Inane Ramblings of a Crotchety Young Man

He was different.

 

Not different in the same way that the students who attended Southern Illinois University in Carbondale were.  They were a different breed altogether.  They were alien and capricious; completely oblivious of their surroundings, and content to wallow in that ignorance.

 

No, he was different simply because he was from somewhere else.  Cairo. More than two hours driving from De Soto.  And that was enough to draw her like a moth to the flame.

 

He talked the same as the boys in town.  He dressed the same as the boys in town.  He had hated school just the same, and dropped out before graduating just the same.  He was roughhewed and homespun and dirty and arrogant with a hint of a temper that would fly off the reel like a poorly wound movie if the right button was pushed.

 

He drank too much.  He cursed, spat and belched just the same as the other boys.  But he was from over there, someone she hadn’t known since the day she was born, and that endeared him to her.  He was a son-of-a-bitch, but he was her son-of-a-bitch.

 

Her son-of-a-bitch.  Sickness or health.  Till one of them stopped kicking and was put six feet under with nothing but daisies to push up.

 

That crooked the corner of her lip into a wry grin.  A moment later the sharp squeal of the tea kettle snapped her self-induced reverie, and squared her attention to the gross distortion of her half smile that warped and bent around the tarnished metal of the kettle.

 

She caught the hint of a new wrinkle, just behind her left eye.  Or was it a scratch in the metal?  It didn’t’ matter either way.  She gingerly lifted the kettle from the stove, careful not to burn her fingers by only gripping the handle where the cork hadn’t been worn away from years of use, and poured a fresh cup of tea into the eggshell white coffee cup.

 

She hummed tunelessly to herself, and tapped the faded polish of her nail against a deep chip in the porcelain.  The cup likely wouldn’t survive another round through the dishwasher.  Cleaning the shards from a burst cup was hell on earth, and a task best left to the bus boy.  She almost felt guilty as she stubbornly kept with the cup, put it on a saucer, and swept out from behind the counter to the corner booth of the restaurant. 

 

The vinyl of the seats was several years past being rubbed raw.  The ends had peeled up like popped pimples, and gaps in the dull red tape, a poor match to the vinyl, revealed stringy stuffing yellowed by age.  They were cold in the winter, and the bottom of your thighs stuck to them in the heat of the summer.  The discomfort seemed to encourage patrons from dawdling though, and in the pace of the town, that was a small comfort to the staff.  A lingering couple could spell hours of poorly tipped service.

 

There was a lone man in the booth.  His eyes were shielded from the morning glare that refracted harshly off the windowpane and seemed to find a way into your eye no matter which way you turned by a pair of wide sunglasses.  Tobacco stains rimmed his mouth, the color worked deep into the patchy peppered beard he wore.  The fate of his hair matched his beard, string and sparse, with what little he had jammed firmly beneath a faded Cardinals baseball cap with a tear in the front left of the bill.

 

His name was Bill.  Or was it Fred?  He was from two towns over, Du Quoin, and came in at least once a week on either a Monday or Wednesday morning.  He was a trucker, short route, mostly local.  Didn’t talk much either, kept to himself for the most past.  Still, he was a regular presence several years running, and fell neatly into the routine she’d made for herself in the past few months.  She didn’t know the name, but at times she felt she knew the man, or at least knew as much as was important to her.

 

“Thank you.” He mumbled.

 

“Welcome sugar.”

 

The embellishment was a force of habit, a relic of her past.  When she’d colored her remarks with an inviting ad hoc name before, the lighting was usually worse, and she was looking down through neon at an upturned face.  Times had changed.

 

She walked away from the table, and gently rest her long slender fingers on the small bump concealed beneath her smock.  Times had definitely changed.

 

The restaurant was slow.  The sun had just less than half an hour ago, and most of the local farmers, hands, and tradesman were already gone and working.  He sure as hell better have been one of them too.  He had a head for numbers and machines, could tell if a tuning belt was barely mistimed and by how much just by ear, but he had to haul his lazy ass out of bed to accomplish that.  Which feat would prove more impressive she left undecided.

