The Perpetual Motion Club (19 page)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The following day, Saturday, the four devout club members pursued perpetual motion all the way to Red Rapids. Traffic was light. jWad made record time in his busted out Taurus. “It gets better mileage without the muffler,” he shouted at one point. It was the only conversation the group engaged in during the 45-minute ride.

Once in the city they found a municipal parking lot as close to the downtown center as their pooled funds would allow, which is to say they were two miles away. They ate lunch at Hamburger Hut on the corner of Fifth and Place. Following that, they visited the head shops up one side of Browning and down the other. jWad bought some incense and May bought some scarves. Elsa occupied herself with the water pipe technologies. Christine lagged behind everyone, eying the pill stashers and botanical ID books.

The streets were festive, the day was seasonably warm, everyone wore bright colors. A park on Place and Water had groups of five to ten young people scattered about under the spring-budding cherry trees and Lawn-Gro billboards.

A young woman strummed a guitar in the middle of one large contingent. She wore an oversized Gibson t-shirt dress. Near to her, a ring of sneaker-clad Spaldingsackers kicked and bounced their little ball. At one point the sack landed in the group with the guitarist. The audience laughed when a player ran up to apologize. Someone seated in the group offered up something to the player. He accepted it, lifted it to his mouth, and momentarily a puff of smoke emanated from his lips. The guitarist resumed. The game resumed. The spring birds sang in the rapidly budding cherry trees, reminding everyone that perhaps they should get a move on with the mating thing. In short, life was slice.

Seven p.m. rolled around and the happy group of four walked the few blocks to the Met-Life sponsored Center. The park had been pleasurably crowded with people, but the Center was uncomfortably packed like sardines. Traffic was stalled at both the entrance and exit points of all garages in the area, creating a noisy jumble of honking horns, cursing drivers, and revving engines. Streams of pedestrians weaved between the cars, further slowing progress. A white-gloved patrolman in a neon apple green CareerApparel safety vest blew his whistle and motioned forcefully to the cars in a vain attempt to untangle the snarl of vehicles.

The Center throbbed with excited believers. Flanking the multiple-door entranceway were twin posters, six feet high, and depicting a fierce Gerry Martin, looking down and pointing to the multitude flowing inside. The caption above her head asked “DO YOU BELIEVE?”

Elsa’s heart jumped. It was as if the Queen was speaking directly to her. Through her. Because she believed in the Queen, Elsa would be part of her glory.

Gerry Martin would bestow her message to the world tonight. Elsa would receive the message. She would go to Dr. Martin and commune with her. The Queen of PM would be astonished by Elsa’s grasp of the concepts. They would engage in private conversation. Dr. Martin would divulge her secrets, her answers, the bit of information required for Elsa’s work. After tonight Elsa would complete her project. She would win FutureWorld, her mother’s approval, and Jason’s love. Life would Improve.

Inside the building, the auditorium slowly filled with fans seeking . . . something. In the orchestra pit, a rollicking band played a raucous version of Onward Christian Soldiers complete with sliding trombone and carousing clarinet straight out of New Orleans. A few of the faithful danced nearby.

Purple two-story curtains on the stage were pulled back, folding the Met-Life logo into an unrecognizable garble. In the middle of the stage stood a lone podium with a microphone. Behind that and slightly off to the side, a large, possibly square, box three feet in width sat on a table. A black, possibly velvet, cloth covered the box.

“The machine,” Elsa said out loud, but mostly to herself as the group traipsed timidly in.

Up high along the walls of the auditorium, covering the Met-Life murals, a digital ticker-tape scrolled perpetual motion messages. Mathematical equations, lit up in foot-high symbols, promised something magical. Free work maybe. M = FA. Pictures of perfect solids interspersed with Da Vinci-like drawings of over-balanced wheels. Bits of magnets and iron balls and contraptions of mysterious design and function juxtaposed themselves between the laws of thermodynamics with variables sinfully switched and constants heretically crossed out.

