Relentless Pickle by David Henson

I look out our window at the crowd — men and women with their shirts and blouses untucked on one side, some holding up sneakers onto which they’ve written obscenities. The people chant my name and that of my wife, Monica. A few also cheer for our daughter, Lori, who runs up to her bedroom and slams the door.

I ask my wife if we should address our “flock.”

“Don’t you dare encourage them, Winston,” Monica says. “I wish they’d get the hell out of here.” Just then, a loud clap of thunder announces a downpour, and the crowd disperses.

I chuckle. “Another miracle.”

“Don’t start that shit again,” my wife says.

#

We never imagined things would get so out of hand. It starts on a Friday night several months ago. Our 12-year-old daughter, Lori, is spending the night at a girlfriend’s. My wife and I take a couple gummies that eventually give us brain munchies — random thoughts we chew on then spit out into the conversation.

It’s Monica who broaches the subject of belief. “Do you ever wish you were still a believer?”

I giggle.

“I’m serious, Winston. I remember how my folks were comforted by their beliefs. Got Mom through the worst days of her life when Dad died.”

I straighten up. Talking about the death of a loved one will do that. “I guess my parents leaned on their religion, too. But you can’t just will yourself to start believing in something.”

“What if you could? What if you could make yourself believe in … belief?”

That’s the comment that puts a lit match to the bush.

We talk about how belief itself is real whether or not the thing believed in is. Belief is universal. Everybody believes in something — religion, science, a sports team … everlasting nothingness. Before we know it, we’re declaring our belief in belief.

Monica and I concoct a ritual we perform every Thursday evening, after Lori has gone to bed, at seven minutes after nine. The precise time is part of the ritual. No phones, late night business calls or emails allowed. We sit at the kitchen table, light a candle and chant Belief is real. We believe in belief. We pass the candle back and forth three times, dribble hot wax on table top, then blow out the candle, chant some more and scrape up the coagulated wax, which we put in an empty cookie tin. No variations or exceptions. The ritual doesn’t mean a thing other than being a testament to our belief in belief.

After about a couple weeks, we both notice our moods are elevated. We have fewer arguments, more energy and even screw better. I find myself looking forward to Thursday nights all week. We both realize the feelings are psychosomatic, but who cares?

One day at work I mention our new-found conviction to a colleague. He says he and his wife are “searching for something” and has me explain our ritual and doctrine in detail. I oblige although there isn’t much to say about the latter. A few days later, he tells me he and his wife feel reborn. “The world needs to know about this,” he says.

I caution him to not overdue it. If this helps him and his wife as it does Monica and me, fine. But at the end of the day, our “belief,” similar to that classic comedy show, is about nothing. He tells me he’s not so sure about that.

Turns out the guy is a social media nut and posts about the power of believing in belief. He gains hundreds of new followers, most asking how they can join the movement. 

That’s when I make a big mistake. I compose a statement to put on his feeds: “My wife and I appreciate interest in our belief but please be aware it’s only something we made up for our own benefit. There is no movement, no organization and nothing to join. Be well. Do good. Believe whatever gets you through the night.”

Monica thinks it’s a good statement, despite the shameless lifting from the John Lennon song, and agrees I should post it.

The next day I have thousands of new followers and scores of comments like:

You must share this with everyone.

Don’t be selfish.

You were chosen for a reason.

That evening, Monica and Lori come home early from our daughter’s ballet class. Lori is sobbing and refuses to eat any of the pizza I ordered.

“Some of the kids teased her about us being kooks,” Monica says. “Her instructor made them stop. Then he cornered me and asked if he could join our movement …. Winston, I was thinking on the way home, and I have an idea. We can accomplish two things by revealing symbols of our so-called religion.”

“You mean like the candle or cookie tin from our ritual?”

“Those are only tools. I’m talking about symbols — ambiguous things people attach deeper meaning to. Except our symbols will be so ridiculous, folks will know they can’t take them seriously and will leave us alone.”

“Sounds like a plan … You said we’d accomplish two things. What’s the other?”

“We’ll have fun, fun, fun.” Roll over, Brian Wilson.

After Lori goes to her room, Monica and I chew on a few ideas along with a couple gummies. We settle on two symbols.

“They make no sense,” I say.

“Exactly. We fight fire with fire, nonsense with nonsense.”