 

She used to help him wake up.  With the new job though, she had to be out the door an hour before his alarm would issue its first futile ring.  She couldn’t mother him out of bed.  Well enough too.  He could be a right asshole in the morning.

 

She sighed as she realized she was staring blankly out of the window again, down the main street that led to Carbondale where the shop was located.  She had taken hold of the stained smock between her nimble fingers, and had twisted the cotton till her knuckles turned white from the pressure.  She eased her grip, turned around, and busied herself with clearing the tables.  Busboys didn’t come till the evening rush.

 

“Hey!  Lisbett’, c’mere quick.”

 

She had to obey the summoning.  The cook was the proprietor, and though a decent man, had his limits, particularly if he thought his help was being unnecessarily uppity.  She pushed through the double doors and stepped into the humid hellhole that was the kitchen.

 

Steam spilled freely from the overworked dishwasher.  The tendrils of vaporized water collected against the ceiling, and if the temperature dropped particularly fast at night, you could even see it rain.  It was tight and cramped with pots and pans, some clean, some dirty, stacked in great haphazard piles that threatened to teeter if tested by the untrained hand. 

 

The kitchen couldn’t pass code, then again, seldom was there a kitchen that could.  Bribes kept the entire restaurant industry afloat.  Thank God for greed.

 

He had his hands jammed into the back of his hips.  It pushed the fat out and around, and broadened out his considerable girth further.  The tip of his nose flared a deep red with broken capillaries, a gift from the whiskey he loved and the long night’s alone that it kept him company since his wife left him to move up north to Chicago to live with her sister.  Something about De Soto not being enough for her.  Apparently the money he earned was though, as the alimony kept rolling out of the restaurant and into her greedy hands.

 

“Sup Mike?”

 

“Angel called in sick, I need you to pull a double.  Sorry.”  He meant it, too.  He may have been peevish at times.  But when he wasn’t provoked, he was honest and fair.

 

“Mike.” She hissed irritably between her clenched teeth as her jaw worked itself in to a fury against her right cheek.  She rolled her eyes, gave an exasperated toss of her head that flipped the limp pony tail her dirty blond hair had been pulled into.

 

“I know.  Hey, that puts you into overtime Lisbett’.” He smiled.

 

“Yeah, well, that doesn’t apply to tips.” Her scowl wiped the smile from his face, and he seemed to retreat into the dishwasher born mist from her smoldering blue stare.

 

“Like I said, sorry.”  He brought his hands off the back of his hips and jammed them, palms down, towards the ground to encourage her to ease up.

 

“Yeah, well.  S’ok.  I’m still not happy about it.  Second time this week Mike.” She reached behind her head and irritably pulled her ponytail free of the back of her neck.

 

She turned to leave to the kitchen, and felt her stomach turn.  She mumbled a quick prayer, and bolted from the kitchen, around the counter, and stormed into one of the two restrooms half open to the far side of the restaurant to retch.

 

No matter how tame her breakfast it always tasted like she had drank a bottle of Wild Turkey the night before when the morning sickness bubbled up past her lips.  She convulsed over the toilet, and dragged the back of her hand across her lips before she spat out the remainder into the turgid depths of the bowl.  Momma never mentioned this part when she used to talk about being pregnant with her.  Then again, who on earth would want to listen?

 

She flushed the toilet, cleaned her hands and washed out her mouth.  As she dried her hands she took advantage of the mirror to take a quick inventory and tuck herself back into something presentable.

 

 Her Momma, the same woman who neglected to mention the negative that came with being pregnant, had always said she had the face of an angel.  To her she looked tired, with dark shadows around her eyes and a sallow face soiled by the perspiration that beaded on her forehead in the poorly ventilated restaurant.  If she looked the part of an angel, she’d hate to see what Heaven was like.

 

She wadded up some toilet paper, dabbed her forehead clear, and tossed the sodden bunch into the already overflowing trash bin.  She took a deep cleansing breath, pushed open the door and walked back into the dining area.  Bill/Fred had already left, with a two dollar tip on the table and a half finished cup of tea. 

 

“Wish you could multiply yourself by one and a half.” She whispered to the money as she slipped it into the front pouch of her smock.  There was only so much baby gear they could find in garage sales and church rummage sales.  And two dollars wasn’t going to buy formula. 

