Billboard

“[...] and we're telling you again: the end is nigh! Ye must be blind not to see! The plague is upon us – Men have given it the name of Cancer – the locusts are upon us – look at the Banks ripping us off! Watch the Pharmaceutical companies drugging us! We have but a few months left to live! Soon the last of Antarctica's glaciers will detach and flood us all! Wars are spreading, brethren at brethren's throat, mothers eat the fruit of their womb! Every day tornadoes blast through our homes and fires sweep away entire cities! Yesterday an earthquake struck another sinful city in California! All around us there's blood, devastation, death, war and horror! Now is the time to repent! Ask for the Lord's forgiveness, and He shall give it! Expiate your sins, make amends and He shall save ye! It is not too late! It is n– ” The vein on his temples were near-bursting when the lank figure of a red-headed man manifestly strode within his personal space.

“Hello Mister! So sorry to interrupt.” He sure was sorry. His face was a shade redder than his hair. “I'm working in the store around the corner, and my co-workers and I all chipped in some money for you. We'll give you 10 dollars and...98 cents if you shut up or if you move away to the next block.”

He had time to compose himself, and even though he wished the young man had stepped away from his personal space into his social space, he wasn't one to bravely run away. “That's very gracious of you my lad, but the Word of the Lord has to be heeded.”

He had clearly awaited a different answer, but he could tell the ginger man was on his toes. “But should the patience of Man be thus tested in the process?”

He couldn't help smiling. Clearly he was more used to “the talk” than the youngster. “I see you jest, enquiring friend, but the Apocalypse is no laughing matter. Do ye believe?”

This time he didn't even take time to think. “I believe in Man's right to live and die according to their own design.”

“There is no other design but the Lord's.” He suddenly realised how to get the upper hand and put an end to this absurd conversation. “How long have you been working in that yonder store, young man?”

The redness of face had abated, but it came back like the blare of a sun after being briefly concealed by a cloud. “That would be my first week.”

“I see. You don't need to follow anybody, you've got to think for yourself. Tell your colleagues it was base and evil to send the meek out on a fool's errand, for this and their other sins they should repent.”

He suddenly became very defensive. “Listen, I don't want to be in any trouble. I'm just doing this job to pay for my studies.”

“And what is it this mind of yours seeks?”

“What?”

“What do you study?”

“Philosophy.”

“Tell you what, lad. Keep the tener, and tell your colleagues you gave it to me. I'll move away and you can get some beer later on and ponder on the mutating nature of sin.”

“Wh–

“Do as I say, and ye shall know. Good day to you, laddie.”

Arthur didn't look back. He knew the lad would remain dumbfounded on the pavement with the money in his hand for a few more seconds, and then would pocket it and get back in, much to his co-workers' elation at having both gotten rid of the pain-in-the-arse sandwich man and hazed the newbie.

He was used to it, that was part and parcel of his new job. Every day a new spot, every day the same words of wisdom, billboarding his way into shaking up the tentacular city, every day being told off to spew his bile to some other place, preferably Hell according to many of the tellers-off.

He was lucky when “the talk” actually ended the way it did just a moment ago. There were great and hazardous downsides to this job: one day someone had started to push him and even though he wasn't the brawling type he had pushed back, and in the scuffle which ensued the man had sunk his teeth deeply in his ankle. The medics had given him a rabies shot, just in case. Another time he was pelted with...well, he wasn't certain with what exactly, but perhaps some truths were best left unsaid. And this one time when he would have been punched in the face by a bellicose barber had several of his clients not intervened.

In any case, even though it was a bit early to call it a day he wasn't really feeling this neighbourhood. His perambulating with the sanctimonious board had garnered a lot of sinister looks. It was time to pack, and get a bite too. Experience had taught him that carrying the sign on his back or under his arm was much more cumbersome than to simply wear it. So he wore it from the door of his building to whichever part of town he was assigned and back.

Right now he was patiently queueing up, his wafer-thin hoagie in hand, catching some amused looks, some frowning brows, some I-don't-care-even-if-I'm-looking looks. He himself couldn't care less, all he was relishing at the moment was the deep irony of eating a sandwich while on this job. When the cashier asked him with a smirk when the apocalypse was due, he replied: “Soon, sinner, soon. The Apocalypse is meant to catch people unawares, so unless ye cleanse yerself of yer impurities ye'll catch it good.” He scooped up the change, winked and left. He loved that part of the job, he could say stuff which ought to offend people but he was shielded by the almighty First Amendment. The fire and brimstone tone and the near-perfect Irish accent, honed binge-watching Father Ted, also befuddled people big time.

