I came home from work, worn and tired, but feeling pretty good. At least physically. I parked my car in the driveway and, as I do every day upon returning home from work, checked the mailbox. Once inside I took care of the necessary things. I gave the cats their expected treats, washed my face and hands, and changed my clothes. Then I sat down at the kitchen table to examine the mail.
Bills and bank statements. It’s not a crisis, but the margins are thinner than I’d like. I sighed and offered up a wordless prayer.
That’s when I heard the front door open. My first thought was that it was my wife coming home from her doctor’s appointment. But a voice called out that wasn’t hers.
“Hello? Carter? Are you home?” I recognized the voice immediately. Gunner. My prayers summoned, not God’s glorious angels, but an imp to test and torment me.
“Let yourself in, I guess,” I said from the table. “I’m in the kitchen.”
“Hey, Carter,” he said finding me at the table. “What’s up?”
“I’m just engaged in that all-American pastime, worrying about finances.”
He nodded and grinned. “You’ve got your Bible there handy. Why don’t you check out Psalm 37:25?”
I knew it without having to open the book. “I’ve been young and now I’m old and I’ve never seen the righteous forsaken or his children begging for bread.”
“That’s the one,” Gunner grinned.
“That verse makes me more than a little nervous,” I admitted. “Would you like to sit down?” I gestured to an empty chair. He was making me nervous.
He sat. “Well, maybe that’s because you’re not as righteous as you let on.”
I raised an eyebrow and glared at him. “No. I’m just not sure the psalmist looked very closely at the world.”
Gunner laughed. He stood up and went to the fridge. “You got any of that crappy IPA beer?” I was on the verge of inviting him to help himself, but he’d already found and withdrawn a bottle.
“The Bible is always right, you know,” he said. “And errorists like you have no rights.” He took a large swig of the beer. “Man, this stuff is terrible.”
“Why are you here, Gunner?” I finally asked.
“Carter, I like you. God help me, but I like you. You’re a…” he foundered for words. “Well, I don’t know what you are exactly, but I like you. And God’s laid it upon my heart to make you a personal project. My own mission field. God’s assured me that even a filthy socialist like you can be saved.”
“Gunner,” I said after a moment, “you are a cold glass of salt water on a hot summer day, aren’t you? How did I come to be so blessed?” He just laughed and chugged more of my beer.
“What you need to do, Carter…” he began to say but I interrupted him.
“Gunner, I swear to God, if you say I just need to pull myself up by my bootstraps, or some other Republican cliché…” I stopped. I didn’t really know what I would do.
“I was just going to say that idleness is your only barrier to financial security.” He said the beer down on the counter.
“Get out,” I said. “I’m tired and I need to start dinner. So leave.”
“Depart from evil, Carter,” he said as he made his way towards the door. “Depart from evil and do good. That’s the way to keep your home forever. That’s the psalmist again.”
“Get out,” I said once more and closed the door behind him.
The Previous Conversations:
An Imaginary Conversation with a Real Troll (the first of the series)
I Will Not Fight the Argument (the second)
Supermarket Wrestling (third conversation)
Do You Even Pray (the troll returns)
All Means All (A fifth conversation)
The Doctrine that Cannot Be Challenged (sixth conversation)
Toward Sodom - (a halfhearted seventh conversation)
Millions of Years of Death (the eighth conversation)
Truth with Untruth (the ninth conversation)
Bulls, Dogs, and Villains (the tenth conversation)
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