The next morning, a Saturday, Monica reveals the symbols on her feed because mine keeps crashing from all the traffic. She says simply “Belief in belief means a commitment to crooked shirts and rude shoes.”

“I still like the relentless pickle and the miracle of the folded fitted sheet,” I say. “Maybe we can include them next time.”

“I don’t think there’ll be a next time. People will see how silly the whole thing is and leave us in peace.”

Nope.

A debate erupts on Monica’s social media about the meaning of our symbols. People post photos, and someone organizes an online poll. Wearing a top that’s half tucked is ordained The Crooked Shirt. And if you want Rude Shoes, scribble swear words on them.

Things deteriorate from plain crazy to bat shit crazy. Monica gets passed over for a promotion due to, we suspect, our “religion.”

I receive a promotion I wasn’t expecting. In return my boss wants to join our church. I try to explain there is no such thing. He thinks I’m putting him off. He doesn’t take back my promotion, but I believe he’s the one who doxes us.

Our adoring followers (or as Monica and I refer to them, idiots, assholes and fools) start gathering outside our home a couple days a week.

Lori refuses to go to her ballet class.

Monica, hoping to pour sanity on the flaming madness, agrees to talk to a local TV reporter. The interview goes something like this:

Isn’t your religion a fraud?

It’s not a religion.

Aren’t you getting rich from taking advantage of your followers?

We haven’t taken any money, and we don’t want anyone to follow us.

Do you …? Don’t you…? Haven’t you…?

Most of the rest of what my wife says has to be bleeped.

Just when things seem the most hopeless, we’re blessed with a miracle — Mistress Liza and Puddles, the Soothsaying Poodle. The dog whines, growls and yodels in a way that almost sounds as if it’s talking. Mistress Liza translates Puddle’s noises into predictions about the future. The two become an internet sensation. Most of the enamored are belief believers who move on from us. The crowds quit showing up at our home, and the mob abandons our social media.

Our lives returns to normal. Better than normal. Monica and I both quit our jobs and start working at the library. We love it and no longer feel the need for our Thursday evening ritual.

Lori resumes ballet. We even put a small barre in her bedroom. Our daughter is chosen to dance the role of Odette in an upcoming production of Swan Lake. I don’t know much about it, but Monica says it’s “a big fucking deal.”

I’m on top of the world. Then a comet smashes into it

I’m making spaghetti sauce while waiting for Monica and Lori to get home from the dance studio when a police officer calls. He says my wife and daughter have been in an accident and are being life-flighted to a trauma center 30 miles away.

Somehow I make it to the facility without being in a wreck myself. A doctor in scrubs comes to the front desk and says they’re doing everything they can. I’m unable to squeeze more information from his eyes or tone of his voice.

A nurse leads me to a small chapel.

I stagger to the altar and collapse to my knees but begin hyperventilating. I assume the lotus position and chant a mantra I paid $50 for in college. I’m overwhelmed by the sound of my heart pounding in my ears. I recite verses I learned from Psalms, the Torah and Hindu scripture. The whoosh of blood doesn’t diminish. My breath continues in short stabs.

I untuck one side of my shirttail, scratch Fuck Fuck Fuck into the leather of my shoes with my fingernail and whisper “Belief is real. I believe in belief.” Feeling as if someone is sitting on my chest, I close my eyes and imagine the doctor coming into the chapel. He removes his mask and smiles, snaps off his gloves and gives me two thumbs up. I hold this visual in my mind until I can breathe, until the weight on my chest lightens, until I lose track of time. Until I hear a voice call my name.

#

I’m managing to not be consumed by hatred for the drunk driver who veered across the center line and crashed into my wife’s car.

I’m also managing to be a decent single dad. I have plenty of help from home health care workers, therapists and such. Days are hectic so Lori and I spend evenings together reading or watching TV. Often I’ll look over and find that my daughter has risen out of her chair. She can stand nearly a minute now before she starts convulsing and needs to sit down. I used to rush to help her, but she doesn’t like that. She really doesn’t like that.

Doctors say Lori will never walk again let alone dance ballet. My daughter refuses to believe them. I call her my relentless little pickle. She is my belief.

This story originally appeared in the Spring 2023 issue of Calliope.

David Henson

Image: A single white candle shining against a black background from pixabay.com