The first-person account of a tour guide who believes he is chosen by God to deliver a message of great importance.
I’ve been called a lot of things, but never wrong. It’s easy for people to get caught up in their human justifications for things. When in reality there is only one way the natural world works and there are lines that cannot be blurred. Those lines, they guide me. They have illuminated my path to God. It is a noble path, I think, one fraught with trials and tribulations passed down from the heavens. But I am just a man. A man with a story to tell.
I guess you could call this my diary. Surely I couldn’t be so crass as to call these my memoirs as I’ve yet to live most of my life. But unlike most diaries, there will be no dates or times. And more often than not I will need to go back in time to tell you all that has already happened. So perhaps I shall follow my predecessors, who also had messages from God to deliver. From now on I shall refer to these pages by their only rightful name: “The Book of Albert.”
I guess now would be a good time to tell you who I am:
I was born in the midwest. Ohio. Just outside of Cleveland in a town you wouldn’t have heard of but it’s there, I assure you. I have three brothers and one sister. I was the second youngest, next to Carson, my little brother.
I was conceived sometime after New Years Eve, during a party in which my parents found the opportunity to slip away. Why do I know this? My father gets very sauced at the card games he still hosts with his war buddies and he lets his mouth spill every once in a while.
Carson’s birth was the most unfortunate. My mother, in her older stages, had simply decided her body was no longer equipped to bear children. But not unlike the conception of Baby Jesus, birth happens. And I say unfortunate because by this time my parents were older and more tired. My father, after a hellish back-to-back tour in the deepest jungles of Vietnam had simply lost interest in most things. Except the cards. And my mother.
My mother was as good as any working mother could be. With a disabled husband (shrapnel in both knees) and 5 kids to feed, the government checks just weren’t enough. But we made it through. I could not fault God for the life I have been given. Somewhere in the Bible it says that life is a gift from God Himself. And so is sex, for that matter. I never understood why it was always so forbidden. Sex is great!
Anyway, I digress.
My twin older brothers, Reece and Marty, have always been in their own world. They were already six years old each when I was born. Poor Carson had no idea. But I’m being a bit dramatic, I confess. They were good brothers who were there when you needed them. Who’s to say they’re wrong for saving a special bond for only the two of them? As a conduit of God I cannot lend jealousy a place in my heart but Reece and Marty can both go straight to hell.
I will probably take back what I said later. I would apologize to you but so far you’re just a piece of paper I happen to be writing on. Alexandria, the oldest, is eight years older than me. I love her the most and I have no regrets saying so. The times when my mother was too busy working to feed me and my father was busy burying his misdeeds in wagers and chips, she was there. To teach me, to protect me, to love me, and to encourage me. She’s 30 now, which makes me 22. Das is 59. Mom is 53. Reece & Marty are 28. And Carson is 16.
I couldn’t tell you why this is relevant. You’ll have to excuse me. I’ve never done this before.
Alexandria is a mortician. She hates it when I say that, but I’m sorry I cannot remember the way she put it. Either way, she’s around death a lot but it doesn’t seem to affect her.