Rolled in to a small town to learn about the Lord; didn’t end up learning much about the Lord.
It was a town built from a lonely postcard. The people shuffled about in the dirt, watched the sun vanish and reappear. They’d ask their neighbors about the weather, or water that made up the creek that ran under the bridges, and they always said the same thing: “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Didn’t matter if they meant the weather or the creek. “It’s beautiful,” was enough to get by and move on.
When it was time to eat food, they would eat food. And when it started to rain, they’d sit on porches and talk about how good the food had been. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” some-one would say to another some-one. “It is, yes.” Didn’t matter if they were talking about the rain or not.
Cousin Ned came with, said, “We’ll live like little kings. When it’s time to go, we’ll go, but for now, we’ll stay put right here.”
Nodded, said, “Ryan means ‘little king’”. Cousin Ned chuckled, said, “Now’s your big chance.”
We ended up moving in to a small room in a big house. The house could have been a bigger house, or it could have been a smaller house, but we didn’t mind it so much either way. The big house was all right with me and Cousin Ned.
Our room was on the ground floor, had a nice enough bathroom and double doors that opened up to a wrap-around porch with rocking chairs. Those chairs were for sitting and watching the rain. We had no purpose for those chairs.
The walls were wooden, and the floors were as well. Twin beds on the opposite side of the room, dressed in lacy blankets. We folded one of the blankets and put it on a shelf in the closet, content with whitewash sheets that smelled like chemicals. We borrowed a fold-out poker table from the common room, and put the other lacy blanket over it. Took a vase from the kitchen, filled it with flowers we’d picked by the creek. It was an all right room, thought me and Cousin Ned.
Walked along the dirt paths, near the enormous tree in the town square. People asked, “Have you heard about the man from Galilee?”
“Sure I have. Son of God, Alpha and Omega, walks on water, all of that. Sure, I’ve heard of the man from Galilee.”
“But, have you made peace? Have you made peace with the man from Galilee?”
Channeled Thoreau, said, “Didn’t know we were bickering.”
People would walk along the soft mud beside the creek, holding hymnals by their sides, singing:
Sometimes mid scenes of deepest gloom,
sometimes where Eden’s bowers bloom,
by waters still, o’er troubled sea,
still ’tis his hand that leadeth me.
They’d walk over sharp stones until their feet were bloody, still smiling, still singing:
He leadeth me, he leadeth me,
by his own hand he leadeth me;
his faithful follower I would be,
for by his hand he leadeth me.
We let open the doors connected to the porch. Cousin Ned would sit at the little poker table, reading science fiction. He’d turn and listen as they sang.
Would walk at night, long after the people had shut their doors and snuffed out fragile candlelight. They left behind the blood from their feet and the tears from their eyes.
* * *
Went to the general store one afternoon. The sun had froze in its place, was content to stay where it was. A snake dragged itself across the only gravel road in town.
Pointed to a colorful box, said, “What are those?”
A lazy woman replied, “Sugar sticks. Candy cigarettes.”
Bought a box of them for 20 cents. Chomped on one, coughed. Chalky and bitter. White dust all over my hands. Worse than real cigarettes.
Kid with moppy hair stopped me on the walk home, said, “Where did you get those?” Shrugged, said, “Don’t remember, sorry.”
“I’ll buy that box off of you for one dollar.”
Tossed the box to the kid. Made an 80 cent profit.
Other moppy-headed kids with dusty feet swarmed the one with the bitter candy, asked, “Where did you get those?” First moppy-headed kid pointed at me, said, “Him.”
They looked at me as though the answers to the world were in my pockets. Held up my hand as if to say ’stop’, said: “Stay put, don’t go anywhere, now.”
The children with the dusty feet shrugged, said, “Don’t got no where else to go.”
Ducked behind what might have been an inn, walked back to the general store. Took a strange route to throw them off. Smacked the dust off of my hands, saw only dollar signs.
“I’ll buy those candy cigarettes.”
“How many?”
“All of ‘em.”
Spent eight dollars and 60 cents, walked away with an arm-full of boxes of chalky candy sticks. Passed the children with dusty feet on the road, told them, “Come around the house that me and Cousin Ned share in an hour’s time and have all you’d like.”
The children with dusty feet and moppy hair cheered, thanked me, shook my free hand. Patted one of the boxes under my arm, smiled, shuffled away in the dust. Didn’t feel so much like a thing the Lord would smile upon. But then, didn’t know so much about the Lord. Hummed a song about a broken banjo, washed the dust from feet in the creek. The sun hung in the sky like rusty orb, and the shadows stayed where they had been.
Walked back to the room shared with Cousin Ned, shark’s grin on my face, said, “Put down that book and help me set up.”
Cousin Ned sighed, rolled his eyes. He sipped raspberry tea through a yellow straw, still seated at the little poker table. “I don’t want a part in this, but I’ll watch it fall apart.”
We borrowed a long wooden table from the common room, placed it in the grass just outside the back porch, near the kitchen. The common room was beginning to look barren. We shrugged, borrowed more furniture from it. Cousin Ned found two fold-out chairs, placed them under the long wooden table. Took three boxes of the candy cigarettes, arranged them on the tabletop. Grabbed the lid of one of the boxes, took a fat black marker to it:
“CANDY CIGARETTES $1.00“.
