And the Lord said, If I find in Sodom fifty righteous within the city, then I will spare all the place for their sakes.
— Gen 18:26
Chester pulled his ragged wool sweater more closely around his torso. He felt a deep chill even though last night was so warm he’d tossed and turned in a puddle of sweat and the sun was rapidly heating the summer morning.
He looked around the park. He liked to find the ones who didn’t dress so well or shave so tidily and who looked polite, a little bit like wussies, but a little bit not.
He didn’t like dealing with real wussies. They were too boring and too dangerous. He’d seen a wussy once get super freaked out and start hitting some random street guy, who’d innocently bumped into him, over and over again, not with any real skill, but out of sheer fright.
He’d fucking broken the guy’s nose, essentially by mistake—you put a 100 monkeys in a boxing ring and eventually one of the monkeys will stick its paw in a glove and start punching—and all because the wussy was frightened for no damn reason.
Naw, he liked to stay away from wussies. But truly polite guys who weren’t at their core wussies, whether they knew it or not, they were a little more interesting.
A little.
He meant ones that weren’t all up to date on style, who wore older clothes, maybe faded jeans that weren’t sold looking faded or t-shirts with older art on them, art that he could recognize, for Christ’s sake. True art, reproduced.
He’d scoped out the park and finally found this thin guy, his jeans starting to fade and the bottoms a bit worn where they rubbed against the ground probably as the guy walked. He had a god dammed Green Lantern shirt on. Chester hadn’t seen one of those in for fucking forever. And he just bet he was a Hal Jordan fan. None of this John Stewart newfangled crap.
He sat down on the bench, not right next to the guy, that would have been awkward for them both, but not all the way at the other end.
It was about personal space. Chester was totally into personal space. He’d heard it was different in different countries, for Christ’s sake, can you imagine that? In one country you’re respecting boundaries and in another you’re causing offense, with the same distance!
“You don’t think I say the word ‘crap’ too much, do you?” Chester asked.
The guy turned to him, and Chester expected to see suspicion and the beginning of an instant brush off, and for him to say something like ‘I beg your pardon?’ And then Chester would be ready to go off on a riff about no begging or pardoning was needed because whatever bullcrap Chester wanted to introduce once he got a real read on how the guy thought.
But instead, the guy looked at him and smiled. That was different. That was more than polite. That was downright friendly.
“I don’t know,” the guy said. For such a thin guy, he had a pretty deep voice. “Do you say the word ‘crap’ too much?”
The way he said it made Chester laugh. Out loud.
“You know,” Chester finally said, “I could not give less of a crap myself.”
“Well,” said the guy, grinning, “that’s two for two.”
“Who the fuck are you?” asked Chester. “A complete stranger sits down next to you asking about crap, of all things, and you’re there just smiling and answering like it’s as usual as-”
“As crap?” said the guy, cutting Chester off. “That’s three for three. You’re batting a thousand so far.”
And that made Chester laugh. This guy wasn’t a mark. This guy was either an idiot or some kind of weird, polite brainiac.
Chester couldn’t help himself. “Who the fuck are you?” he asked.
“I am the Curmudgeon,” he said. Chester could hear the capitalization of the word, almost like it was a title or something. “And by the way, you officially don’t *always* say the word ‘crap.’ But I don’t know whether that means you say it too much or say it too little or just enough. So far I’d wager on the just enough.”
After looking at the Curmudgeon with his mouth gaping wide open for a moment, Chester said, “You are the strangest dude I’ve ever met, Mister.”
“Well, crap,” said the Curmudgeon, with a broader smile.
“Hey now,” Chester said, grinning himself.
“I’m just just bringing back around what apparently needs to be said. By someone.”
“Really,” said Chester, “what’s your story?”
“Oh,” said the Curmudgeon, “you don’t have time for my story.”
“If you’d rather me go into my spiel about feeling a little better in the ol’ bunghole after having shat out a giant log of crap, I can.”
“Ok,” the Curmudgeon said. “If it will forgo another crap spiel, I’ll tell you what I can.”
