The Mid-Length, Mostly Unhappy Life of Franklynn Carmichael
Re: The Mid-Length, Mostly Unhappy Life of Franklynn Carmich
Oh happiness! Thank you Bobberson!
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_Bob Bobberson
- _Emeritus
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Re: The Mid-Length, Mostly Unhappy Life of Franklynn Carmich
Part V: The Patient
That night, Franklynn had difficulty sleeping. First he was too hot, then he was too cold, and he had trouble getting comfortable. Beside him, Payson snored peacefully, exhausted after a day spent corralling the twins. Frank got up and went to the bathroom and drank some water, and then he lay back down and after a few moments, he fell asleep at last, and the dreams came to him once again. This time, however, there was no pleasantness whatsoever in them. He did not feel triumphant or victorious; instead, he felt a sense of dread. As he galloped through the streets of Zarahemla, dark clouds roiled overhead, and the humid air was stifling in his lungs. Then the clouds parted, and a column of light shone down brightly, blinding him before he could raise his arm to shield his eyes.
The next thing he knew, he was sitting at the end of a long table in a well-appointed, dark-wood-paneled room. Light crept in from around the edges of the curtains, and at the end of the table were several older men in dark suits: he recognized President Harwood and Elder Pitt. "We're very disappointed in you, Brother Carmichael," one of them said. Frank started to raise his arm in protest, and then quickly lowered it to cover himself when he realized that he was sitting there naked as a jaybird. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself."
"What did I do?" pleaded Franklynn. "I don't know what I did."
"Lying isn't the solution to this, young man."
"But I didn't do anything!"
Suddenly his eyes snapped open, and he looked around in the darkened bedroom. There was a slick of sweat on his forehead, and his heart was hammering away in his chest. On the nightstand, the clock read 3:47. He drew in a deep breath, closed his eyes, and tried to fall back asleep, but he couldn't. He felt restless and uneasy. At last he threw off the covers, put on his slippers, and wandered out of the bedroom and down the two flights of stairs to the basement, making sure to lock the door behind him. He reasoned to himself that, since he already was suffering from an excess of guilt, there was no way that sinning again would make him feel worse. Plus, this would allow him to relieve some tension, and hopefully fall back asleep. He sat down and flipped on the computer, and opened up the browser, and then he heard something: a whisper, perhaps, or the sound of the wind blowing up against the side of the house. He started to type in the name of the website, and then he heard the sound again, and this time he was sure it was a voice, and it was speaking to him.
"What's that?" he said.
"I said, stop what you're doing, young man."
Franklynn could feel the hairs on his arms standing on end; he was being watched. He turned very slowly in his chair, and saw that, sure enough, someone was down in the basement with him. There in the corner was something he'd never seen before: a high, leather, wingback chair with an accompanying side table and a gooseneck lamp. In the chair was an elderly man, dressed in a cardigan and an ascot, and clutching a mug of beer in one hand and a pipe in the other. He had round, dark-rimmed spectacles and he was smiling benevolently. Of course Franklynn recognized him immediately: it was C.S. Lewis.
"My...my God," said Frank. "Is that really you, Professor Lewis?"
"None other," he said, drawing on his pipe.
"But, what are you doing here? Am I still dreaming?"
"That's not for me to say, young man. You might ask yourself instead what it is that you are doing here."
He glanced back at the computer screen and felt ashamed. "I'm sorry. I know I shouldn't, but I couldn't sleep, and..."
"There's no need to explain yourself to me. We are what we believe we are."
Frank nodded soberly at this.
"If you believe you're a wanker, then doubtless that's what you are, young man."
"I can't afford to believe that."
"Very well, then." He drew on his pipe again, and the smoke billowed beneath the gooseneck lamp.
"Why are you here?" asked Franklynn.
"You know why I'm here. I'm here to offer counsel."
"What kind of counsel?"
"You need reassurance, don't you? I'm here to offer it." Lewis set down the mug of beer and fiddled with his pipe for a moment, and then he leaned forward. "It's true, Brother Carmichael. I'm here to remind you what you already know: the Church is true." He pushed his glasses up his nose and went on. "Of course I expected to be reunited with the Savior in the afterlife, but what I discovered when I passed beyond the veil is that some humble Latter-day Saint had work for me in the temple, and I was therefore confronted with a choice: did I believe in the Restoration? Would I accept the ordinances that had been performed on my behalf? It was abundantly clear what I needed to do, so of course I accepted." He smiled and puffed again on his pipe. "I wish I could tell you of the long conversations I've had with the prophets of yore, Brother Carmichael. But that must wait for another time. For now, my message is plain: the Church is true."