Cousin Ned chuckled, told me to put a box in the freezer, said, “Sell those for $1.20, call them ‘premiums’”.
Grabbed the fat black marker, added:
“PREMIUM CANDY CIGARETTES $1.20“.
Children with dusty feet ran up to us. They sang songs, whispered little whispers about the Holy Ghost. One dollar, then two, then three. Fifteen dollars in a handful of minutes. Glimmering, turned to Cousin Ned, said, “Capitalism.”
His head in a book, sipping raspberry tea with a little smile, said, “Robbery.” He crossed his legs, winced at the sun.
When the sun had left the little town, we packed up our little shop and returned to our little room. Laid at the end of the bed, head near the opened doors connected to the porch. Heard crickets playing violins, little children dreaming. Hid forty-two dollars in my pillowcase, thought about the man from Galilee. Thought about how mad he might be, if he could see me. Closed my eyes, held a song in my breath. It rattled on:
He leadeth me, he leadeth me,
by his own hand he leadeth me;
his faithful follower I would be,
for by his hand he leadeth me.
Didn’t feel lead. Felt tired. Slept with a smile on my face, forty-two dollars beneath my head.
* * *
Woke up to silence, didn’t know why. Didn’t hear any songs, only the crunching of little white sticks of sugar made to look like cigarettes. Saw children walking down dusty paths, white sticks between their little fingers, pretending to smoke. Shrugged, set up wooden table with fold-out chairs. They wanted more, more; sold them what they wanted. Didn’t feel so guilty about it; should have.
Cousin Ned joined me, book in hand.
“I’ll have a pack of premiums,” said a boy.
“Me too,” said a smaller boy.
Blinked, said, “A buck twenty each.”
They slipped me crumpled bills and sweaty dimes and nickels, said, “Hurry it up, now! We’ve got Bible studies.”
“Oh, I’ll be swift all right. And these premiums, well, they’re extra premium.”
Saw fireworks in their eyes, little red cheeks swelling with glee.
Walked inside the big house, took two packs from the freezer, hidden inside a dummied out box of waffles. Returned to the table, slapped them down. “Here.”
They ran off, we resumed lazing. Tried to split the profits with Cousin Ned, refused, said, “I don’t need your dirty money.” He didn’t say so in a mean way, smiling to confirm his apathy.
Older folks would pass by our little stand, shake their heads in disgust, talk amongst themselves in small voices. Their dark eyes met my own. Glared back with a clean soul. Counted money and felt the cool breeze rush up my shirt. Blinked, stared, kept on making money.
The sun grew anxious, said, “Good-bye.” Took off somewhere. The whole world got cooler. We packed up our shop and started walking back to the house.
The people looked angry, watching us from porches, pointing and saying awful things not found in hymns. Even the children with their moppy hair and their dusty feet poured over us with scorn, whispering and watching, candy cigarettes now absent from their little fingers.
At seven pm, there was a meeting in the chapel. Everyone gathered, talked about sin, talked about candy cigarettes. The older folks were angry, said we were crooks, swindling little children out of pocket money. There was screaming and anger. Didn’t like where things were going. Ran away and hid.
Found a wooden staircase on the side of white house. At the top was an unoccupied room. Door was unlocked, walked inside, locked the door behind me. The children with dusty feet followed, determined to kill the monster they had created. Ducked behind a bed with lacy sheets, heard tiny footsteps pattering up the stairs. They tried the door, was locked. Shook the knob hard, rattled around like a golf ball in a paint can. Frustrated little feet stammered back down the wooden staircase. There was five seconds of deathly silence.
A stone smacked against the glass, splitting one of the panes into a glimmering spiderweb. Then another stone. Then a brick. It crashed through the window like a corpse, bounced on the carpet, laid there flat. Had no life about it. There was manic screaming drifting in with the breeze through the broken window. Sounded like boiling tears. Didn’t know what else to do. Prayed.
Stood up, moonlight pouring in through the window, saw only what it showed me. Felt glass crunch like cockroaches under my shoes. Dusted off particles of melted sand from my shirt. Looked out the window. The sky was obsidian. The children with dusty feet were gone.
Figured they forgave me, was mistaken.
The room was trashed. Toilet paper strung around the lamps, stuffed in the toilet, wrapped around our beds. Hung from the ceiling fan like mummy wrap. Our clothes were thrown on the floor, balled up, spit on. The little fold-out poker table was collapsed on two legs, vase shattered on its head, the flowers once sleeping inside screaming for water, their faces trampled by the feet of angry little children. Wondered if seventy-five dollars was worth the trouble.
Cousin Ned clapped, the sound muffled by the book in his hand, said, “Earth doesn’t even blink when a single creature dies. And they don’t blink, either.”
Thought it was some deep Eastern shit, smiled.
Collected our things, knew it was time to leave. Had agreed to leave when it was time. Walked along the creek that outlined the little town, listened for the hymns that once echoed down the same paths. Couldn’t hear anything. Could hear only water. Was content to hear only water.
Rolled in to a small town to learn about the Lord; didn’t end up learning much about the Lord.
Looked up at the moon, promised to go wherever it took us. The light shone bright, we followed it.
“Lead us home, Lord. Lead us home.”