The Curmudgeon straightened up his spine and seemed to become bigger and taller. Chester hadn’t realized he’d be slumping so much.
He smoothed down his Green Lantern t-shirt over his belly and said, “Hal Jordan, in case you’re interested.”
Chester grunted with a nod.
“I’m not a religious person. I never have been and probably never will be. There’s not really much time left. I recently discovered, however, that I am one of 36 righteous ones.
“I know. I know. That sounds religious and ridiculous. It did to me too. But apparently there are always 36 of us, and in at least one culture we are called lamed-vavniks, from the Hebrew letter Lamed for 30 plus Vav for 6.
“Supposedly, there are always 36 people—whose identities are unknown to each other—who justify the purpose of mankind. And, if even one of them was missing, then the world would come to an end.
“I know. If I were you I’d walk away from such crazy talk. I know I did when I first found out.
“Apparently we’re also called the concealed ones. We’re supposed to be so humble that we’d never be expected to realize we actually are one of the so-called righteous ones, even if we knew what that meant.
“Supposedly, we 36 avert disasters threatening everyone else just by our very existence, even if the rest of humanity has degenerated to the level of total…well, of total crap.”
“I can see by your face that you don’t believe me. That means you’re sane. I barely believe it, even now. Even after last night.”
“What about last night?” Chester asked.
“You don’t remember it?” said the Curmudgeon. “The cold? That terrible, bone-deep chill?”
“What do you-” Chest began, but stopped.
“Ahhh,” said the Curmudgeon. “You do remember it.”
“I don’t remember crap!” said Chester.
“There you go,” said the Curmudgeon. “The other thing about us 36 is that, supposedly, once one of us discovers what we really are, soon enough disaster threatens to strike and a new lamed-vavnik must be found as a replacement.
“The ice attack last night I think was such a threat. Or at least that’s what the Mathematician says.”
“The Mathematician?” said Chester. “Who the fuck is that?”
“Oh,” said the Curmudgeon, “didn’t I tell you? The 36 apparently have specialties. The Mathematician, the Warrior.”
“The Curmudgeon?” Chester asked.
“Exactly. I don’t know the names of the others. I’ve only heard from the Mathematician, and only once, and I think because of that she transitioned.”
“What do you mean ‘transitioned?'” asked Chester.
“Remember how I said the 36 have no acquaintance with each other? I meant that we can’t or a new lamed-vavnik will appear as a replacement.
“Then why haven’t you transitioned?” asked Chester.
“Yet,” said the Curmudgeon. “I haven’t yet. I think, though, it will happen soon. Last night took a lot out of me. It’s why the Mathematician contacted me in the first place. To tell me that she’d probably be gone soon, because she had contacted the Warrior and, well…”
“Well, what?”
“That recent avalanche in Afghanistan? It happened right after she contacted me. And she was in Afghanistan. And the ice giants attack last night.”
“Ice giants?”
“This appears to be an age of temperature disasters. Cold and hot both. Earthquakes too. And sinkholes. Lots and lots of sinkholes.”
Chester looked at the Curmudgeon and shook his head.
“Sure, ice giants. Sinkholes. You had me going there for a bit, dude,” he said.
“They say that on the very rare occasions when one of the 36 is discovered by accident, the secret of their identity must not be disclosed. If it is, the the discoverer then becomes the new lamed-vavnik.”
“And you’re telling me this because?”
“Well, Chester, the truth of the matter is that you just fucking discovered me.”
“You gotta be kidding me,” said Chester, but there was something strange happening inside him that he’d never felt before. It was almost like numbers were dancing and coalescing in his brain.
He couldn’t help himself. He said, “The number 36 is twice 18. And the number 18 stands for ‘life.’ Because 36 equals 2 times 18, it represents ‘two lives.'”
He jumped off the bench. This was way too weird for him. He turned around, ready to run and looked back.
The Curmudgeon was gone! He’d disappeared entirely.
“What the crap?” he said.
And then he know. His mind opened up.
There are precisely 36 in existence who support the universe and affirm God, he heard. And now, you are one.