Subwaying his way home, he wondered if these shenanigans weren't getting to his head. In order to know the intricacies of the Bible quite well, he had had to read it cover to cover. His mind was infused with it. Also, being given almost free reigns for the writing of his speeches was both a boon and a bane. He never had been much of a believer, but he knew he was a heck of a writer. Somebody snickering near him – clearly mocking him – pulled him out of his reverie. He was sandwiched between people so he couldn't look around and show them how tasty a sandwich he was. He was the BLT of sandwich men: Bible-Laced Terror. The name made him chuckle. A middle-aged woman pressed against the board saw him smile and tried to back away but realised she couldn't, so she just turned her face the other way. He thought it was what a lot of people were doing – looking away and not facing issues – exemplifying why everything in the world had gone awry.

He got off, went to the local grocer's to buy bread and cat food, gave alms to the needy, and trudged up the stairs. When would they finally fix that darn elevator? He was also tired because of all the tramping around he did.

“Maggie, I'm home!” He had no sooner shut the door that Poppy, their copper-eyed red tabby, came slithering between his legs. She even had a ritual: one infinity sign meant “Hello there hooman whom I happen to like, you've been gone a while”; two or more infinity signs – depending on your capacity to balance whatever you had in your arms – with or without meowing – was her way of saying “Hello there hooman with useful front paws! This is a redundant reminder – please don't mind me – that if you happen to walk as far as the kitchen you won't fail to notice there's a spotlessly clean plate beneath the dishwasher which needs filling with that same nice munchy food you put on it last night.”

“Good afternoon honey, you're home early! Is everything okay?” You could tell there was that almost undetectable accentuation of concern in her voice. He had never seen her this worried as when she rushed in the ER room where he was getting his stitches done on his ankle, her face flushed from the running, which quickly prompted the following mordant question: “Arthur Pewtey, are you waiting for the Messiah to rise up from the dead to tell you to drop that dratted job, or will I suffice?”

“Yes, yes, everything's fine. Just the usual telling-off, and the lad was even nice about it. ”

“Good, good.” He could tell she had said this with pursed lips. She had resented his decision to pursue his billboarding career, even went as far as not talking to him for a full hour. “A new board has arrived, it's right by the door.”

Every other week he would receive a new sandwich board. He unpacked it. They were really paying attention to his suggestions, such as reinforcing the shoulder straps or selecting a different font and using more crimson ink. This one was sturdy, made out of light wood and not plastic because it was more eco-friendly. Both the front and back bore quotes from the Bible, in fiery red letters on a black background. The front had Isaiah 66:15 “The lord will come in fire and his chariots like the whirlwind, to render his anger with fury, and his rebuke with flames of fire.” The back had Matthew 24:29 “The sun will be darkened, and the moon will not give its light, and the stars will fall from the sky, and the powers of the heavens will be shaken.” Now he had a week to come up with a speech he would have to deliver at various locations all over the city, which would be sent later on via email.

He pulled the old sign off his shoulder and down next to the new one, went to the kitchen to fill Poppy's plate. Maggie came in from behind, locking her arms around his chest.

“How was your day, honey? Any public display of contrition?”

“Pah! Ye be mocking, but ye shall see, sinner!” He then buried his face in her neck for their daily, early-evening, back-from-work hug. He didn't know how he would have coped with life without those. When he had been laid off after working twenty years for the same local newspaper, he relied heavily on those hugs. She had said writers always found the odd job. And she was right: he eventually did.

Fact was, even though he was no longer unemployed, he didn't know who his employer was. The Agency had called in one morning, saying someone from the newspaper had given them his number, and they had offered the job. He had decided to give it the old college try because it didn't seem overly complex, the pay was good, no prior experience nor any church affiliation was needed – and that was something completely different. Just show up and harangue the rubberneckers. Be innovative, responsive, engaging. He recalled how a few months back he had felt pressured by the bills, the fact that Maggie was working her arse off to pay them, his own powerlessness at no longer being the bread-earner. He had learnt a lot since then. The Lord in whom he didn't believe had, in a way, saved his butt and his dignity.

They unlocked, and kissed. He put Poppy's plate down, stroke the cat, went over to the couch, sat, opened his laptop.

“Awww...are you working tonight, honey? Could you take a break from work for a bit? I thought we could watch the telly some...there's a Monty-Python-athon starting tonight.”