 

She dropped off the tea cup on the dented metal collar below the window that bridged the gap between the kitchen and the dining area and busied herself with rewetting a rag with fresh hot water.

 

“Everything okay Lisbett’?”

 

“Yeah.  Just, just a little queasy is all Mike.”

 

“Still good for the double?”

 

“Yes.”  She responded irritably.

 

She angrily squeezed the water from the sponge and busied herself with wiping off the tables in preparation for the lunch rush.  There was exactly one restaurant in De Soto, and while the town largely emptied itself during the day with no industry to speak of, the retirees had a habit of swarming the restaurant till they occupied every available table, booth, and stool at lunch.  Not that they ever bought much of anything.  Which hurt.

 

The doctor had told her that she had to keep her stress level down, and she had laughed in his face when he told her.  Seems odd that everyone tells you not to get worried, at the exact moment that you suddenly have so much to be anxious about.  Money mostly.  Oh, there was a whole host of other things too.  But it seemed odd to worry about them until that first issue was surmounted.  They could afford to have other problems, once they could afford it.  Until then.  Nope, no time to worry about them.  Not now.

 

They were barely keeping pace with their mortgage and groceries as of late.  He didn’t make much at the shop, and she sure as hell wasn’t stocking the bank with her tips at Mike’s.  She knew she had promised him she was done dancing when they found out she was pregnant.  That those times were past.  That she was going to totally shape up, and be a fit mother. 

 

But the money was damned good at the Mustang Ranch, money enough to pay for formula and even spare some change for diapers.  Maybe she could get herself back in shape, and dance just for a while, until he started earning more money at the shop, or until they’d built up some savings in case of a storm.  She knew he’d hate the idea. 

 

She pursed her lips together and rendered them bloodless with the pressure.  She’d make him understand.  She’d scream and cry.  He always faltered under that storm.  Besides, it wasn’t about them anymore.  She touched her belly again and smiled wistfully.

 

Lunch passed in a wrinkled blur. 

 

She called him in the late afternoon.  He wasn’t happy about the double, and threatened to come down and talk to Mike personally about keeping her on her feet.  She had to jaw him back for that last bit, she wasn’t a damsel in distress yet; that was several months to come.  Still, he promised to have dinner in the oven warm and ready for her whenever she made it home, and reminded her that it was poker night with the boys and that she shouldn’t expect him until the early morning.

 

She hated poker night.

This is from an older post on Xanga.  I was bored one day at work and spent a good amount of time dwelling on this topic before writing on it.  Sad, yes, I know.  Expect more fiction soon.

 

“Wanna be a balla, shot calla….”

            On the surface this is a simple and straightforward sentence, incapable of being misconstrued by even the casual observer, provided that they have a working knowledge of eubonics.  Or is it?  Would an alien, taken from their home world and exposed to this particular phrase after having the definitions of all the terms utilized, be capable of truly understanding the phrase?  The answer is no.  Inherit within this statement is a world full of complexity, vague definitions, and the potential problems generated by lack of sufficient explanation of whether the two key words, balla, and shot calla, are exclusive of one another or mutually inclusive.  Does one require the other?  Is one the cause of the other?  Though we will begin our adventure exploring the definitions of the above terms quickly it is revealed that the problems run far deeper than such a cursory exploration is likely to solve, and so we will explore the causal relationships, if any, that exist between balla and shot calla.

            The word balla is derived from the word ball, more specifically a reference to one of several types of balls utilized in athletic competitions.  The ball that this most likely refers to is the orange and black basketball used in the NBA, NCAA, and pick up games at street side courts (these are of particular interest as they are likely the point of origin for this bastardization of the English language).  Do be a balla, however, does not directly translate to being a ball, even a ball used by the mutated giants of the NBA; so, what exactly does balla mean?  To be a balla originally was construed as to refer to one’s superior ability to handle the ball during the one on one duels that frequently arise in street basketball.  If one could handle the ball well, and “drive” on one’s opponent (another piece of terminology that, though interesting, will not be explored in this piece), and score following the drive then one was truly a balla.  Balla therefore is an identification of skill, yet, this word has taken on a meaning that extends far beyond the reach of the basketball court, and now refers to the use of skill in any potentially difficult endeavor.  For example a skilled real estate agent, after closing a record number of transactions in a week’s time, could justifiably be referred to as a balla by his/her coworkers under this broadened interpretation of the term. 