The stream of audience continued to file in long after Elsa’s club found its place. The more people filled the room, the louder the ambient noise became. Shouts passed back and forth between followers who recognized each other from previous fellowship meetings. One or two of them carried black books and raised them in greeting as if to say: “Here it is; I brought it with me this time. This time we will see.”

Elsa felt intimidated. She hadn’t thought to bring her notes. Her questions resided in her head for easy access, but what if she forgot an important point when they got off on a tangent? Could easily happen. Earlier in the morning everything was set, her purpose defined and easy. Now she wasn’t sure. If all these people needed answers or had arguments, how would she get a word in edgewise? What if she’d missed something? A nuance that had been argued over for decades and easily found in numerous places, but missed somehow by Elsa. Was she terribly behind? Would the audience make her feel small? Would Gerry Martin?

The lights dimmed and the crowd noise momentarily diminished to a few unintelligible whispers. But only momentarily as the choir filed in. Once the members found their places, the woman herself entered and the crowd reacted enthusiastically. “Hallelujah!” rang out. And “Praise Jesus.”

Instantly it dawned on everyone in the PM Club that they might have gotten the date wrong. They stared at each other, mouths open. jWad alone joined the spirit of the evening. He shouted “Have mercy!” and “Amen!” at intervals, showing more enthusiasm for this festive gathering than he ever did for mechanical advantages. He laughed and poked at May who snickered in response.

The Queen raised her hands and all fell silent.

“Perpetual motion . . . ” the Queen said with an elevated voice that paused for everyone to take in. “ . . . is an act of faith.” Immediately the crowd shouted “Amen!” Elsa breathed a sigh of relief. This was the correct night after all. And what a night it would be.

The woman continued. “And as such . . . ” she shouted (emphasizing the word “such” by taking a breath beforehand and stretching it out like a salesman’s teaser), “ . . . one does not need . . . ” (“need” was likewise stretched out), “ . . . physical laws to support it. (large breath) To prove or disprove scientific principles to argue its case!” The audience inserted “Yeahs” and “Amens.” The woman said, “One does not need experts to believe in it.” The audience proclaimed one loud, unison “Yes!”

Elsa’s eyebrows pinched.

Gerry Martin stepped from behind the podium. She walked a few steps towards the enraptured audience before stopping abruptly next to the podium to stare out at the crowd. Slowly she lifted the mike to her lips as if a gem of an idea had just occurred to her. In a quiet voice she pleaded, “If you are a true believer, you will not be fooled by the scientific community that hopes to trap you in a box, or tie your hands, or bind your heart.”

Elsa relaxed her eyebrows. Yes, that was how she felt. Yes, everyone in her life conspired to keep her ideas down. Yes, it was good to see the woman. She shouted, “Yes!” with the audience.

Gerry Martin continued. “For they are of the devil. Satan’s workers. They have been sent out amongst us to sway us from the true path, the light, the truth. Do not succumb. Do not leave the paths of righteousness. You must believe!” Here she mashed her hand on the podium for emphasis.

The band took up “Bringing in the Sheaves,” with a rolling funk bass line accented on the two and four. The choir sang in a call and response style with “Bring ‘em on in” being the response. The audience joined in for the final chorus which went on for an hour or so, heightening in volume as time went on and inciting audience members to enter the aisle and jump to the band’s insidious beat. jWad beat the back of the seat in front of him with his hands, using the entire row in front of him as a drum kit. The end of the song brought relief to the exhausted believers. Everyone but the choir members and the master of ceremonies flopped into seats to breathe.

The members of the Perpetual Motion Club each reacted in their own way to the spectacle. May and jWad shouted and sang with the sinners. Christine, experiencing a sinus attack, excused herself to the bathroom where she remained for the duration. Elsa stood unmoving, watching it, considering it, confused for the most part but keeping her eyes on the black box. Gerry Martin was certainly a showoff, a tease. But Elsa wearied towards the end and slumped down into her seat.

When the music had finally died, and the crowd settled, the woman began again. “You have come tonight to see the unveiling of my latest perpetual motion machine.” She stepped away from the podium, bringing the mike with her. She talked slowly, soothingly, quietly to the crowd.