He sighed, rubbed his face and neck. “Well, I guess you're right, again. This job is really getting at me.”

“You should relax. The Montys will do you good, you know. Where are you off to tomorrow?”

“Somewhere off in Queens, between Bellerose Terrace and Floral Park if I remember well. Need to google it, I don't think I've been this side of Queens before. I'm not even sure it's officially part of it. I don't want to make any faux-pas, you know Manhattanites, Brooklynites and Queens...ites? Hey Mag, how do they call the residents of Queens?”

“People who don't want to be called stupid names shouldn't give themselves a name in the first place.”

“True story. Amen!”

“When men don't care about limits, they are sprawling like ants before a wildfire. It's all the same ant hill.”

“Oh, that's a good line, hun. I'll find a way to use it next week.”

“Royalties, hubby, royalties!” She grinned. “Come, let's make a devil's pact: what do you say to us making some dinner together and then we watch the first few minutes of the Life of Brian, see if it takes your mind off things. You might even find some material for your speech.”

“Oh you really know the ways of the Devil, don't you Maggie. So be it!” Perhaps he was taking his job a tad too seriously – he had even practised in the mirror his redness of face and bulging arteries on the neck – but he knew the Agency was kind of watching him, because they offered some carefully-worded advice from time to time, as if they knew he was touchy when it came to writing. He took pride in the only skill he knew he ever had. Yet a small voice inside him said that the shame of losing that job should overcome the pride of writing incendiary pamphlets. In any case, he had to make sure the job was done, but he could take tonight off as his speech was ready. Tomorrow would be another day.

When he woke up next morning, the evening came back rushing in sudden flashes. They had laughed and laughed, they loved old-fashioned British humour. Maggie had been right to nudge him into taking the evening off, as this had been one of the best evenings in the past couple months. He couldn't say life was perfect, but it certainly was interesting. He needed more time to settle down in the job, improve his scansion and the occasional Americanism which cropped up every now and again.

He quickly checked the itinerary on his phone: he had to dash to Penn Station, take the Main Line to Bellerose station. Quite the ride. Which it was. He had made quite an impression in Penn. He had been asked to remove his board a few times. The security guards didn't even want to hear how cumbersome the whole shebang was. But he had gotten there, and it was a quite pleasant area: a few barbecue restaurants, a wine retailer, a couple florists selling vibrant magenta rhododendron wallopers and dazzlingly bright carnations, a spa. And smiling people, lots of them.

He positioned himself at the corner of Jamaica Avenue and Colonial Road as per the instructions. He cleared his throat. “The Lord is benevolent. The Lord is omnipresent. The Lord is forgiving.” He liked the concise opening which felt like a sermon. “We who put our trust in the Lord's care shall be rewarded when the time comes. For trouble lies ahead. Trouble is brewing.” It was time to raise his voice a little, but already some people had turned their heads his way. “My brethren, we live in a state of sin. Yet the end is nigh! Nigh, I'm telling ye! The Apocalypse is almost upon us, and the devils are set upon our destruction! Those who will not be ready shall be doomed to an eternity in Hell!” Several people, including schoolchildren had stopped in their tracks to listen to him. He knew he ought not to make eye contact. “These are difficult times ahead of us, my brethren! Do ye not see how the world is bleeding from wounds evil men have inflicted to it!” Admittedly, not the best part of the speech, but hang on in there passers-by, ye shall hear wonders. “Ye are born in sin, but ye may not die in sin! Ye have a choice, and the Lord in His infinite grace shall welcome ye in His forgiving lap! Ye can fend off the Forces of Evil, stop committing sin! Cleanse yer soul and ye shall abide in Heaven for eternity!” And now for the clencher. “Do not think ye have time before Apocalypse strikes! We heralds of the Lord have told you once and we're telling you ag –”

“Oh no mister, we won't have any of this here!” An imposing woman in a cerise shirt carrying bottles of wines in a basket strode up to him. “You will pack your stupid ideas and your stupid board and get the hell out of here!”

“Come on M'lady, I know the people from Queens wouldn't – ”

The woman first became livid, as if all the blood had suddenly been drawn off her face, then flushed right back in to a vivid scarlet hue. She blurted out: “THIS – IS – NOT – QUEENS!”

Nothing could have foreshadowed the sudden, violent comedy of all comedies which ensued. He had no idea why people flared up so quickly and so viciously. All he knew is that next second a human horde was upon him.