To possess a prestigious amount of skill, then, is the sole prerequisite to being a balla; or is it?  For example: if one is skilled in the game of chess, long reviled by those who would frequent street side basketball games, would they be a balla?  The odds are highly unlikely that they would be referred to as a balla, which establishes a second set of conditionals that must be satisfied prior to the affixing of this title to the aspiring individual: coolness.  To be skilled in an “uncool” activity, that is, an activity relegated to a specific subculture by mainstream society (typical titles of the subculture: dorks, nerds, ZBTs), renders one incapable of receiving the title, balla.  To be a balla therefore means not only to have a great deal of skill in an endeavor, but also for that particular skill to enjoy a high level of mainstream societal acceptance.  How mainstream?  This point remains debatable, as it is difficult to confine languages within set standards; however, one can rest assured that those who have built an incredible red/green deck for Magic the Gathering will never be referred to as ballas.  So, for ease of understanding, let us break this down.

1.       To be called a balla one must possess S (mad skillz), which in turn must be A (societal acceptance)

2.       S is A

3.       Agent B possesses S

4.       Agent B therefore could be called a balla

 

Now, here is where the issue gets trickier; because Agent B possesses S is it necessitated that they receive the title balla?  Therefore our equation is missing a valuable component, the component of an objective (or subjective) party capable of affixing the title to Agent B.  Now, it can be presumed that Agent B could refer to themselves as a balla, given their recognition of the quality S, however, it remains doubtful that this would be as effective as achieving the same recognition from a separate party…given that balla is all about the effectiveness of the label, then, it could be understood that the existence of this separate party, and their willingness to ascribe the label of balla to the agent, is necessary to truly be considered a balla.  Thus, let us amend our equation with the following additions:

5.       Agent C observes Agent B demonstrate S

6.       Agent C recognizes that S is A

7.       Agent C refers to Agent B as a balla

8.       Agent B is now a balla

 

Naturally, of course, Agent C must occupy some position of societal repute for the title given to be acknowledged by mainstream society, so we must amend our equation further still; therefore the final product may resemble this:

 

1. To be called a balla one must possess S (mad skillz), which in turn must be A (societal acceptance)

2.       S is A

3.       Agent B possesses S

4.       Agent B therefore could be called a balla

5.       Agent C possesses a high degree of A

6.       Agent C’s possession of A renders them able to affix acceptable labels

7.       Agent C observes Agent B demonstrate S

8.       Agent C recognizes that S is A

9.       Agent C refers to Agent B as a balla

10.   Agent B is now a balla

 

Much better.

This is my first posting on Vox.  I intend to use this blog as a forum to refine works of creative fiction that I've been working on recently.  The following piece is an character introduction I recently wrote for Cobalt*Academy on irc.sorcery.net.  It's an experimental piece working with stream of consciousness style commonly associated with Faulkner, though Cormac McCarthy was of far greater inspiration in this particular instance (and in general, actually).  Please feel free to comment and criticize; as I said before this is an experimental piece and any suggestions on improvements would be greatly appreciated.

The light that poured from the naked halogen lamp relentlessly beat down from the upper right corner of the room.  Attached to a metal articulated arm the light’s purpose was to illuminate every possible nook and cranny of the body, to banish away the shadows that might hide some festering cause from a physician’s watchful gaze.  The light glared brightly off the metal of the sink across the room, it burned, and it fell flat against the dull plastic like Styrofoam wrapped around every corner and piece of furniture.

 

I hate doctor offices; the words poured forth like water through a brook haphazardly picking its way past stones in a headlong rush towards oblivion.  The young man shielded his eyes from the glare of the light.  He winced in pain at the intensity; only to have his flinch met with the returned glare from some ill-placed reflective surface.  What’s taking him so long?

