The Holy Land

by Don Rath

By the time he got out of the shower, Rodney had received yet another text inviting him to the party he knew nothing about.  RSVP asap, the message said, with the kind of authority usually reserved for the papacy.  He didn’t recognize the name of the venue.  Kim’s Soiree.  The Holy Land.  9 pm mas or menos.    He didn’t recognize the number +1(206)564-5645 and didn’t know anyone who’d ever lived in Seattle.  People should check the accuracy of their contact lists.

The phone vibrated again.  Be there?  

Rodney picked up the phone and tapped his thumbs against the virtual keyboard.  You’ve got the wrong number!  Then he deleted the exclamation point.

Rodney was sure it was a wrong number because he wasn’t the type of guy who got invited to parties.  The last time had been Jimmy Everly’s twelfth birthday after his mother made a stink about him being the only boy in the neighborhood who had been left out.  Rodney arrived promptly at three on a windy Saturday afternoon only to discover the party had started an hour earlier and no empty chairs were left at the table.  He heard Jimmy tell Randy Packton that he hadn’t really invited Rodney.  He had to sing Happy Birthday leaning against the kitchen wall.  

It was past ten on Saturday, and he was an hour late for work.  Okay, technically not late, because it was a Saturday.  But late for him.  He had worked almost every Saturday since starting at the CPA firm five years ago.  The partners loved him because he’d put in the overtime while they were out playing golf or going on wine tours.  They habitually dropped their emergencies on his desk shortly after lunchtime on Fridays.

“I wanted to make sure you didn’t get bored this weekend,” Addison Crump had said as he handed him the Generation-Skipping Transfer Tax calculation that he couldn’t reconcile on his own.  “The Kelly Estate audit.  That IRS agent is a fuckin’ bear.”

Rodney took the blue file from Addison and placed it on top of the trust distribution analysis Sheila Oscar had dumped on him an hour before.  “Have a great weekend,” she said, smiling.

Great weekend.  Twenty-seven years old, single, living in San Francisco, and he’d be spending another Saturday staring at a computer screen until at least dinnertime. 

You’re not Rodney?

He looked down at the text.  

I’m Rodney.  Who is this?

You gotta be there tonight.

Think you have the wrong Rodney.

Rodney Wilder?

Yeah.  But I don’t know anyone named Kim.

Ya stop, wise guy.

No, serious.

C’mon playboy.  Like you don’t know Kim?

Rodney was getting annoyed.  He looked at his watch again.

I don’t know Kim … or you … or what Holy Land is.  

But it’s you, Rodney Wilder?

You must have the wrong Rodney Wilder.

Ain’t nothin wrong with you, Rodney.  So you coming?

He didn’t want to prolong this ridiculous conversation and needed to get to the office.  

Yeah sure.

Awesome.  You know where The Holy Land is, yes?

I can find it.

Then he shut off his phone.

Lamar was the only one in the office when he arrived.  In fact, Lamar was always the only one in the office when he arrived.  He and Rodney had started at Crump, Fletcher & Harrison on the same day, both brand new associates, dressed in charcoal gray suits (though Lamar’s had probably cost three times what Rodney’s had) and had gone to lunch together every day for the first two weeks until they both became too busy to have lunch.  Still, they’d talk frequently, sometimes late at night, more often on weekends.   Rodney was the only one at the firm who knew Lamar lived out of his car and usually slept in the office.  Not that he was homeless.  He stayed with his folks, both retired schoolteachers, now MAGA Republicans who sat in the yard too much, or so Lamar said.  He didn’t enjoy being around them anymore.  So he only slept at their house on public holidays and Christmas.

“You’re late,” Lamar said, as Rodney put his usual medium Americano with oat milk on the end of his desk.

“You’re welcome,” Rodney said.

“Thought you might have taken the weekend off,” Lamar said.  He sat in a cross-legged position in his black ergonomic desk chair like he was doing a yoga pose, and Rodney wondered why he didn’t fall off.  

“And do what?”  Rodney stayed at his desk and pulled the blue file closer.  It was a good two inches thick.

“Dunno.  Surprise me.”

“I’m out of surprises,” Rodney said.

“Man, you don’t do anything on weekends but work?” Lamar said.  “Are you for real?  No dates?  No concerts?”

