safest times. You ought to consider another way home.”
The glow of passing street lamps blurs in the streaking night as we cut into the thick of it all—a deft projectile dividing the street into the past. “I’ve walked this route for years; I’ve never needed an automobile.”
“Steadfast or stubborn? I can’t tell.” Sarcastic, the man remains fixed on the road.
I look away, caught off-guard by his forwardness. The man is calling me out on my oldest, most self-centered foible. “Maybe a bit of both. I guess a part of me never wanted to be underestimated or pitied for having a bum leg. That’s a bit of pride, I suppose.”
The dregs of Halgraeve rip by, muted and distant. They’re familiar yet strange; the recognizable seems to dissolve into angles and perspectives I’ve not seen before.
“Do you think this town wants to die?” The man cuts in with a new direction of his own.
I answer, too tired to give it much thought. “I don’t know. Part of me hopes there is still hope. Another part thinks Halgraeve died a long time ago.”
“Would you say there are still good people here?”
“Yes, some. But the number dwindles. The socioeconomic realities contribute to all manners of faithlessness.” I pause to get another look at the man’s face. “I’m sorry, I don’t recognize you. Do you live in town?”
“Just visiting.”
I turn back toward the window, dazed from a combination of physical exhaustion and the hushed, lulling effect of the dream-like qualities of the passing landscape. Houses seem a mile from the street; snow banks tower like mountains. I lean against the headrest, eyes heavy. “Well, I’m sure you’ve seen it, then. It doesn’t take long to notice.”
“People in these types of towns are searching for a reason to live. Something gets them out of bed in the morning whether or not they acknowledge it. They have some small sliver of expectation—maybe even faith—that says tomorrow might be better. That’s what I’ve seen, anyway.”
I blurt out a careless reply. “You’re young. You can still say that without lying.” I’m immediately embarrassed by my cynicism. I’m supposed to be a beacon of light, uplifting to those in my midst.
The man doesn’t seem affronted. “I don’t begrudge you your weariness, but you might be the only part of hope that these people see. You can shirk that if you want, but it doesn’t change the fact that you know better.”
I retreat back into exhaustion, head swimming with contention. I’m struck with the fact that I really don’t know where we’re going; the man never asked or said. Another glance out the window reveals the lights flashing by at a blinding rate as the hammer of the motor builds to an ever-increasing pitch. “Maybe you should slow down, son.”
The man doesn’t acknowledge me; he only peers down the road as if it might disappear.
My head floats, bubbling up to the surface of unconsciousness as we blast faster and faster down the road. The drone deafens my waning thoughts.
As I fade out, the man looks at me for the second time since entering the car. “Remember who you are.”
His words resonate in the thickness of my head and then echo faint ripples that dissolve into blackness.
A Seed
February 27 th , 2002 7:26 PM
Mordecai lying outside his church
Sapped and in a stupor, I lift my head from my coat sleeve to find that I’m lying across the church’s salty front stoop. The torture of the beating sticks; each blow calls back in remembrance. The car ride is less vivid.
The man’s arrival came as a Godsend. His blunt words left their stain. What happened after that blurs in the slush of subconscious. Remember who you are . That’s what I remember him saying.
A motorist slows when he sees the disheveled heap that’s me, but I ignore him as he stares past. I should probably get up. Reaching for the skinny rail, I drag myself to a wavering stance, turn, and unlock the solid door. I’m not ready to
The glow of passing street lamps blurs in the streaking night as we cut into the thick of it all—a deft projectile dividing the street into the past. “I’ve walked this route for years; I’ve never needed an automobile.”
“Steadfast or stubborn? I can’t tell.” Sarcastic, the man remains fixed on the road.
I look away, caught off-guard by his forwardness. The man is calling me out on my oldest, most self-centered foible. “Maybe a bit of both. I guess a part of me never wanted to be underestimated or pitied for having a bum leg. That’s a bit of pride, I suppose.”
The dregs of Halgraeve rip by, muted and distant. They’re familiar yet strange; the recognizable seems to dissolve into angles and perspectives I’ve not seen before.
“Do you think this town wants to die?” The man cuts in with a new direction of his own.
I answer, too tired to give it much thought. “I don’t know. Part of me hopes there is still hope. Another part thinks Halgraeve died a long time ago.”
“Would you say there are still good people here?”
“Yes, some. But the number dwindles. The socioeconomic realities contribute to all manners of faithlessness.” I pause to get another look at the man’s face. “I’m sorry, I don’t recognize you. Do you live in town?”
“Just visiting.”
I turn back toward the window, dazed from a combination of physical exhaustion and the hushed, lulling effect of the dream-like qualities of the passing landscape. Houses seem a mile from the street; snow banks tower like mountains. I lean against the headrest, eyes heavy. “Well, I’m sure you’ve seen it, then. It doesn’t take long to notice.”
“People in these types of towns are searching for a reason to live. Something gets them out of bed in the morning whether or not they acknowledge it. They have some small sliver of expectation—maybe even faith—that says tomorrow might be better. That’s what I’ve seen, anyway.”
I blurt out a careless reply. “You’re young. You can still say that without lying.” I’m immediately embarrassed by my cynicism. I’m supposed to be a beacon of light, uplifting to those in my midst.
The man doesn’t seem affronted. “I don’t begrudge you your weariness, but you might be the only part of hope that these people see. You can shirk that if you want, but it doesn’t change the fact that you know better.”
I retreat back into exhaustion, head swimming with contention. I’m struck with the fact that I really don’t know where we’re going; the man never asked or said. Another glance out the window reveals the lights flashing by at a blinding rate as the hammer of the motor builds to an ever-increasing pitch. “Maybe you should slow down, son.”
The man doesn’t acknowledge me; he only peers down the road as if it might disappear.
My head floats, bubbling up to the surface of unconsciousness as we blast faster and faster down the road. The drone deafens my waning thoughts.
As I fade out, the man looks at me for the second time since entering the car. “Remember who you are.”
His words resonate in the thickness of my head and then echo faint ripples that dissolve into blackness.
A Seed
February 27 th , 2002 7:26 PM
Mordecai lying outside his church
Sapped and in a stupor, I lift my head from my coat sleeve to find that I’m lying across the church’s salty front stoop. The torture of the beating sticks; each blow calls back in remembrance. The car ride is less vivid.
The man’s arrival came as a Godsend. His blunt words left their stain. What happened after that blurs in the slush of subconscious. Remember who you are . That’s what I remember him saying.
A motorist slows when he sees the disheveled heap that’s me, but I ignore him as he stares past. I should probably get up. Reaching for the skinny rail, I drag myself to a wavering stance, turn, and unlock the solid door. I’m not ready to
Similar Books