 

He swore the minute hand of the clock, sterile and eggshell mounted upon the sterile and egg shell wall, had frozen in place, even ticked backwards.  It quivered, as though to taunt him, and he busied himself with watching his feet as he absently rubbed the cotton of his socks against each other and delighted in the warmth from the friction.  He impatiently bounced on his seat; he hated doctor offices.

 

The doctor arrived in what seemed to be an eternity.  The young man forced a smile to his face, one that failed to touch the corner of his eyes.  He smiled through his teeth at the doctor, teeth that glowed balefully under the harsh white light.  Clean bill of health doc?

 

The doctor seemed nonplussed as he looked over the charts attached to his clipboard.  He did not immediately respond to the charge, his dark eyes somehow lost in the shadows collected under his furrowed brow, a crevice even the light of the damned lamp could not illuminate.  The doctor nervously thumbed to and fro through the pages, the dull crinkle of which counted out the time with the now active minute hand.

 

Perhaps.

 

Perhaps what, doctor?

 

Perhaps you’re healthy.  The doctor looked up from the chart for the first time, and smiled nervously to the young man.  He dragged up a chair, the rubber soles of which scuffed the tiles below leaving two dark furrows in their wake.  I mean, your clear of disease, and it looks like your points of eruption haven’t caused any lasting damage beyond the scars and the lack of sensation.

 

The eruptions?  The young man frowned, and closely examined the long pale scars the sporadically marred his otherwise tanned forearms.  Without looking he knew those same marks dotted his shoulders, his torso, and his legs.  Each scar was leaden in his mind, towing a host of unpleasant memories that the light of the doctor’s comment brought into unwelcome view. 

 

So, I’m as healthy as a boy can be who happens to have carbon spurs erupt from random points of his body?  His tone was casual, but sounded tinny within the confines of the room.

 

Yes.  As healthy as you can be.  You passed the physical, so the academy should have no problem with you arriving.  The physician paused, and fished a pencil from his pocket, which he then tapped on the flat of his thigh.  His brow was always furrowed, always in thought, and his thin lips twisted into a crooked frown as he eyed the young man.  Aristophanes, have things improved?

 

Improved?  His name humanized him, gave him character that defied his surroundings, and he became more healthful under the light.  I guess.  I still have the nightmares, I still have the random eruptions at night.  I’m eager to get the hell out of here, get some help, I hear the academy has devices that can stop these.  He paused, uncomfortably, suddenly unwilling to put his condition into words.  Stop these things from happening.

 

Close enough.  The doctor gave a wizened nod and brought the pencil up to lay it across the bridge of his nose.  I actually have something else, something I’d like to run by you.

 

Of course.

 

The doctor seemed hesitant, and Aristophanes was concerned.  He leaned forward, his thick neck craned towards the doctor as his eyes urged the man to speak.

 

I wanted to bring up a concern, a colleague of mine, Doctor Hinkley of the University of Chicago raised it, he specializes in cancer research.  When you first developed your, peculiarity, I ran your case by him.  He studied what I documented, and he’s concerned about a potential danger from cancer in your future.

 

Cancer?  From my regenerative ability?  He blinked in surprise.  I actually thought about that too.  If my cells replicate as quickly as you told me they do, well, that means they’ll do so hundreds of times faster than a normal person.  If the theory that genetic mistakes appear every time a cell replicates holds water, then the danger of a cancerous mistake should be higher.  Which makes me a high risk.  His tone belied his concern.  Such a response was typical, however, emotions were kept from striking distance as a matter of practice.

 

I see you paid attention in AP Biology.

 

I received a four on the exam. 

 

Not bad.

 

Not good either.  I wanted that five.  Aristophanes sighed and allowed disappointment to creep in and cloud his concern.  Cancer was deadly, but Aristophanes, despite his candied response, could not appreciate his own mortality.  He toyed with his hands in his lap, and the savaged skin hanging from his cuticles stole his attention.

 

Still good.  He wants to meet with you.  The doctor cocked his head to the side, and cleared his throat to catch Aristophanes’ attention.  Perhaps when you’re back in town on winter break?

 

Sure, Doctot Kinkaid, sure.  Aristophanes’ teeth flashed white against the darkened tan of his face as he gave the physician his humanity.

