yes, I know all the hard work you put into the rituals, but the law is the law. You must complete all rituals in order before vengeance is yours. Thank you, sir. I’m happy to have helped you. I’m sorry, what was that? Yes, sir, next month the High Priest will be looking for a cricket chirping on a baseball field. Thank you, sir. Goodbye.”

“Let’s see,” she muttered to herself as she began typing away at her keyboard. “Client called, eight thirteen AM, requested vengeance. Drank wrong potion. Hey Sally,” she said as she popped up over her cubicle wall to talk to her neighbor. “Are we still required to contact poison control? You sure? You on a call? Oops, sorry.” She sat down again and began typing. “Client required to contact poison control.” Her phone began to buzz and she reached for the answer button.

“Prayer’s ‘R Us. We’ll answer your prayer. Ask, and ye shall receive. My name is Jolene; please state the name of your deity, please.” She listened for a moment, began typing. “Yes, I understand your god is the one and only true god, but could you please tell me which one and only god? Yes, most of the gods in our database are called ‘God,’ or some other variation. But does he or she have another name? Thunder? Isn’t he a Weather God? Oh, his specs are coming up now, and yes he is a Weather God. Yes, he does look impressive. I always did say, only men with muscles could wear a toga and look good. Could you please give me your account number? Thank you, and I see you’re tithe account is up to date, and very generous I might add. Now, what was your prayer request? A tornado?” Jolene began typing on her keyboard. “I’ve done a search, but I’m afraid I can’t help you. Thunder doesn’t grant tornados, he only grants rain, not rain, snow, not snow, and other such things. How? Well, if you had asked for rain to water your lawn and flowers, he would have sent a work crew with an industrial strength sprinkler system to irrigate your lawn. Not rain he would have sent the same work crew to cover your house and property with a dome tent to keep out the weather. Wind, industrial strength fans. But I’m afraid that a tornado is quite out of the budget. Even the High Priestess couldn’t afford the tithes required. Why do you want a tornado? You’re sick of your neighbor’s dog barking and you want his house demolished? Oh, then may I suggest you convert to the worship of Gerrhabbbbsan, the God of Vengeance? He only requires a fifteen percent tithe, yes that is cheaper, but He is a new God, and in just a few short months you’ll be able to have your vengeance. Yes sir, I’m happy to have been able to help. Good luck, sir.” She ended the call and began to make a memo on the account.

“Hey Sally, can we suggest they convert to other religions? Sally? Are you on another call? I’m sorry. We’ll talk later.”

Her phone buzzed, and for a moment she considered skipping it. It buzzed again, she sighed, and punched the answer button.

“Prayer’s ‘R Us. We’ll answer your prayer. Ask, and ye shall receive. My name is Jolene; please state the name of your deity, please.” She finished typing the memo on the previous account before paying attention to the caller. “I’m sorry, Miss. Could you state the name again? I didn’t quite catch that. Geb? Grrr? It’s no good growling at me. Oh, do you mean, Gerrhabbbbsan?” She covered her microphone and stage whispered to the pasty faced woman peeking over her cubicle wall, “Sally, I’m on a call right now. Yes, we’ll talk later.” She shook her head as she removed her hand from the microphone. She couldn’t believe how inconsiderate some of her fellow workers were. “You worship the God of Vengeance, Gerrhabbbbsan, correct? Yes, I understand. Yes, the trill is on the ‘b’ sound. No, I don’t need to gargle every time I say His name. Let me pull up your account. Oh, you must be new. Now, can you tell me,” she began, but then paused and began typing away on her keyboard. “Okay, and then what did you do. How many toenails? Are you sure? Okay, and then did you . . . yes we have to check these things. Okay, and I’m happy to hear you drank the correct potion. Yes, lots of people make that mistake. I must say, you are a breath of fresh air. I’ve never seen anyone so enthusiastic. The only problem is your tithe account. Well, it’s rather small. Yes, I know you’ve only started. Well, what is the request? You’re boyfriend cheated on you and wish his entrails removed? Yes, your God can, and will do that. But you’ve got to understand that for that kind of request, well, it takes years of commitment to afford such a request. You’ve done well, so we’ll do what we can. Thank you for calling.”

She punched the cut off button, and began to memo the account. “All ceremonies completed, and her tithes are up to date. Send note to vengeance squad. Client requested disembowelment, but can’t afford it. Suggest slap boyfriend on the back of the wrist with a wooden ruler.” She sat back, thought a bit, and then leaned in to complete the memo. “Make sure he gets a nasty splinter.”

“Sally, I just got the . . . hold on.” Jolene glared at her phone, the punched the buzzer. “Prayer’s ‘R Us. We’ll answer your prayer . . . uh, yes, that’s our job, answering prayers. I’m sorry, are you crying? I could hold while you get a tissue. Now, ask, and ye shall receive. No, not now. Look, I have to tell you my name. Yes, my name. Oh! My name! My name is Jolene. Please state the . . . yes; I think it’s a pretty name too. Why yes, you’ve got a pretty name also,” she said as she rolled her eyes. Sally popped up over the wall, but Jolene pointed to her phone. Then she mimicked strangling motions with her hands. “Could you please stop crying for a minute?” Jolene then fluttered her fingers below her eyes to indicate weeping. Sally laughed and sat back down. “Wait a moment, are you a little girl? How old are you? Do your mommy and daddy know you’re using the phone without permission? Look, I’m only authorized to speak to a parent, grandparent, or other legal guardian. Your mommy is at the hospital? Yes, that’s very sad, but legally I can’t answer your prayer. Okay, fine, I’ll listen. You’re daddy has cancer? Mommy cries every night. Bad men from the bank want to steal your house?” Jolene groaned silently and shook her head. She hated the sob stories. “Fine, if you have an account number, then maybe I could at least memo the account. You’re tithe account number. Look, I need a number so I can access your account. Well, at least tell me the name of your god or goddess. Look, little girl, do you know how many religions call their god or goddess ‘God?’ I need more information. Yahweh? Jesus Christ? Oh! You mean the Christian God? I’m sorry, but our firm doesn’t have any accounts with the Christian, Jewish, or Islamic gods. Nor do we handle Hindu, or Native Americans. May I suggest you begin to worship Gerrhabbbbsan, the God of Vengeance? If you start now, then by the time you graduate from High School you should be able to afford to give cancer to the doctors who failed to treat your father. Gerrhabbbbsan. Spelled just the way it sounds. Yes, thank you for calling.”