“I got invited to a party tonight,” Rodney said.

“Cool.”  Lamar’s brown eyes lit up when he heard the word party.  With his tight-fit black tees and $300 dress jeans, Lamar always looked like he’d come from one.  Rodney wondered how the guy managed to keep his clothes looking so fresh when he lived in a car and slept in the office.

“I’m not going.”

“Why the fuck not?”

Rodney showed him the text from the Seattle Guy.

“The Holy Land?  Dude, you will go to this party.”

“You know the place?” Rodney said.

“Who doesn’t know that place?  It's the swankiest club downtown.  You gotta know people to get in.  And they must have bucks if they’re throwing a private party there.”

“I’m sure it’s wonderful,” Rodney said.  He opened the file and stared at the draft IRS Form 706-GS(T).  Immediately, he spotted two errors.  “But I won’t be there.”

“Then I’ll go,” Lamar said.

“Be my guest.”

“What’s the host’s name?”

“Damned if I know.  Maybe it’s this Kim person he mentioned.  I told you, they have the wrong guy.”

“Then why did he text your number?” 

“Can I get to work now?” Rodney said, pulling the file closer.  He rubbed his white arms.  He needed to get more sun.  Maybe next summer.

His phone vibrated.  The passcode is ELEMENTAL.

Seattle Guy.

“See?” Rodney said, showing the phone to Lamar.  “Here, you wanna ask him why he invited me?”

Lamar drew in his breath, staring at the nine letters as if memorizing them.

Rodney couldn’t get the calculation to make sense.

From the number of years entered on line 8, subtract any year in which the distribution from column (a), part IV of Schedule J (Form 1041) is less than the amount on line 10 of Form 4970.  If the distribution for each throwback year is more than line 10, then enter the same number on line 11 as you entered on line 8.

Really?

It was almost ten o’clock.  Addison’s messy estate project had taken up most of the day, and Rodney was still trying to make sense of Sheila’s pile of tax mad science.  He wished he’d paid more attention in his Estates and Trusts class in school.  He’d have to give it another shot in the morning.

Dude!  You gotta come here.  The party’s insane.

It took him a second to realize the text wasn’t from Seattle Guy.  It was Lamar.

Where are you?

The Holy Land.

You went to the party I was invited to?

Well, if you weren’t gonna …

How TF did you get in?

Had the passcode and asked the dude at the door if Kim was here yet.

Sometimes, Lamar’s ballsiness amazed him.  Like when he refused an assignment from a second-year manager because it didn’t interest him, or how he would compliment Addison’s wife on how amazing her hair looked when she dropped by for lunch.  

So get your ass over here.

I have nothing to wear.

Just then, his phone rang.  He could hear loud music in the background.  “There’s an extra  clean black T-shirt and a pair of Armani jeans in the second drawer of my credenza,” Lamar said.

“Like your clothes would fit me.”  

“Fine, go home and change quick.”

“But you already used the code, no?”

“There were like twenty people ahead of me whispering ELEMENTAL to the check-in dude,” Lamar said.  “You’re fine.”

“I’m kinda tired,” Rodney said.  It wasn’t a lie.

“You’re always tired,” Lamar said.  “I’ll see you in an hour.”

Rodney sat back in his chair and stared at the pile of blue files on his desk.  Here he was, still working at ten o’clock on a Saturday night.  Because he was the guy that worked all the time.  The guy everyone assumed — no, knew — had no life.  Twenty-seven years old, and he hadn’t been to a party since he was twelve.  

“You need a vacation,” Addison had told him at the end of his last performance review.

“You need a vacation,” Sheila had said as she caught him rubbing his eyes at ten o’clock last Monday morning after working the entire weekend.  “Oh, and by the way, I need an analysis tomorrow that Henry couldn’t finish before he left for Bali.”

Suddenly Rodney didn’t care if he’d been invited to a party by mistake.  He was going to go.  He was going out on a Saturday night.

It was almost eleven-thirty when he walked up to the front of The Holy Land.  It had taken longer to find the club than he’d thought.  The GPS didn’t work well in this part of town.  Kind of a sketchy neighborhood, a fortress of abandoned warehouses spotted by the occasional renovated loft with the art deco façade.  Once he found the address, he circled the block five or six times before a black sedan suddenly backed out of a parking space, barely missing his front bumper.  He hoped the rest of his Camry was still there when he returned.

