ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Paul Lewellan retired from education after fifty years of teaching. He lives, writes, and gardens on the banks of the Mississippi River. His muse is his wife of forty-three years, Pamela. In all things he’s advised by his 19-year-old Shih Tzu, Mannie. Find archives of his work at www.paullewellan.com.

Called

I knocked on the door designated ‘Family Restroom’. Unmistakable moans and rutting noises abruptly halted. “Occupied!” groaned a male voice.

I increased the force of my knocks. “Eloise, he can’t give you what you need.”

I heard a guttural laugh. “Oh, I’m giving her exactly what she….”

“His sperm count is zero,” I shouted. “He’s shooting blanks.” By this time I’d attracted a crowd. That happens a lot in my line of work.

“What?!!” she called out. 

“Ask him….” I stepped away. I did what I’d been told. She’d take care of the rest.

My name’s Hosea Hobhouse. God’s prophet. Divine messenger. Prone to deliver uncomfortable news. 

I retreated to the bar where I knew Eloise would join me. Most nights I frequented the Clown Car Pub and Slider Shack hoping to get lucky during the alcohol fueled happy hour or in the fading minutes before closing. Typically women would google my name, then move down the bar, leaving behind the drinks I bought them. I sensed Eloise would be different.

When you’re a prophet, nobody slaps free concert tickets in your palm in appreciation for your work. Acquaintances don’t invite you over to meet their widowed sisters. Single women never swipe right on your Tinker profile. Prophets don’t get laid. Just saying….

Eloise Wynne emerged from the restroom, dressed in the summer weight wool Michaels Kors suit, silk blouse, and five-inch heels in lieu of the sensible shoes she’d worn to work. The top buttons of the blouse were missing as was the scarf she’d worn. Her face was flushed with anger. She was twenty years older than the rest of the happy hour crowd, but still stunning. 

She spoke to a member of the queue waiting outside the family restroom. She pointed me out at the bar. 

I made eye contact when she approached. “May I buy you a drink?” 

“You owe me a hell-of-a lot more than a….” 

“A Ciroc vodka martini with a lemon twist, Frank,” I told the bartender as he delivered my gin and tonics.

“How do you know my drink?”

 “She tells me things?”

 “She who?”

I pointed heavenward. “God.”

Eloise looked up to the ceiling. “Oh, please….”

“I’m a prophet.” 

“Not much demand for those these days. It’s all data analytics.” Eloise noted my Kahala Atomic Fish aloha shirt, spotless Levi’s, and Keen’s sandals. I looked harmless. “How’d you know his sperm count?” 

“I said….”

“God told you.”

“Exactly. Trust me.”

“I don’t!” She studied me. “A real prophet?” 

I nodded. “Didn’t choose to be….” 

“You were called….” There was a bite to her words.

“Funny story…. Glad you asked…. Have a seat…. I’ll order some onion rings…..” I stopped. I was trying too hard. “I’m Hosea Hobhouse.”

“Hosea?” 

“Old Testament. Minor prophet. Married Gomer the whore. My father thought the name was a hoot when Mother suggested it. Not so much later.”

Eloise slid into the stool beside me. “And you knew I liked onion rings?” 

“Lucky guess.” I touched her hand to absorb her nervous energy. 

“I’m Eloise Wynne. You know that, too?” 

“I knew your first name. Not the last. She’s selective when feeding me information. Says it keeps me on my toes.” 

“She?”

“The All Powerful, Divine Ruler of the Universe, Goddess Sophia….” 

“Good to know.” Eloise stood up and despite her skepticism, distrust of men, and fear of vulnerability suggested we “find a quiet place we can talk.” 

We found a small booth in back next to the rest rooms. When Frank delivered her martinis–“Two for one happy hour”–we ordered onion rings and burgers. She insisted we split the tab. 

“This isn’t a date. And I won’t sleep with you. I’m merely curious.” I learned she was recently divorced after twenty-eight years of marriage. She was CEO of ABC Healthcare Solutions which helped explain the suit and her Ferragamo shoes.

The onion rings arrived along with tubs of gorgonzola cheese and a blistering ghost pepper inferno sauce. Frank was a prophet in his own right. She grabbed the inferno. I went with the cheese. 

 “Being a prophet is not what you think,” I explained, pausing to dip the onion ring. “I mean, Cecil B. DeMille made a star out of Moses, but most of us don’t even get a podcast. Ask any of the boys: Micah, Joel, Ezekiel, Amos….. Nobody wants the job. Prophets get called.” 

“So Jonah…. The whole whale thing....”

“Jonah could have traveled Royal Caribbean to Nineveh with an unlimited drink package if he’d done his job. But, no, he disobeyed and ended up in the belly of a whale. If God tells me to go to Nineveh, I go.” 