 

Then you’re on your way.  Doctor Kinkaid returned the smile, and vigorously patted the young man on the leg before he rose from the chair and quickly walked to the door.  Be sure to call my office if you have any problems or concerns.  He then swept himself out of the room, allowing the door to shut and isolating Aristophanes in the whiteout.

 

I hate doctor offices.

 

 

 

Clean bill of health?

 

The question greeted Aristophanes as he entered his father’s black Isuzu Trooper.  He gave his dad an annoyed look, and then slammed the door shut before busying himself with the seatbelt.  Clean enough to let me go.

 

As they drove the silence stretched out uncomfortably, like the glare of the lights through the frost rimmed windshield of the SUV.  They idled below a stoplight, waiting to make a left onto Ogden Avenue due East.

 

You’re ready for this, right?  His father broke the silence first, his richer timbre brushing aside the silence.  A note of uncertainty clung to the end of the statement, his dad wanted to say more, but couldn’t.

 

Of course I am.  Aristophanes appreciated the concern, but didn’t let that cloud the annoyance that crept into his tone.  I’ve saved plenty of money, my car is running fine, I’m all packed up.  I’m ready for this.  He ticked off the physical necessities.

 

That’s not what I’m talking about.  His dad pressed.  Aristophanes squirmed uncomfortably in his seat in reaction.  He flicked the seat warmer to automatic to banish the chill that crept up his back.

 

I need to get out of here Dad.  If they can help, I need to go there, learn how to get things back to normal.  His voice was strained.  He hated these conversations, and wished he could sink deep into the fake leather of the car seat, into some dark hole and pull a flap over the top to hide from the green light that clicked on above them.

 

I understand.  His dad pandered to him, gave him the answer that he wanted to hear, the answer that would allow the painful silence to once again distend itself from the roof of the car to blanket the two of them.

 

He glanced at his father out of the corner of his eye, and caught a glimpse of the pain that lurked behind his dark hazel eyes.  He took note of the worry lines that collected in the corner of his lips, and the expanding desolation between brow and hairline that had only worsened in the past year since his condition had first manifested itself.  A lifetime of concerned conversations lingered behind the tortured eyes, Aristophanes knew it, and he knew they would never be aired by the noxious constraints that tied both their hands.

 

We love you.

 

I know.

 

We will always love you.

 

I know.

 

Both of them wished they had spoken those words.

 

 

 

 

Aristophanes dreamed of pain and darkness again.  His thoughts came to him as though he was submerged in turgid water, and his arms flowed through it with an aching lack of alacrity.  Images and sounds flashed by in his half dazed state, and he gritted his teeth in frustration.

 

He could distantly tell that it was brick that his hand caught as it slammed against the wall of the narrow corridor.  An alleyway, ahead was a dumpster, it must be an alleyway.  He should have gasped for air, but he was dreaming, his breath came fine.  Below him were puddles reflecting back moonlight, they didn’t make a splash as he fell into them, the disassociation queer in his mind as he failed to link it to the dream.

 

He could not hear the puddle’s splash, he heard sobbing behind him. 

 

A great angry crowd, red and demonic with rage, surged down the narrow alley towards him. 

 

He heard sobbing behind him. 

 

He forced himself to his feet, and his vision swam as the angry crowd poured forth like a tidal wave of grotesque and contorted faces; a patchwork quilt of incoherent anger from a thousand schoolyard and playing field memories. 

 

He heard sobbing behind him.

 

He held his arms out to his sides, and cried out as the spurs erupted from his shoulders, sides, and forearms.  Gore and tattered strips of flesh clung to the sharpened ends, his own, he felt the tremendous pain that vanished a second later, a banished memory.

 

He heard sobbing behind him.

 

The wave crashed down upon him, and drowned him in truculent water.  He was suffocating, and struggled to hold back the waters that the faces had become.  He strained mightily against the weight, he felt his spurs pierce the waters and felt the wave part before them.  He knew the water could not reach the sobbing.

 

He failed.

 

He heard screaming behind him.

 

 

 

 

The scream ripped free of his throat, and joined the tortured cries of his bed springs as extended spurs worked themselves through the mattress and into the floorboard below.  The metallic hiss grated against his ears, and his eyes flew open in panic and sought out answers across the cracked plaster of the ceiling, which momentarily resembled the howling visages that haunted his nightmare.