He didn’t see anyone by the door.  A half-flight of marble stairs led to a dimly lit narrow hallway.  He could hear music on the other side of the right wall.  He started up the stairs when he felt a hand on his right shoulder.

The dude was six-four, bearded, with a muscular build.  He held a clipboard with a silver back in his other hand, which sported rings on each of his four thick fingers.

“Need some help, sir?”

“Elementary,” Rodney said.

“Say what?”

“Elemental.”  He spat out the last syllable like it was a small fish bone he’d discovered in his dinner.

“Who you here to meet?”

Rodney wasn’t prepared for the question.  Then he remembered what Lamar had told him.  “I’m supposed to meet Kim,” he said.  “I think she’s with a guy named Lamar.”

The man nodded.  “Your name?”

“Rodney Wilder.”

The man frowned.  “Says you already checked in.”

He wondered if Lamar had used his name.  But wouldn’t he have mentioned it?

“May I see?”

The man handed him the clipboard.  Rodney saw his name had been ticked off with an oversized red checkmark.

“Oh, wait,” he said.  He pointed to the name above his.  Louis Wiel.  “I think they meant to check the one above it.  Louie’s here.  He called me half an hour ago.”

“I don’t know nothing about that,” the man said.  “I just came on duty.” “I can call him if you like.  Maybe if he shows you his ID.”

Just then, three women, all blondes, each wearing a hip-hugging halter dress the size of a napkin, barged through the front door.

“I fucking told you the party was here,” the tallest one said to the others.  

Suddenly Rodney’s new friend lost all interest in him.  

“May I help you ladies?” he asked, pushing his massive chest out.

Rodney stood behind him.  “Am I good?”

The man turned around and nodded.  “Yeah, you’re good.”

The room was massive, bathed in soft, dim light, filled with dozens of shadowy figures moving to oppressive, pulsating music.  Some leaned into small circles, engaged in conversations too private to be overheard, while for others, the music had become a secondary language, one spoken with feet and hips and hand gestures.  Rodney walked slowly toward the opposite side, where a makeshift bar was positioned, attended by two white-shirted robots with man buns and frozen smiles.  The air was warm, peppered with pot and bursts of ten different brands of cologne.  

So this was a party.  It was exciting, both surreal and intimidating.  A far cry from Jimmy Everly’s twelfth birthday.  Rodney looked across the room, hoping to find Lamar.  

Then he saw her.

She wore a low-cut, slinky white dress, her hair worn loose about her shoulders.  Her face looked thin but not unhealthy;  more like chiseled, accentuating her smooth bronzed skin.  The purple shade of her lipstick matched the color of the tiny strand of beads dangling from her silver hoop earrings.  

She caught him staring at her.

He thought about making a B-line for the bar as she approached him, smiling.

“Welcome,” she said.  Her voice was soft and easy.  “I’m Kim.”

“I’m Rodney.”

She laughed.  “You’re the second Rodney I’ve met tonight.”

“Am I cooler than the first?”  Suddenly, he felt his face grow hot.  What an idiotic question to ask.

“No,” she said.  “But then again, he was wearing Armani.”

“I’m afraid I can’t top that,” he said, running his hand down the front of his hastily ironed $49 Nordstrom Rack special.

“Actually, I was waiting for a third Rodney,” Kim said.  “My friend from college, Rodney Wilder.  He promised he’d be here for my birthday.”

“Any relation to Thornton?”

“Thornton?

“Thornton Wilder.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know him,” Kim said.  “I’m going to check out front to see if I missed him somehow.  So many people here.”  She paused and leaned toward him.  “I’ll bet a third of them crashed my party.”

As she walked away, Rodney thought of the guy with the clipboard and the rings on his fingers.  He wondered if his job duties included evicting crashers.

“I saw you talking to the birthday girl,” a voice behind him said.  He turned and saw Lamar, a devilish smirk on his face and a generous drink in his hands.  From his glazed eyes, Rodney could tell it wasn’t his first.  

