with his fists like a child. He hitches himself away from the light toward the rear of the tent. His first thought is to say What the fuck? but it might be God so he doesn’t say anything. The white light splashes against the sides and roof of the tent and bathes the Kid all over. It probably is God. And He’s finally found him although He must’ve known all along where on the planet the Kid was hiding because He’s all-seeing and all-knowing. He must’ve decided that because the Kid has been reading the Bible now is the right moment to confront him with the cold irrefutable fact that the Kid is evil and He’s come down from heaven to the Causeway to tell him in person and reveal the nature of his punishment.
A low voice speaks from the source of the light which is located at the open tent flap—a man’s voice dark and old and thickly layered like the bass register on a church organ. It has a noticeable southern accent cleanly spoken but a little drawled and homey like some of those TV evangelists.
I realize, my friend, that it’s late. But I would enjoy talking with you.
Now?
I will take only a few moments of your time, as it’s late for me as much as for you. To tell the truth, I did not expect to find anyone still here.
The source of the bright tent-filling light drops and the Kid sees that it’s a high-intensity emergency lamp held by an enormous white man with a gray beard and a tangled mass of gray hair. His long shaggy beard and messy nest of hair look like He got buffeted by hurricane-force winds when He flew down from the sky or wherever He came from. He has red puffy lips and a face as broad as a shovel. His body is as wide as the tent and He’s very tall. He’s the largest man the Kid has ever seen. Assuming he is a man and not God—the Kid’s still not sure. He’s never seen a portrait of God before. No one has. Besides God can probably take any form He chooses depending on the circumstance and who He’s talking to. Right now He’s a gigantic bearded fat man in his early sixties dressed like a lawyer or a banker in a chocolate brown suit and white dress shirt and brown-and-yellow-striped tie and a vest buttoned tightly over his enormous belly.
What . . . what do you want to talk to me about?
Maybe this isn’t a good time. I didn’t think there’d be anyone still here. I just stopped on my way home to see the site of last night’s raid.
On your way home.
Yes.
From?
From the university.
What do you want from me?
A chat.
This ain’t a chat room.
Would you agree to talk in the morning? I don’t have a recorder with me tonight anyhow. It’s a bit of a surprise to find someone still here.
Who the fuck are you anyhow?
It doesn’t matter. I’m a professor at Calusa State. Chair of the sociology department.
Why are you here?
I moderated a panel discussion this evening at the university and was driving myself home. Listening to the local news on the car radio I heard what happened here last night. So I parked up there on the Causeway and made my way down to see where people like you have been living.
People like me.
It’s sort of my area. My academic specialization. Homelessness. Its causes.
Okay. Whatever.
Would you meet with me tomorrow morning? I’d like to interview you.
I won’t be here in the morning. I’m moving.
Where are you moving to?
Why should I tell you, Professor?
I can meet you there. We can do the interview wherever you like.
The Kid thinks it over. The Professor is clearly not God and he’s not likely a cop or someone working for the state either so the Kid has nothing to lose in talking to him in the form of an interview. He can always lie or refuse to answer questions that might incriminate him: Did you or did you not eat of the fruit from the tree of knowledge of good and evil? On advice of counsel I refuse to answer on the grounds that it may incriminate me.
It sounds like the Professor will do most of the talking anyhow. He’s a professor,
A low voice speaks from the source of the light which is located at the open tent flap—a man’s voice dark and old and thickly layered like the bass register on a church organ. It has a noticeable southern accent cleanly spoken but a little drawled and homey like some of those TV evangelists.
I realize, my friend, that it’s late. But I would enjoy talking with you.
Now?
I will take only a few moments of your time, as it’s late for me as much as for you. To tell the truth, I did not expect to find anyone still here.
The source of the bright tent-filling light drops and the Kid sees that it’s a high-intensity emergency lamp held by an enormous white man with a gray beard and a tangled mass of gray hair. His long shaggy beard and messy nest of hair look like He got buffeted by hurricane-force winds when He flew down from the sky or wherever He came from. He has red puffy lips and a face as broad as a shovel. His body is as wide as the tent and He’s very tall. He’s the largest man the Kid has ever seen. Assuming he is a man and not God—the Kid’s still not sure. He’s never seen a portrait of God before. No one has. Besides God can probably take any form He chooses depending on the circumstance and who He’s talking to. Right now He’s a gigantic bearded fat man in his early sixties dressed like a lawyer or a banker in a chocolate brown suit and white dress shirt and brown-and-yellow-striped tie and a vest buttoned tightly over his enormous belly.
What . . . what do you want to talk to me about?
Maybe this isn’t a good time. I didn’t think there’d be anyone still here. I just stopped on my way home to see the site of last night’s raid.
On your way home.
Yes.
From?
From the university.
What do you want from me?
A chat.
This ain’t a chat room.
Would you agree to talk in the morning? I don’t have a recorder with me tonight anyhow. It’s a bit of a surprise to find someone still here.
Who the fuck are you anyhow?
It doesn’t matter. I’m a professor at Calusa State. Chair of the sociology department.
Why are you here?
I moderated a panel discussion this evening at the university and was driving myself home. Listening to the local news on the car radio I heard what happened here last night. So I parked up there on the Causeway and made my way down to see where people like you have been living.
People like me.
It’s sort of my area. My academic specialization. Homelessness. Its causes.
Okay. Whatever.
Would you meet with me tomorrow morning? I’d like to interview you.
I won’t be here in the morning. I’m moving.
Where are you moving to?
Why should I tell you, Professor?
I can meet you there. We can do the interview wherever you like.
The Kid thinks it over. The Professor is clearly not God and he’s not likely a cop or someone working for the state either so the Kid has nothing to lose in talking to him in the form of an interview. He can always lie or refuse to answer questions that might incriminate him: Did you or did you not eat of the fruit from the tree of knowledge of good and evil? On advice of counsel I refuse to answer on the grounds that it may incriminate me.
It sounds like the Professor will do most of the talking anyhow. He’s a professor,
Similar Books