Franklynn sat there staring with his mouth hanging open, and then he spoke. "Professor Lewis: that's so wonderful. I just knew it, though. I just knew that you'd join the Church if you were given the opportunity! How wonderful!"
"Indeed, isn't it?" Lewis was smiling.
"But, uh, what about that?" Franklynn was pointing at the pipe and the glass of beer.
"Oh, this?" He regarded the pipe and drew on it. "Don't be fatuous, young man. You know as well as anyone that the Word of Wisdom is for the weakest among the Saints. The Lord never intended for us to deprive ourselves."
"I see," he said. "Can I ask you what it's like?"
"My goodness! You've never tried it? Good heavens, my boy, come here and have a taste."
He climbed to his feet and did as Professor Lewis instructed.
"Here you are now, young man. Drink that right down!"
He picked up the glass of beer and looked over at Lewis, who was smiling approvingly at him. Was this some sort of a trick? Was Professor Lewis, someone he'd idolized since he was a boy, really trying to tempt him into drinking alcohol? He lifted the glass to his lips and found that he was trembling with nervousness. What if he spilled some of it on his pajamas? Peyson would smell it on him for sure.
"Down the hatch now!" Lewis commanded.
He tilted the glass up to drink, and then his eyes snapped open. He was there, in the basement, his head on the desk, lying in a small pool of his own saliva. He lifted his head and looked up at the blank browser screen. It had all been a dream: he'd imagined the whole thing. Not only that, but much more importantly, he had managed to resist temptation. It was an important victory, and he knew that the Lord had given him the strength he needed. His computer screen showed that it was 5:11 a.m., which meant that he could still catch and hour and a half of sleep. He shut down the computer and made his way back upstairs to his bed, and as he lay there, he tried very hard to puzzle out what the dream had meant, and as he did so, he found himself wondering what the beer might have tasted like.
...To be continued in Part VI: The Documentary Hypothesis
That night, Franklynn had difficulty sleeping. First he was too hot, then he was too cold, and he had trouble getting comfortable. Beside him, Payson snored peacefully, exhausted after a day spent corralling the twins. Frank got up and went to the bathroom and drank some water, and then he lay back down and after a few moments, he fell asleep at last, and the dreams came to him once again. This time, however, there was no pleasantness whatsoever in them. He did not feel triumphant or victorious; instead, he felt a sense of dread. As he galloped through the streets of Zarahemla, dark clouds roiled overhead, and the humid air was stifling in his lungs. Then the clouds parted, and a column of light shone down brightly, blinding him before he could raise his arm to shield his eyes.
The next thing he knew, he was sitting at the end of a long table in a well-appointed, dark-wood-paneled room. Light crept in from around the edges of the curtains, and at the end of the table were several older men in dark suits: he recognized President Harwood and Elder Pitt. "We're very disappointed in you, Brother Carmichael," one of them said. Frank started to raise his arm in protest, and then quickly lowered it to cover himself when he realized that he was sitting there naked as a jaybird. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself."
"What did I do?" pleaded Franklynn. "I don't know what I did."
"Lying isn't the solution to this, young man."
"But I didn't do anything!"
Suddenly his eyes snapped open, and he looked around in the darkened bedroom. There was a slick of sweat on his forehead, and his heart was hammering away in his chest. On the nightstand, the clock read 3:47. He drew in a deep breath, closed his eyes, and tried to fall back asleep, but he couldn't. He felt restless and uneasy. At last he threw off the covers, put on his slippers, and wandered out of the bedroom and down the two flights of stairs to the basement, making sure to lock the door behind him. He reasoned to himself that, since he already was suffering from an excess of guilt, there was no way that sinning again would make him feel worse. Plus, this would allow him to relieve some tension, and hopefully fall back asleep. He sat down and flipped on the computer, and opened up the browser, and then he heard something: a whisper, perhaps, or the sound of the wind blowing up against the side of the house. He started to type in the name of the website, and then he heard the sound again, and this time he was sure it was a voice, and it was speaking to him.
