Psalm 57

Resting beside a murky lake with thick waters, impossible to see under the surface beneath an overcast sky, was a wooden lake house. It was two stories with a simple structure: a green roof that pointed into a triangle over the orange tinted wooden frame that boxed itself overtop a stony shore. Gene stood patiently at the back of his gravel driveway with his arms hanging loosely in front of himself and his fingers crossed. He wore a lake blue, plaid, wool shirt that complimented his water colored eyes, surrounded with a crown of white hair, balding perfectly from the center of his scalp down about a quarter inch above his ears, wrapping around his head. He wore a matching beard, growing full and rich around his chin though light and patchy in his cheeks.

Gene stood there humbly in the cool morning waiting to greet a man the world adored. A dark, candle green 1969 Corvette Stingray floated around the bend from the forest that sheltered Gene from society. The Stingray dipped over the pavement and into the gravel road, leading to the aged pastor. The Stingray slowed in the driveway, crunching the pebbles beneath its heavy tires; the ignition cut off. Gene leaned to his right to watch the driver’s side.

The Stingray’s door gently opened and out stepped a man with slicked brown hair, aviator sunglasses, flashing a bright and wide smile. His leather jacket jingled like wind chimes as it was littered with a dozen zippers, and his several-hundred-dollar black jeans were patched and torn in fashion. The man’s shoulders swayed like a see-saw as he walked across the gravel and smiled until he made himself laugh. He came and embraced Gene, patting each other firmly on their backs.

“Lovely to reacquaint ourselves, pastor,” the man’s voice was muffled into Gene’s wool shoulder. He pulled back and grasped Gene by the biceps, admiring him like a father sending his son to school. “Christ, you’ve gotten quite old, haven’t you?” They laughed together. The man had a slight Dublin accent that hadn’t managed to escape despite living in America for decades.

“It’s good to see you, Cillian,” Gene agreed. His voice was raspy and hard to hear if there was other noise around. Gene gently placed his wrinkled palm on Cillian’s back and brought him into his lake house.

Cillian snooped around the reading room within Gene’s home, standing on a blue oval rug and admiring a collection of spiritual and self-help books as well as classic novels most schools held in their library. He took his middle finger and tilted a book towards himself; his hands were bound with rings and jewelry that his fingers – in addition to the zippers – clattered with each gesticulation. Cillian sifted through the different tomes, watching dust particles lift up into the air as he shuffled the books around.

Gene returned with glass teacups on saucers, wisps of steam evaporating out of the earl gray tea. He gingerly handed the cup and saucer in his right hand to Cillian, who, before accepting the tea, clapped his hands together like praying and bowed as a thank you.

Gene made his way to a Windsor chair and squat down halfway before he gestured for Cillian to follow his lead, where Cillian sat upon his own Windsor chair.

“Your home is remarkable,” Cillian admired. He pointed to the wall of books on his left, waving his finger across the room. “You’ve a full library right here. It’s marvelous.”

“Thank you. I’m proud to say I have read them all.”

“Have you? Most people can’t say they’ve read all the books they’ve purchased. Books often symbolize intelligence rather than prove intelligence, I’ve found.”

“Truthfully, I can’t quite remember what’s in them all,” Gene chuckled lightly.

“Still,” Cillian lifted his glass cup off his saucer, “I applaud your diligence to read.” He sipped the earl gray tea.

Gene’s eyes were smiling though he was withstanding the coming queries clouding his thoughts. It wouldn’t be long before he broke, he thought. “How are things musically for you?” Gene asked politely.

“A fucking drag,” Cillian answered honestly, laughing to himself. He looked down and shook his head in true amazement. “Honestly, it gets exhausting trying to find the next musical sermon to preach. I’ve been finding it rather difficult – more difficult than usual – to say something.”

“Hmm.” Gene refrained from counseling the rock god and simply chose to listen.

“I spend hours and hours trying to conjure up lyrics that properly express what I feel.” Cillian pressed his wrist to his mouth and leaned back in the Windsor chair, staring up at the ceiling. “I think…” he paused, allowing time to formulate what he wished to confess to the pastor. “…I’d rather die trying to fulfill my own purpose than to accomplish what I’ve been told to be.” He leaned forward and crossed his right leg over his left, reaching down and setting the tea on the floor.

Gene watched Cillian carefully, allowing time himself to question Cillian’s philosophy. “What purpose are you striving for, Cillian?”