“Very smooth.  I knew you had it in you.”

“She just came up and started talking to me.”

“And what did you talk about, stud?”

“Theater.  Our Town.”

“Nice,” Lamar said.  “Where’d she go?”

“She went to find the Other Rodney Wilder.  And once she talks to the Goodfella up front and he puts two and two together, she’s gonna have my ass hauled out of here.”

“You worry too much,”  Lamar said.

“And you don’t worry enough.  Too bad you used Rodney’s name to get in.  Now he’ll know I bullshat my way in.”

“What are you talking about?  They never asked for my name.  I just gave them the password — Ella Fitzgerald, or whatever the fuck it was — and they let me in.”

“You never gave them my name?”

Rodney looked around the room.  So somewhere in this crowd of overdressed revelers was The Other Rodney Wilder, or more precisely, The Real Rodney Wilder.  He wondered what he looked like, what he did for a living, and whether they might be distantly related.  He was undoubtedly something more exciting than a lowly CPA, dressed in something better than bargain basement returned clothes, maybe even famous.  Maybe related to Thornton Wilder.

He moved slowly through the room, his back half-turned to the wall, trying to be inconspicuous.  At least he could tell Addison and Sheila that he’d done something this weekend, that he’d been to a party, maybe even say he’d crashed a party.  That would get a good laugh.

Then, he would get on with his work.  He’d finish up that 706-GS(T).  He’d figure out whether the number of years on line 8 was less than the amount on line 10.

As he watched Kim and the Goodfella walking toward him, both looking unhappy, he could feel the eyes of the rest of the crowd on him.  He could hear the whispers of their voices.  He wasn’t really invited.  

There were no chairs left at the table.

The next morning, Rodney didn’t get to work until noon.  He had debated with himself about staying home and watching football.  Sunday was the only day he didn’t surrender to Crump, Fletcher, at least not every week.  But the thought of starting Monday with an unfinished IRS Form 706-GS(T) and Sheila breathing down his neck seemed worse than sacrificing a few hours of relaxation.  He placed his take-out ham sandwich and iced tea between the stacks of files on his desk and dumped his backpack on the chair.

He heard rustling from the adjacent cubicle and saw Lamar’s head pop up, his black hair disheveled from his evening on the floor.

“You okay?”

Lamar rubbed his eyes.  “Yeah.  I guess.”  He stood up, his Black Armani shirt creased from an evening on the floor.  “Too much Holy Land.”

“The Goodfella kick you out, too?”

Lamar grinned.  “No, the Soprano did.  It was fun while it lasted.”

The experience of being ejected from the one party he’d not been invited to in fifteen years had been anything but fun.

“Let me know when that friend of yours invites you to the next one.”

“What friend?”

“The Seattle Guy.”

Rodney shook his head.  “I’ve blocked him.  Besides, he’s probably already figured out that I’m not The Right Rodney Wilder.”

Lamar smiled.  “Well, you’re the best Rodney Wilder I know.  And I’m going home.”

Rodney accepted the bro hug and tried to ignore the sweat on Lamar’s back.  “I thought this was your home.”

Lamar rolled his eyes.  “I owe my MAGA parents a visit.”

“Good luck with that.”

As he watched Lamar limp out the back door, his hand pressed into his sore back, Rodney felt a tad jealous.  Lamar was able to crash a party without fear of discovery.  Work a weekend without getting much done and not feel guilty about it.  Spend Sunday with parents whose politics he couldn’t stomach the other six days of the week.  He took everything in stride, something Rodney had never learned to do.

Yet he didn’t need to be Lamar.  He didn’t need to go to swank parties where he wasn’t welcome, just because he should.  If working weekends gave him satisfaction, did he really need to feel guilty about it?

As he bit into his sandwich and opened the file, he read the same line he’d reread half a dozen times yesterday.

Rodney didn’t need to be the same as every other line 8.  He could be his own line 11.

Don J. Rath holds an M.F.A. in Creative Writing from Queens University of Charlotte. A retired finance executive, he lives in the San Francisco Bay Area. His work has been published in Musepaper, Hypnopomp, Scribes*MICRO*Fiction, Blood and Bourbon, Twelve Winters Journal, Barren Magazine, and Fiery Scribe Review.