"What's that?" he said.
"I said, stop what you're doing, young man."
Franklynn could feel the hairs on his arms standing on end; he was being watched. He turned very slowly in his chair, and saw that, sure enough, someone was down in the basement with him. There in the corner was something he'd never seen before: a high, leather, wingback chair with an accompanying side table and a gooseneck lamp. In the chair was an elderly man, dressed in a cardigan and an ascot, and clutching a mug of beer in one hand and a pipe in the other. He had round, dark-rimmed spectacles and he was smiling benevolently. Of course Franklynn recognized him immediately: it was C.S. Lewis.
"My...my God," said Frank. "Is that really you, Professor Lewis?"
"None other," he said, drawing on his pipe.
"But, what are you doing here? Am I still dreaming?"
"That's not for me to say, young man. You might ask yourself instead what it is that you are doing here."
He glanced back at the computer screen and felt ashamed. "I'm sorry. I know I shouldn't, but I couldn't sleep, and..."
"There's no need to explain yourself to me. We are what we believe we are."
Frank nodded soberly at this.
"If you believe you're a wanker, then doubtless that's what you are, young man."
"I can't afford to believe that."
"Very well, then." He drew on his pipe again, and the smoke billowed beneath the gooseneck lamp.
"Why are you here?" asked Franklynn.
"You know why I'm here. I'm here to offer counsel."
"What kind of counsel?"
"You need reassurance, don't you? I'm here to offer it." Lewis set down the mug of beer and fiddled with his pipe for a moment, and then he leaned forward. "It's true, Brother Carmichael. I'm here to remind you what you already know: the Church is true." He pushed his glasses up his nose and went on. "Of course I expected to be reunited with the Savior in the afterlife, but what I discovered when I passed beyond the veil is that some humble Latter-day Saint had work for me in the temple, and I was therefore confronted with a choice: did I believe in the Restoration? Would I accept the ordinances that had been performed on my behalf? It was abundantly clear what I needed to do, so of course I accepted." He smiled and puffed again on his pipe. "I wish I could tell you of the long conversations I've had with the prophets of yore, Brother Carmichael. But that must wait for another time. For now, my message is plain: the Church is true."
Franklynn sat there staring with his mouth hanging open, and then he spoke. "Professor Lewis: that's so wonderful. I just knew it, though. I just knew that you'd join the Church if you were given the opportunity! How wonderful!"
"Indeed, isn't it?" Lewis was smiling.
"But, uh, what about that?" Franklynn was pointing at the pipe and the glass of beer.
"Oh, this?" He regarded the pipe and drew on it. "Don't be fatuous, young man. You know as well as anyone that the Word of Wisdom is for the weakest among the Saints. The Lord never intended for us to deprive ourselves."
"I see," he said. "Can I ask you what it's like?"
"My goodness! You've never tried it? Good heavens, my boy, come here and have a taste."
He climbed to his feet and did as Professor Lewis instructed.
"Here you are now, young man. Drink that right down!"
He picked up the glass of beer and looked over at Lewis, who was smiling approvingly at him. Was this some sort of a trick? Was Professor Lewis, someone he'd idolized since he was a boy, really trying to tempt him into drinking alcohol? He lifted the glass to his lips and found that he was trembling with nervousness. What if he spilled some of it on his pajamas? Peyson would smell it on him for sure.
"Down the hatch now!" Lewis commanded.
He tilted the glass up to drink, and then his eyes snapped open. He was there, in the basement, his head on the desk, lying in a small pool of his own saliva. He lifted his head and looked up at the blank browser screen. It had all been a dream: he'd imagined the whole thing. Not only that, but much more importantly, he had managed to resist temptation. It was an important victory, and he knew that the Lord had given him the strength he needed. His computer screen showed that it was 5:11 a.m., which meant that he could still catch and hour and a half of sleep. He shut down the computer and made his way back upstairs to his bed, and as he lay there, he tried very hard to puzzle out what the dream had meant, and as he did so, he found himself wondering what the beer might have tasted like.
...To be continued in Part VI: The Documentary Hypothesis
Twitter: @robert_oberson
Re: The Mid-Length, Mostly Unhappy Life of Franklynn Carmich
Christmas has come early.
