Page 40 of Bless This Hot Mess

“You hear that?” she said, turning dramatically toward Emma-Lou, “Even the monks agree!” Rebekkah’s eyes went glassy and she brought a hand to her heart.

Before Emma-Lou could protest, Japheth spun around and dropped to the floor, drumming his palms on the dustymauve carpet like a makeshift snare. Ronald grabbed a ballpoint pen from her desk and began tapping it rhythmically against a stack of invoices. Rebekkah seized Emma-Lou’s calculator, her manicured finger pressing the buttons in a steady beat and each digital beep became syncopated synth chords. The fax machine joined in with a hissing counterpoint, like a malfunctioning hi-hat.

The room’s atmosphere transformed from staid and stagnant to vibrating with vitality. The monks’ chant morphed into a backing track, otherworldly and persuasive. A cello began to sing from the office sound system, low and resonant, like the collective human conscience of everyone present.

And then, with the swell of the monks behind them intoning, “Omnes artes aliis artibus aedifacantur…” Trinity exchanged a look and they began to sing.

Rebekkah took the lead, her voice part sermon, part seduction, “If Jacob can steal Esau’s blessing,” she sang, pacing before Emma-Lou’s desk, “why can’t I borrow a bass line in C?

If the Lord forgave a little deception,

He can forgive a remix or three!”

“You say theft, I say revelation,” she sang, planting her palms on Emma-Lou’s desk.

“We’re sampling salvation’s sound.

Call it sin with good intention,

call it gospel underground.”

The monks responded in Latin, their voices rich and knowing, “Non furtum, sed inspiratio.”

Japheth stepped forward, eyes blazing with mischief and something suspiciously like faith, that this all would fall in their favour,

“Jacob tricked Isaac, and look how that went -

whole nations born from a borrowed goat scent.

Moses killed a guy and hid him in the sand,

is it a problem to give Britney’s lyrics a helping hand?”

Carrington started clapping in time, eyes wide with horrified delight as their mouth fell open, “Moses killed a guy?”

Emma-Lou’s hand twitched toward her coffee mug, unsure whether to sip or throw it. The cello answered with a low, sensual groan, an echo of regret and rebellion. The desk fern trembled, scattering dirt across Emma-Lou’s open briefcase. And then, harmony. Pure, ridiculous and delicious harmony.

“Steal and sample for the Lord!” They sang together, “Raise your voices, strike a chord!”

Emma-Lou’s brooch quivered with each high note and against her better judgment she began tapping a toe, helplessly seduced by the beat. Rebekkah grabbed Emma-Lou’s stapler and clacked it in rhythm,

“Saintly lyrics instead of contraband,

Creation is procreating secondhand.

Steal and sample for the Lord!

Every melody restored.

Even Heaven hums along,

recycling angels sing this song!”

Ronald’s voice broke through, warm and earnest as he rapped,

“Thou shalt not steal, but if the beat also heals?

If the rhythm of the rhyme saves a soul or two,