 

Each desperate twist of his arms tore deeper into his mattress, and blood soaked cotton clung to his body as he rolled free of the mattress.  He whelped as the spurs retracted, and felt his skin tightening around the gaping wounds left in their wake.  Blood pooled on the ground beneath him and the pale rug grew dark with crimson like an oil slick in the silver shafts of moonlight that worked through the blinds of his window.

 

His arms burned with exhausted fatigue, and he fell to his side before rolling onto his back.  He dully registered the warm orange glow that seeped in from below his bedroom door.  A moment later he was blinded by the light as his door was flung open and his mother, father, and sister stormed into the room.

 

Jesus Christ!  Are you okay Aris?  What happened?  Nightmares again?  Aristophanes!  Are you okay?

 

His eyes burned as they searched the inverted halo of shadows that spun around his head like an angry cloud of insects.  His left leg hurt, back in the calf, for a moment he thought he had severed his hamstring.  He could feel the rug stick to his back, his blood acting as the adhesive.  He forced himself to his side, and threw up.

 

 

His sister had helped him wash the sheets and scrub the wooden floorboards.  His palms were angry and raw.  There was still a stain to the side of the warped remains of his bed.  The stain formed an irregular circle of permanent crimson, surrounded by the faint pink of previous nights.  His parents waved off his offer of a tarp, perhaps now they would reconsider when he’d visit.

 

 

 

 

The church was dark, a throw-back to the 13^th century constructed in the 1950’s.  Thin slits for windows, derived from some classic architectural scheme, allowed anemic shafts of light to pierce the otherwise undisturbed gloom of the building.  Five decades of incense had left a permanent cloud clinging to the ceiling.  The cloud was cloyingly sweet and calming.

 

The service passed as a blur, the harmonic tones of the priest and choir working together to create a beautiful service with the guttural voices of the chanters providing the underlying beat.  Service was ancient, and for a moment the suits of the men morphed into the tunics of yore, five hundred desperate peasants singing praises and waiting for salvation.

 

His stomach rumbled low, and reminded Aristophanes that he had fasted properly and thereby asserted his right to wait in the long line for communion.  His father went first, bowed his head.  The Servant of God.  Elias.  The Servant of God Elias receives the Body and Blood of Christ for forgiveness of sins and eternal life.  His father graciously accepted the spoon, crossed himself through times and collected his bread.

 

Aristophanes hesitated, and the priest, Father Theodore, elderly and kind, beckoned him near with a flourish of his withered arm.  Rich robes, lined with gold glittered in the low light of the church. 

 

The Servant of God.

 

Aristophanes could not find his voice.

 

The Servant of God Aristophanes receives the Body and Blood of Christ for forgiveness of sins and eternal life.

 

Aristophanes accepted the wine clotted with the crumbs of broken bread.  Father Theodore broke with routine, and leaned forward to kiss him on the cheek.  Aristophanes’ eyes watered for a moment.  He did not speak, but bowed his head in thanks.  He’d seen the home video of a younger Father Theodore dunking his plump and naked body into the oil-enriched water of the baptismal fountain.  No words were necessary.

 

He accepted his bread, and lodged it firmly against his cheek to worry it with his molars.  The crumbs lasted him through the Litany of the Deceased, and quieted the rumble of his stomach.  He felt weight lifted from his shoulders, and calmed visibly beneath the hopeful eyes of his father.

 

 

 

 

You’ll be sure to call us when you arrive?

 

Of course.

 

You’ll drive safely?

 

Of course

 

Don’t pick up any hitchhikers.

 

Didn’t you once hitchhike to New Orleans from Chicago?

 

That was a different time.

 

Of course.

 

Give us a hug.

 

Aristophanes embraced both of his parents and his younger sister.  He then slipped into the seat of his battered blue Ford Escort, and thrummed the engine to life.  I promise I’ll call.

 

Talk to you soon.

 

Goodbye.

 

He could still taste the wine in the corner of his mouth as he pulled out of the driveway and began his journey to the academy.