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Charlie Kelly prays to an orange peel. To be honest, he isn’t sure why he chose this particular orange peel. It kind of sucked. It was all moldy and off-color, barely even recognizable as an orange peel at this point.
Charlie never considered himself religious, at least not in any way that mattered. He doesn’t really know what led to it, but he’d done this many a time before, for most of his life. Worshipped things that definitely should not be worshipped, that is.
Not always an orange peel, obviously; one time he can recall, there was a particularly large chip in the paint of the gate of his apartment complex. He liked that some days, if he squinted, it almost looked like a fish—if fish normally had two heads, and about four more fins or other assorted extremities than usual—or close enough.
Then one day, he glanced up at the fence, smiling slightly at the expectation of the familiar stoic faces of the deity of his creation. Suddenly, as his key was jostled into the lock, he felt a slow numbness creep into his face, and a pit began to form deep in his stomach.
The gate—which normally appeared such a grotesque color of brown that it constantly looked caked in grime and rust, no matter how hard you scrubbed—was a glaring, disgustingly ugly shade of dark blue. A shade that reminded Charlie of the ocean. Of fish. Tears pricked his eyes, but he sniffled and pressed his knuckles into them, swallowing thickly in an attempt to ease the lump in his throat. It didn’t do much, but he shook himself and stood a little taller from the effort.
What would he pray to now? His beautiful altar, ruined. You couldn’t even tell it was there in the first place. Did they scrape away all of the old paint? Despicable. Unacceptable. He’d nearly stormed his way to Hwang’s door himself to give him a piece of his mind and a fist to the face. In honor of fence-paint-fish, of course.
He’d decided against it, for the better of his fist. And rent, he supposed.
After that, he sunk into quite a sad state, as he did every time with this unintentional ritual he had begun to form years ago. Sure, he still went to bed after his fill of cat food, still ensured he locked and unlocked the deadbolt exactly three times, still pulled the thin bedsheets all the way up to his nose.
But it felt wrong. Now, there was nothing to cast his wishes to. Nothing to complain to, nothing he could guarantee would always be there the next day. Unmoving, unchanging, in the exact same spot it always was because if he worshipped it, why would it change? It wasn’t allowed to change. If something was a divine being, it had to be perfect, right? So why would it need to change if it was already perfect just the way it was found?
Eventually, he would find something new. Not just anything, of course. It had to speak to him. It had to be permanent, too. That was the most important part. If he thought for one second that it could ever move or change or grow or decay or collapse? No goddamn way. He had to be able to rely on this thing. How else would he get through the day?
So the next day, Charlie would walk to Paddy’s Pub alone, early in the morning. The sky would still be a glaring, upsettingly beautiful shade of dark blue. It reminded him of blueberries. His stomach rumbled. He doesn’t even like fruit.
He looked out to the horizon, as far as he could see through the buildings and trees and cars, and watched fog dance quietly along the streets. He considered, for a brief moment, worshipping the fog. It was beautiful. Sure, it wasn’t really permanent—in a few hours, he’d step into the back alley with a bag of trash slung over his shoulder, and the soft (or, what he imagined to be soft, at least) cloudy form would’ve long dispersed into thin air—but he could count on it most days. To be there in the morning, at least. Did it really matter when he saw it, as long as it was there every time?
And then, he looked down. He could’ve swore his heart stopped. He had arrived at the bar, fumbled with his keys, and nearly froze at the sight of it. He shifted his focus to this strange object in the crease between the sidewalk and the wall, though couldn’t quite make out what it was at first. He crouched down, damn the keys stuck in the door, and finally could see it in all its glory.
It wasn’t even a very bright color, quite honestly a very dusty hue. Charlie told himself it’s pastel, because that’s cool now, right? Nobody even liked those bright, blinding, gross colors anymore.
And so, he decided, the orange peel was given the honor of brand new Charlie-exclusive deity.
He loved it.
He didn’t really ever come up with any rules or anything like that. Did a religion have to have rules to be a religion? Who knows. Charlie certainly didn’t.
He took careful care not to let the bar door swing too far as to nudge it, and even more care to not let the knowledge of his newfound deity to slip to any member of the Gang. They’d probably try to profit off of it anyways, spending hours on some ridiculous scheme that ended in nothing worth their time.
Or they just wouldn’t care entirely. He wasn’t sure which was worse.
For now, though, he was content. Even if this orange peel really fucking sucked, he could count on it. Any other day he’d immediately pick it up, prod it around, and toss it straight into the garbage once he decided it wasn’t of any use.
But this was different. After all, he couldn’t pray to fence-paint-fish anymore. That guy hadn’t been perfect, obviously, or its two heads and too many fins would still be there. Imperfect. This moldy rind of fruit? Now that was something he could count on.
Today, Charlie woke up bright and early like always. He relished the cool air as he exited the apartment complex, starting the familiar path toward the bar. When he arrived, he glanced in anticipation to the crack between the sidewalk and the wall. He smiled, and silently greeted the orange peel. A quick thanks, and he unlocked the door with ease.
He let the door close behind him, and flipped on the ‘Open’ sign. He thought about the orange peel. He discarded his coat, tossing it behind the bar, and rapped his knuckles on the countertop. Three times, of course—just in case.
As far as he could tell, the orange peel stood strong today. He prayed that this time, just maybe, it would be there tomorrow too. Just in case.