She snickered at my lame joke. “Never thought of it that way.” At least I hope that’s what she was laughing at. She had green eyes and wore too much mascara. Finally she admitted, “My life is a cliché. I’m embarrassed to share the story.”

“We have time.” 

“Oh, Hosea, I don’t think so.” She finished her first martini and reached for the second. “Maybe after a couple more of these….” She poked my arm. “You first.”

“All right…. It happened the night of the reception after my second ex-wife’s wedding.”

“Wait! What? You went to your second ex-wife’s wedding? How many ex-wives have you had?”

“Four…, well, technically three since wife one and three were the same woman, but that night I was with Margaret the third bridesmaid, the one in blue with the wonky left eye. We were both drunk enough to think hooking up was a good idea, but not sober enough to drive. She paid for the Uber. When I opened the door to my condo, there laying open on the coffee table in front of the red leather couch was my grandmother’s bible. I have no idea how it got there. It had been packed away in a trunk. A giant right hand emerged from the ceiling and pointed.”

“Seriously?” She searched my face for any sign this, too, was a joke. “What did you do?” 

“I ignored it. We were busy. I lost my pants in the hallway. She was tearing at the stiches where she’d been sewn into the gown. We didn’t make it to the bedroom for Round One. I got carpet burns.” 

Her face flushed. Eloise toyed with the buttons of her pale gray silk blouse. She imagined herself as the bridesmaid being ravaged. She finished the second martini. She waved the empty glass, catching Frank’s attention.

“Margaret and I knew as rational adults this coupling was a bad idea….”

“But, you thought ‘Now or Never’….”

“‘Last Chance…’”

“‘If It Feels Good Do It.’” She slapped the table. “That’s what tonight was supposed to be about….” She caught herself. “Sorry. This is your story…. What happened?”

“As a lover I’m known as attentive and extremely oral. I don’t disappoint….” I waved off further inquiries. “Margaret was surprisingly flexible and a screamer, especially after her third orgasm.”

 “Three orgasms? You’re making this up.” Her words suggested skepticism, but her tone and body language hinted otherwise. She wanted to believe.

“Since The Call, I have been unable to lie, a common problem among prophets. A major handicap in the Twenty-First Century.”

“My ex- had no problem lying.”

“But he wasn’t a prophet.”

“There were a lot of things he wasn’t.” The burgers and fresh drinks arrived.

“Pace yourself,” I suggested.

“Or what?” It came out like a dare. 

She slipped her feet out of her heels and began stroking my leg with her foot. She picked up the massive burger. “Then what happened?”

“Margaret started snoring. I got up to piss. When I finished in the bathroom, I glanced into the living room. The finger still pointed to Jeremiah 1:4-10. ‘Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, before you were born I set you apart; I appointed you as a prophet to the nations.’”

“Called.” 

“Yup. Called, but I didn’t answer the phone. I closed the bible and went for another beer. When I opened the fridge a voice intoned, ‘Tell Hillary to stop working on her inaugural speech. She’ll lose to Trump.’”

“When was this?”

“2016.”

“That doesn’t make you a prophet; everyone knows Hillary lost.”

“But the voice told me mid-October, before the election. Clinton had a twelve-point lead with two weeks to go. I went back to bed. When I woke up in the morning, Margaret was gone. I didn’t have to be a prophet to know my number would be blocked, and texts and emails would be deleted unread.” I reached for my burger and took a bite. “Your turn.”

“It make take a while.”

That wasn’t a no. By now most of my dates would have excused themselves to the ladies room never to return. 

“I’m not going anywhere.” I told her. 

“Yes, I see that.” She glanced at the neighboring tables. “Is it warm in here.” 

“I believe it is.”

After removing her suit jacket, she plucked open two buttons on her pale gray blouse, exposing a hint of a lavender lace bra.  

“You are an attractive woman.”

“You noticed….”

I learned that Eloise was the founder and CEO of ABC Healthcare Solutions. “We solve medical problems. If your specialists don’t agree on a diagnosis, we supply a neutral party to help you decide. If your corporate healthcare provider is raising your rates 35%, we’ll negotiate for you while exploring other options. We have hospice services and home healthcare aides. We operate a dozen physical therapy centers and twice that number of 24-hour clinics for people at odds with traditional providers.”

“You are a busy woman.” That’s when it dawned on me, nothing divinely inspired, just the obvious. “You’re out ‘on a school night’.”

“It’s my 50th birthday. I’m celebrating.”

“No you’re not. You were trawling for a male.”

“Unfortunately, I caught a prophet in my net.”

“Sucks to be you.”

“Tell me about it.” 

Three years ago, divorced, Eloise met the love of her life, Harlan Morton, a new hire in accounting. “I’d never felt like that about anyone,” she told me. Despite his checkered history of failed relationships, the advice of friends to go slow, and HR raising red flags because she was his supervisor’s supervisor, she invited Harlan to share her king-sized bed. “He showed me what a sexual athlete can do with room to maneuver.”