The massive brawl started when a woman with fiery eyes darted between his legs to make him trip up and as he regained his balance an old woman purple of face tackled him in the chest from behind. He heard a loud crack and he thought his spine had just snapped. Some people had started to look away and pretended not to see him being beaten up, but when they saw how it was going to turn out, they joined in.

“He says it's the Apocalypse!”

“I'll apocalypse your butt to the gates of Hell!”

“Let go of my ankle!”

“Long live the First Amendment!”

“Shut up!”

And all of a sudden, the brawl seemed to clear up. As soon as he saw the opening, he ran for it.

“Running away, he's running away! You yellow bastard!”

Then he heard a voice behind him. “Come with me!” He instinctively followed the man who had called after him. They went round a couple blocks. “In here, quick!” He spun on his heels, went in right after the man who had in the meantime grabbed the hem of his sleeve. They walked as composedly and hurriedly as they could in what appeared to be a diner, right up to the restroom. When they were both in the man locked the door behind them.

Arthur was out of breath, panting as if he had run a marathon. He suddenly came to and realised the back of the board had been snapped in two, and the front bore three sole-shaped holes. He pulled the wreck off his shoulders, dropped it with a loud bang on the ground. Then his knees gave way under him and he crumpled on the floor, his back against the wall.

“Lucky I was there, eh?” Seeing he didn't quite understand, the man added: “I took two of these bastards off your back, that's how you escaped. You and I, actually.” His nose was bleeding.

“I guess thanks are in order. Thanks, a lot.” Then he saw a large red and gold badge sewn onto the sleeve of his vest. “Who are you?”

“You are perspicacious, Mr. Pewtey. I am a Watcher of the Agency. “Are you ok? How's your head?”

He felt his scalp, it hurt. A few drops of blood were on his hand when he looked at it. “It's okay, 'tis but a scratch. But that old lady who tackled me from behind? She's dynamite.” He felt his back, it was sore but nothing seemed to be broken. “When I enrolled I didn't know violence would be involved.”

“Well, there were a lot of red flags, Arthur.”

“I guess there were.” He stretched his back and winced from the pain. “Anyway this Agency, does it have a name?”

“It has, yes indeed. It's the AAARGH.”

“Sounds like the famous last words of many people. Could've been mine back out there.”

“Ah, you don't say. It stands for the Agency for the Advancement of Atheism and the Revocation of Godly Hocus-pocus. Our motto? Always look on the bright side of strife. Clever, eh?

“But why? Why did you need a sandwich man for this...nonsense?”

“Because nobody expected the atheist inquisition! Also, instead of endlessly discussing the existence or non-existence of god, we decided to fight for it, and we were hoping to spark some sort of controversy...and look how well we did. What a mess, my friend! Now people won't want to hear any of this balderdash any more and throw everything to the devil, so to speak. I mean, what has religion ever done for us?” He wasn't sure the man was still talking to him, so he waited a few seconds, and sure enough the Agency guy went on talking. “Sure it was the precursor to philosophy, and the early stages of science, and it's convenient for the poor, the sick, the elderly, and it's perhaps the greatest placebo effect of all times. But still, the question remains up in the air.” He stood up, walked casually to a sink and cleaned his bleeding nose. “We thought of coming up with the funniest joke in the world, but we unanimously decided to be against killing anyone. And the collateral damage would have been of more epic proportions than the crusades.”

“You still haven't answered my question.”

“In a nutshell, we wanted to refine a technique which, if successful, would be extended worldwide to fight religions and the violence inherent in their system by using their own methods, by turning their own violence against themselves. And it works just fine. Thank you, Arthur Pewtey, for standing up to them. You really were a man out there.” He dried his hand on the back of his jeans.

“Happy to be of service.” A thought occurred to him. “Hang on, does that mean I'm out of a job?”

“I'm afraid so, Arthur. But you have talents, my friend, which you should put to grander uses than just writing in a local newspaper, than just helping causes such as ours.” The man unlocked the door, darted quick glances through the opening, then closed the door again. He extended his hand towards Arthur. “Sir, this is where our roads part. The AAARGH thanks you for your service, and wishes you the best of luck in your future endeavours.” He shook his hand and in a second he was gone.

When he came home, all battered and bruised, Poppy silently infinity-signing round his legs not even begging for food, and told an incredulous Maggie what had happened, she hugged him closer than ever, and told him that he would find another job, that everything from then on was all uphill. And he knew that Maggie was always right. And she was.