Elsa sat up in her seat and breathed through her mouth. The tension was killing her.

“This is my latest creation,” Gerry Martin said. “One which is fully tested and functional. I have looked forward for many months to this moment when I would unveil it and prove to you and the world what God in his infinite capacity is capable of.

Most of you here are believers, you do not need proof of the existence of God as manifested by the making and breaking of physical laws. You know by the light inside yourselves of his existence. God bless you. God bless you!

But some of you are weak. You need my proof. You need to see God’s power. I say unto you: Get behind me! Do not approach me. Do not tempt me.” Here her voice rose in volume. She began shouting.

“How dare you enter my presence, you messenger of Satan! Do not spread your filth and disease here. Your wickedness! You are unclean. Go and clean yourselves and when you return, we shall unveil God’s love. We will reveal the light. Go sinners! Go unbelievers!”

A rolling snare had been playing throughout the tirade and now it turned into a march as the band took up a chorus. The choir joined in on a “Jesus Loves Me” in 2/4 time—a military version with intention, anger almost.

“I cast you out of my presence!” the master shouted. “All you of wavering faith, repent and be saved!” At first one lone man, sweat soaking his short-sleeved shirt came forward. He was a small man. Older. Tears streamed down his face. He tried to articulate his failing, but failed even at that. Finally he gave in and blubbered, “Forgive me,” as he stumbled up to the front and fell to his knees before the orchestra pit. The master came around to the front and placed her hand on the man’s bowed head. “Repent and be saved!” she shouted.

Soon others came forward. One or two from the side aisles. Then suddenly a stream of repentant believers were leaving their seats and asking forgiveness and begging not to be sent away. May and jWad joined the stream, faking a need for redemption just to be able to participate in the glow. Christine was still in the bathroom.

Elsa sat stunned and stoically unbelieving. She had not been prepared for a Saturday night revival. Raised in the Unitarian atmosphere of free thought, conversation, and debate in all matters evangelical, Elsa had never entered a traditional church. She had no idea that believing in perpetual motion was the same as being saved.

Most of the seats were by now empty, with only a few unsatisfied customers still waiting for the unveiling. They were the true believers, they’d come, like Elsa, for information. For answers. For the missing piece of their own personal puzzleworks in the basements of their homes. They looked around, recognized each other, and shook their heads sadly.

After an hour or so of watching the singing, the praising of god, the dancing in the aisles, it became obvious to the few faithful ones that truly believed in perpetual motion that the velvet cloth covering the box would not be removed tonight. The others, the joyful sinners, had lost interest in the machine and were now wallowing in the moment, slobbering on the floor in a horizontal, yet very energetic position. The choir members left the stand and danced around the orchestra, the podium, and the black box. The minister walked amongst the newly saved, expressing praise, blessings, and head touching.

When jWad and May, sweaty and red-faced, finally returned to Elsa, they found her grinding her teeth, unsmiling with eyes wide open.

“Wow, I feel like a beer!” jWad said. He shook Elsa’s shoulder. You?”

“Yes!” shouted Elsa, jumping up.

Numbing herself seemed the most appropriate thing to do. She grabbed jWad and pulled him around, pushing May ahead of her. Heading up the aisle they met a blotchy-faced Christine who was finally returning from the bathroom. Elsa spun her around as well, and then, pushing aside the revelers in the aisle, led the group out to the lobby and into the street. They ran the two miles to their car.

jWad and May smoked in the front seat all the way home. Christine sat far to the left side in the back. She kept her head hanging out the open window as she gasped for breath and babbled about lack of air. The two up front laughed and teased each other and sang to the songs blaring from the iPod he’d plugged into the car’s stereo. Every once in a while he’d shout, “Hey, I thought we were going to get some beer,” to no one in particular.

Elsa, in the back with Christine, did not say a word the entire ride. She chose instead to stare out the window on the right side and wonder if she should be mad at Jimmy for not being here to comfort her or glad that he hadn’t witnessed this latest, greatest defeat. For some reason admitting Brown, Lainie, and everybody was right didn’t seem nearly as painful as having Jimmy know she was a failure.