Harlan also introduced her to midnight skinny dipping in her neighbors’ pools, light bondage, and an upscale swingers club in West Des Moines. “Before we married, I made him cancel his membership.”

 “Of course he reinstated it later without telling you.”

“How’d you know?” 

“Lucky guess.”

“Our auditors found irregularities. They traced them back to Harlan.”

“Divorce City.” 

“It wasn’t that simple.”

“It never is.”

“Don’t patronize me, Hosea.” I shut up and listened. “I was in love, but I wasn’t stupid. I promoted him to a position with access to funds, but limited his authority. He was in a position to be tempted, but he could also prove himself. He failed the test and I fired his ass….” She paused, her next martini inches away from her lips. “But not before I went off the pill and suggested he go bareback. He’d always said condoms diminished the experience.” She took a long deep drink.

 “He also told you he wanted children,” I pointed out. “That was a lie.”

“What do you mean?”

“A half million American men get vasectomies every year.”

“How do you know that?”

“Wikipedia.”

“No, I mean, how do you know he got one?”

“I just know. The information appears. Short bursts of knowledge.” 

“Give me an example.”

“I bought Apple stock at $25 a share, Amazon at $41, Microsoft at $60, and Dollar General stock at $60. My stock broker thinks I’m unbelievably lucky.” 

Eloise leaned back, deflated. “And what do you know about me?”

“I know you didn’t come here looking for company or to celebrate. You didn’t even come looking for good sex. You want a sperm donor.”

“Are you volunteering?” She waved me off. “Obviously you are. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

“Is that a problem?”

“Possibly not.” I was growing on her.” She took a moment to work on her burger. Finally she said, “Once a woman reaches 50, her chance of conceiving naturally is 1%.” 

“So you came here determined to seduce a man, have unprotected sex in a restroom if necessary, in hopes of joining the 1%. Instead you’re getting drunk and eating burgers with a prophet.” I leaned in. “Let’s order coffee and finish our meal while we sober up. We could split a banana’s Foster. After that it’s a short drive to your lake home….”

“How do you know I have a lake home? Oh, right….”

“I know if you were unsuccessful this evening your Plan B was to drive to your cabin, turn on the gas stove and oven, and go to sleep.” Her body language suggested the truth of my prediction. “But it won’t be that simple.”

“Why not?”

“You haven’t paid the bill. There’s no gas in the tank.” 

“Fair enough.” She set her glass down. “We’ll order coffee. Assume we go to the cabin. What happens next?”

 “A king bed, fire in the fireplace, an attentive partner, and a slightly thicker than average penis. All compliments of God.”

“And why would He do all that?”

“She. The Goddess has plans for your daughter.”

“My daughter….”

“Joan.”

“If I have sex with you, I’ll conceive a daughter, and I’ll call her Joan.”

“That’s the deal.” 

“Nobody names their daughters ‘Joan’ anymore.”

“Joan of Arc was seventeen when she led the French army and ended the British siege of Orléans.”

“And what will our daughter… Joan… do at seventeen?”

“Leave prom early to save the world from a nuclear terrorist attack that would lead to thermonuclear war and the end of the world as we know it.”

“Oh is that all…?” Eloise burst out laughing. “Who writes your material? Does this really work on women?” She started to stand. I touched her bare arm. She was arrested.

“You came here, on your fiftieth birthday, convinced your life was over, willing to have sex with any faceless stranger, and if that failed, to kill yourself. An ordinary looking guy who talks crazy, but otherwise seems harmless buys your drinks, shares a meal and his life story, and then offers to make love to you, giving you the child you’ve always wanted. What is not to like?”

“You could be a serial killer.”

“If true, that would save you having to do it yourself.”

Frank brought us black coffee and took our dessert order. 

“Would I have to marry you?”

“Goodness, no! Kind offer. But you can do better.”

“So I’ll be single parenting?”

“No. You’ve already met your next husband. He’ll be the only father Joan ever knows.”

“She told you all this?”

“Actually, until I said it a moment ago, I’d assumed I’d be the father and your husband. Kind of disappointing really…. She has other plans for me.”

Frank returned with a cart and began fixing our bananas Foster at the table.

Eloise teased him. “You make a perfect martini and you cook….” 

“I don’t do this for just any customer.”

“So why me?”

“I hope you will come back.”

That’s when Eloise understood: Why she needed to come to this bar. Why I was just a messenger. Why after a vigorous day at the lake house, I’d never see her again. Why Frank was making the bananas Foster at our table.

“I’ll be back,” she said. When the bill came she seized it, and made a point to leave an outrageous tip, as if Frank needed anything else to remember her by.

“Frank’s a foot man,” I told her the next day as I took my leave of her and the lake home. “Wear your best heels. Flash some toe cleavage. Ask if he’s free after work for foot massage.”

“Good to know,” she told me. “Good to know.”