Cillian scoffed. He spread his arms apart and smiled at Gene ironically. “I haven’t the first fuckin’ clue, mate.” He looked around the room, as if proving the space around him was meaningless. “What’s my satisfaction? If I’ve got one final day on this planet, what would you guess I would spend it doing?”

It took a moment for Gene to realize Cillian wasn’t being rhetorical. He inhaled and held his breath to ponder. Admittedly, not a single thought came to mind; Gene didn’t care to wonder. He shrugged his shoulders and shook his head.

“I don’t think anyone does, pastor.” Cillian’s hands cut through the air emphatically, jingling jewelry with each sawing motion. “I don’t think any man or woman has taken the time to consider how they’d spend their last night on earth. Some have, I’m sure, but only with a few drinks and friends pissing out questions until they’re blackout drunk. But not even the morning hangovers could dim the light of that thought for me. And it’s weighed in my mind like a ball and chain, and I couldn’t find where the chain leads, pastor. So I’ve spent the better part of a year musing over what my last night on earth would be like. I’ve wondered about them all; drugs, sex, highway robbery, converting to Islam, apologize to my mother for being a right arse my whole life, give all the money I have to a charity—” Cillian leaned forward and lifted his hand, like he was interrupting Gene. “Do you know how much money I have?” This time he was rhetorical. “I haven’t a clue. I’ve been called in the papers ‘filthy rich,’ and I suppose that is a fair description. I think I’ve always felt filthy rich because I can’t remember much of my life without that kind of money.” Cillian looked up at the ceiling and stared at it like he was watching clouds pass by. “I found in my heart what I think I would do in my last night on earth, pastor, if I had the divine information. I think I finally made peace with this hypothetical.”

Gene had pressed his pointer and middle finger to his lips while he listened. He drew them away and opened his mouth to speak. “What would you do on your last day?”

Cillian took a deep breath and then exhaled calmly. He cocked his head and smiled disappointedly at Gene. “Nothin’.” He bent down and picked his tea back up, sipping it as he straightened his posture. “I don’t think I’d do absolutely anything.”

Gene re-pressed his fingers to his lips and sat still, wondering if Cillian had any more to say. But the coming queries broke through and found their way to his tongue. “Cillian.” He lifted himself off the chair to reposition his posture. “You called me to discuss the Holy Bible with me. Why?”

Cillian looked in his earl gray tea and waited to respond. He knew what he wished to say, he just wished he had the strength to say it. “Pastor, I stumbled on a scripture that I believe leads to the end of the chain that’s held my mind captive.”

Gene looked curiously at him. “What do you mean?”

Cillian rubbed his whole face in frustration, dragging his rings and jewelry over his eyes and lips. He brought his fingers down over his chin and let his hands fall. “I believe in some desperation, some longing for an answer to soothe my madness, I turned to the Bible. Thought, perhaps there's bound to be a remedy or at least comfort in what millions have centered their lives around. Honestly, I didn't know where to start, but I had heard of the Psalms. I just flipped through, reading portions at a time and just waited for... I guess God to speak to me.” He was insecure saying God’s name aloud. “I then read one of the Psalms that... that...” He paused; Cillian bit his lip, as if he was trying to trap the words in his mouth. “I memorized this scripture. Thought it’d ease my pain if I could at least recite it. For a time I planned to turn it into a song, but I can’t. Feels like I don’t have the right.” He looked at the wall of books and tried for a moment to estimate in his mind how many books were shelved in this lake house. He fixed his eyes in place at the wall of books and his vision blurred as he began, speaking aimlessly. “Be merciful to me, O God, be merciful to me, for in you my soul takes refuge; in the shadow of your wings I will take refuge, till the storms of destruction pass by. I cry out to God Most High, to God who fulfills His purpose for me. He will send from heaven and save me; He will put to shame him who tramples on me.” Cillian broke out of his gaze and looked at Gene. “That’s Psalm 57.”

Gene folded his hands under his nose and listened closely. “Why, Cillian, do you believe that this scripture makes you think of that chain?”