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_Bret Ripley
- _Emeritus
- Posts: 1542
- Joined: Thu Dec 16, 2010 3:53 am
Re: The Mid-Length, Mostly Unhappy Life of Franklynn Carmich
Several layers of awesomeness, here. The portrayal of Lewis as a ministering angel is brilliant. Bravo.
Re: The Mid-Length, Mostly Unhappy Life of Franklynn Carmich
Such a delicious tease.
We hate to seem like we don’t trust every nut with a story, but there’s evidence we can point to, and dance while shouting taunting phrases.
Penn & Teller
http://www.mormonmesoamerica.com
Penn & Teller
http://www.mormonmesoamerica.com
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_Analytics
- _Emeritus
- Posts: 4231
- Joined: Thu Feb 15, 2007 9:24 pm
Re: The Mid-Length, Mostly Unhappy Life of Franklynn Carmich
Hi Brother Bobberson,
I just wanted to let you know I enjoy these stories. If imitation is the highest form of flattery, you will be flattered to know that I did my best to imitate your writing style in a professional newsletter article:
https://www.soa.org/library/newsletters ... iss36.aspx
Page 30.
Warmest regards,
Brother Analytics
I just wanted to let you know I enjoy these stories. If imitation is the highest form of flattery, you will be flattered to know that I did my best to imitate your writing style in a professional newsletter article:
https://www.soa.org/library/newsletters ... iss36.aspx
Page 30.
Warmest regards,
Brother Analytics
It’s relatively easy to agree that only Homo sapiens can speak about things that don’t really exist, and believe six impossible things before breakfast. You could never convince a monkey to give you a banana by promising him limitless bananas after death in monkey heaven.
-Yuval Noah Harari
-Yuval Noah Harari
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_Kishkumen
- _Emeritus
- Posts: 21373
- Joined: Sat Dec 13, 2008 10:00 pm
Re: The Mid-Length, Mostly Unhappy Life of Franklynn Carmich
Bravo, Bobberson! Another diverting installment.
"Petition wasn’t meant to start a witch hunt as I’ve said 6000 times." ~ Hanna Seariac, LDS apologist
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_Bret Ripley
- _Emeritus
- Posts: 1542
- Joined: Thu Dec 16, 2010 3:53 am
Re: The Mid-Length, Mostly Unhappy Life of Franklynn Carmich
Best line (in my opinion): "I can't afford to believe that."
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_Everybody Wang Chung
- _Emeritus
- Posts: 4056
- Joined: Sun Apr 10, 2011 2:53 am
Re: The Mid-Length, Mostly Unhappy Life of Franklynn Carmich
Analytics wrote:Hi Brother Bobberson,
I just wanted to let you know I enjoy these stories. If imitation is the highest form of flattery, you will be flattered to know that I did my best to imitate your writing style in a professional newsletter article:
https://www.soa.org/library/newsletters ... iss36.aspx
Page 30.
Warmest regards,
Brother Analytics
Analytics,
That was hilarious! I'm presenting a CLE in a couple of weeks, and I will also try to imitate Bobberson in one of my stories.
"I'm on paid sabbatical from BYU in exchange for my promise to use this time to finish two books."
Daniel C. Peterson, 2014
Daniel C. Peterson, 2014
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_Gadianton
- _Emeritus
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- Joined: Sat Jul 07, 2007 5:12 am
Re: The Mid-Length, Mostly Unhappy Life of Franklynn Carmich
my favorite lines:
especially the gooseneck lamp. how do you come up with this?
of course the whole CS Lewis thing was awesome.
...There was a slick of sweat on his forehead, and his heart was hammering away in his chest...
...with an accompanying side table and a gooseneck lamp. In the chair was an elderly man, dressed in a cardigan and an ascot...
especially the gooseneck lamp. how do you come up with this?
of course the whole CS Lewis thing was awesome.
Lou Midgley 08/20/2020: "...meat wad," and "cockroach" are pithy descriptions of human beings used by gemli? They were not fashioned by Professor Peterson.
LM 11/23/2018: one can explain away the soul of human beings...as...a Meat Unit, to use Professor Peterson's clever derogatory description of gemli's ideology.
LM 11/23/2018: one can explain away the soul of human beings...as...a Meat Unit, to use Professor Peterson's clever derogatory description of gemli's ideology.