“When I’ve reflected on each word, I studied the context and learned the meaning of this excerpt in the Psalms. I longed to grasp what the author was running from and why he sought a refuge in God. How God’s mercy is bestowed on this pitiful man, who can’t even find his own purpose in life. He’s desperate for shelter, desperate for closure from his pain. I soon understood that this man is me, pastor.” Cillian went to sip his tea but the next thought overwhelmed him too greatly to drink. He pressed his hand against his forehead and wiped his face. “But then I began to interpret the second half,” His voice quivered and his eyes slowly welled up. “God is coming to save me from what’s killing me. He’ll put to shame him who tramples me. As much as I fought against the reality of who he is that’s killing me, I… I followed the chain in my mind and saw it linked right to myself. Pastor… I am the one that is killing me. I am in need to be saved from myself.”

Cillian’s eyes locked grievously with Gene’s, whose expression sunk into a well of despair. The world renowned rockstar was pleading with Gene to be rescued from his own self. Gene rose up from his Windsor chair and crossed the room towards Cillian, who lowered his chest in shame. Gene bent down and looked up at his longtime friend. “What did you come to tell me, Cillian?”

Cillian fought aggressively to push back his tears, hiccupping as he swallowed. He shut his eyes and pressed hard, hot tears streaked from the corners of his eyes. “I don’t know. I don’t know.” Cillian covered his face with his hands. He couldn’t speak. The tears overtook him. Gene placed his wrinkled palm on Cillian’s back. Cillian sniffed hard and breathed through his mouth. “What I am in the light, in the media, is already abysmal, Gene. The world knows it. They know what I am and how I entertain myself, how I throw it away. But what I do in the dark is…”

Gene strengthened him, “It’s alright.”

“No, it’s not. If you knew who I was in private... If you were given a key to my thoughts and unlock them, you’d be scared shitless.”

“We all have bad thoughts from time to time.”

Cillian shook his head, trying to prove his guilt. “Not like mine.” His face turned red from tears. “I think that whatever purpose I might’ve strived for or wrote for myself is completely meaningless, because in any case I’ve wasted it.”

“Do you not think your success in music is purposeful?”

“I don’t give a damn about the music, Gene. I don’t think who I am is worth a damn. And I suppose that’s why I wouldn’t do anything if it were the last night on earth. Because I’ve already given up.”

Gene watched Cillian hang his head and wipe his nose with his jacket sleeve. Gene felt the weight of each emotion Cillian burdened himself with. Gene stood up from beside Cillian and went to the wall of books. He pulled out an old Bible and opened it, kneeling back down beside him as he flipped the thin pages.

He used his creased forefinger to read along with the words, speaking softly. “Be merciful to me, O God, be merciful to me, for in you my soul takes refuge; in the shadow of your wings I will take refuge, till the storms of destruction pass by. I cry out to God Most High, to God who fulfills his purpose for me. He will send from heaven and save me; He will put to shame him who tramples me.” Gene paused, and then continued the scripture. “God will send his steadfast love and his faithfulness. My soul is in the midst of lions. I will sing and make melody. Awake, my glory. Awake, O harp and lyre. I will awake the dawn. I will give thanks to you, O Lord, among the peoples; I will sing praises to you among the nations. For your steadfast love is great to the heavens, your faithfulness to the clouds. Be exalted, O God, above the heavens. Let your glory be over all the earth.”

Gene looked up from the text and saw Cillian contemplating the scripture. They sat in a silence they both needed, allowing time to draw each other closer.

“There’s a lot about singing and music and praise, isn’t there?” Gene mentioned.

Cillian nodded, wiping the tears from his eyes. “There’s more about me in there than I thought,” he chuckled a little.

“It sounds like you’ve always, then, known your purpose, Cillian. Perhaps you just need rescuing from the way you’ve misused it. It reads, to me, that you’re being rescued because of love. To fulfill the purpose He gave you.”

Cillian clenched his right hand buried his face behind it. He took a deep breath in, and then exhaled slowly.

Gene escorted the rockstar back to his candle green 1969 Corvette Stingray. Cillian looked behind him and watched the sun glisten over the clear waters.

Gene and Cillian spoke lightly, dwelling on past memories between the two of them, the foolish mistakes they made together and the moments of their youth that shaped them. Cillian meant to leave shortly after exiting the lake house but his rekindled friendship with Gene kept him on that gravel driveway for the better part of an hour.

Eventually, the two of them embraced. They hugged long. Cillian returned to the Stingray and started the ignition. He waved through the windshield, Gene waved back. Gene stuffed his hands in his pocket and watched the Stingray pull out of the driveway and back into the woods.